PixCT: 06.24
It's that time again...
Fic
Slash (Dean/Sam)
Adult
~2100 words
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
September 07-September 08
September 08-September 09
DruCT: 09.17
DruCT: 09.24
DruCT: 10.01
DruCT: 10.08
DruCT: 10.15
DruCT: 10.22
DruCT: 10.29
DruCT: 11.05
DruCT: 11.12
DruCT: 11.19
DruCT: 01.21
PixCT: 01.21
DruCT: 01.28
PixCT: 01.28
DruCT: 02.04
PixCT: 02.04
DruCT: 02.11
PixCT: 02.11
DruCT: 02.18
PixCT: 02.18
DruCT: 02.25
PixCT: 02.25
DruCT: 03.04
PixCT: 03.04
DruCT: 03.11
PixCT: 03.11
DruCT: 03.18
PixCT: 03.18
DruCT: 03.25
PixCT: 03.25
DruCT: 04.01
PixCT: 04.01
DruCT: 04.08
PixCT: 04.08
DruCT: 04.15
PixCT: 04.15
DruCT: 04.22
PixCT: 04.22
DruCT: 04.29
PixCT: 04.29
DruCT: 05.06
PixCT: 05.06
DruCT: 05.13
PixCT: 05.13
DruCT: 06.03
PixCT: 06.03
DruCT: 06.10
PixCT: 06.10
DruCT: 06.17
PixCT: 06.17
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 06.24
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
~2100 words
→ This is set in the same ‘verse as this CT, where John and Mary are alive and Sam and Dean go to Stanford together
- - - - -
Pix’s Pic Pick
They didn't see each other all that much. They both worked part-time and went to school full-time, just so they would have enough money to pay the rent on the apartment and enough credits to graduate on time. Their schedules were flip-flopped most of the time, Dean coming home from work when Sam was leaving for class or Dean in class while Sam was at home, so even if there was more time available, it wasn't coordinated together.
Sometimes, on the rare nights when they both were at home and not staying up until two in the morning and working on homework, they would crawl into bed with each other, too tired for anything more. Dean asked if Sam had a test the next day, and Sam asked how Dean's research for his graduate degree was coming. Work was work and not a career, and it wasn't spoken of unless needed. But, their words faded away with exhaustion sooner rather than later, and they slept, curled into one another in their shared apartment not all that far from the Stanford campus.
They were exhausted for what felt like every day, and they never got to see much of one another anymore--their big plan for independence out the window in the light of real life and adulthood responsibilities. Money was tight, but not completely lost because they kept working, but what good was money when they didn't even have each other?
One morning, as Dean came in from an overnight shift at work and collapsed at the table where Sam was finishing the footnotes in an essay, Sam asked, "Do you regret coming out here?"
Dean looked up at him. There were dark patches beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his skin was greasy and unshaven. He looked horrible, but he smiled all the same for Sam. "Not a bit."
"Never?" Sam raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
Dean chuckled. "Okay. Maybe, sometimes I think how easy things could be had we stayed back in Kansas."
Sam sighed, capped his pen, and began placing papers into the folder he'd need for class. "Maybe we should reconsider this, then..."
"Reconsider what?"
"This," Sam said, making a large, sweeping gesture to the small kitchen where they sat. The table was something they'd purchased downtown at the second-hand store. Their kitchen counters were piled with papers and unopened mail, clean dishes that hadn't been put back into the cupboards and schoolbooks left opened with sticky notes on the edges. The refrigerator was mostly bare--inside and out. The few magnets were ones they'd collected when they were kids--on roadtrips with Mom and Dad across the country--and the food was what little would survive for more than a week at a time. A small plant sat on the windowsill that looked out onto the street below.
"You mean," Dean said, "go back home. To Kansas."
Sam rubbed at his eyes. He felt tired--as usual--and the day hadn't even started yet. "Maybe we bit off more than we could chew, you know? I don't know if we thought this through all the way. Sure, it sounded like a good plan--you and me moving out here to Stanford together, living by our own rules--but I don't know if this is really what either of us had in mind. I know it's not what I had in mind."
Dean cocked his head. "What did you have in mind?"
Sam shrugged, placed the folders and books into his backpack, and he swung the backpack up, looping his arms through the straps. "Something different. Something where we could be happier. I don't feel happy anymore, Dean. I haven't felt happy in a really long time." He sighed and turned to walk out their door.
"Sammy," Dean began from behind him.
"I've got to get to class," Sam said. "Can we talk about this later? Maybe just forget I said anything at all." He looked over his shoulder to see Dean's tightened face.
"Yeah, no problem," Dean said quietly. "I'll see you later then."
"Yup. Later," Sam said and walked out the door to go to class.
- - - - -
Late that afternoon, when Sam returned home from class, he was surprised to find something cooking on the stove and the radio playing softly in the background. Lowering his backpack quietly onto the couch, Sam called out, "Dean?"
"Just a second!" Dean yelled back from what had to be the bathroom towards the back of the apartment.
Sam looked around. The kitchen was greatly cleaned from when he had seen it that morning, and even the living room looked like it had been spruced up.
Walking through the dining room into the kitchen, Sam smelled something delicious, and he discovered a pot of--dare it be--homemade spaghetti warming on the stovetop. Inside the oven, a pan of garlic bread cooked and sizzled.
"I see you found dinner."
Sam turned around to see Dean coming down the hallway into the dining room. He looked bright and fresh, his hair wet from a shower, and he smelled sweet of cologne. Sam wanted to throw himself at Dean right then and there, but the confusion and surprise held him back.
"What's going on?"
"Making dinner. What's it look like?" Dean opened the door of the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of red wine. "You do like wine, don't you?"
"Dean. I'm not even 21."
"So?"
"Well, I just--"
"Wine or beer? I thought if we were going all out with the spaghetti and bread, I might as well continue the Italian theme with wine, but if you're not up to it, we can just stick with beer. Or water, I guess...because that's really all we have. Unless you want coffee. You want coffee, Sammy?"
Sam shook his head, as if clearing it, and he said, "The wine's fine." He couldn't remember the last time he and Dean had dinner together. The last time he had homemade spaghetti was at home in Kansas, made by Mom, of course. This was surreal. And slightly scary. "I thought you had to work tonight," Sam said.
"I did."
"And?"
"I called. Told them I was sick."
"Dean!"
"Oh, and I might have picked up your assignments for your morning class tomorrow. Told the professor you had an appointment."
"You did what?"
"Look, Sam," Dean said, pulling two plastic cups out of the cupboard, "you pointed it out this morning. Things aren't that great here. You're not happy. I'm not happy. We're not happy. Fuck, man, we barely get to see each other even though we live in the same damn apartment."
"So you go and play human dayplanner with our schedules."
"Damn straight," Dean said. "Sometimes you gotta make your own happiness.” He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. He offered one to Sam, who took a drink slowly. "So, tonight, I don't want you thinking about anything at all." He smiled and reached for Sam's wrist. There, he undid Sam's black watch and placed it next to the computer mouse that sat on their coffee table in the living room. "Now, you can't think about anything else or what time it is and what you need to be doing or anything like that."
Sam stood back and watched as Dean pulled the garlic bread out of the oven and finished the spaghetti.
"Homemade spaghetti, huh? I'm not sure if I believe this," Sam said, as he set the table, placing their mismatched plates and silverware down.
"Don't get too cocky there. It's just Hamburger Helper. And," Dean said, pulling the garlic bread out of the oven, big floral mitts on his hands, "the bread came frozen too."
Sam laughed, tousled Dean's hair as he passed. "I'm sure it all still tastes great."
At last, when everything was finished, they sat down at the table, just the two of them, for dinner. They didn't talk about school. They didn't talk about work. They talked about the things they loved, their dreams and hopes. Places they wanted to travel and books they wanted to read for fun. Shared family memories, and Sam smiled as he ate, wondering how many other people could find so much history and so much future in one person.
After dinner, they placed their dishes in the sink and turned on the faucet. Sam rolled up his sleeves and squirted a glob of the blue soap into the water to make it foam when Dean came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist and resting his chin on Sam's shoulder.
"The dishes aren't going anywhere," Dean said.
Sam leaned his head against Dean's, placing his hands over Dean's where they rested on Sam's jean button, and said, "I hope you're planning more than a game of Go Fish for tonight."
Sam felt Dean's chuckle rise through him before falling from his lips. "If you're wanting a card game, we can go with that, but I was thinking of something different." Dean undid the button of Sam's jeans and pulled down his zipper. Gently, Dean slid a hand into Sam's pants, his hand curling up to cup Sam's cock and stroke him there.
Sam groaned instinctively. It'd been too long since they had relaxed enough to enjoy each other like this, and he almost fell back against Dean, content to let Dean carry him right then and there.
Sam shuddered and sighed. "Maybe we should get out of the kitchen," he whispered.
Dean kissed him on the cheek. "Bedroom?"
"Don't...don't think I can make it that far." Dean had barely touched him, and Sam was so hard, he felt as though he could barely walk straight.
"Mmm," Dean murmured, "living room it is, then."
They made it to the living room, but not the couch. Dean had Sam's pants off and on the floor when Sam asked, "What about you?"
"What about me?" Dean asked. They were standing, pressed chest to chest, and Dean was jacking Sam off slowly, his forehead resting against Sam's shoulder.
"You know what I mean," Sam said, reaching for Dean. He reached underneath Dean's shirt and pulled it off over his head before going to work on his pants. At last, both of them naked, they went to the floor, where Sam rolled over to place himself on top of Dean.
"You know what we should do?" Sam asked, looking down at Dean.
"Get on with it and quit torturing me?"
Sam laughed. "Almost." He flipped himself around, so that his head was between Dean's legs, and then he rolled, putting Dean on top, allowing Dean's cock to rest against his cheek.
Above him, Sam heard Dean whisper a curse and then he took Sam into his mouth.
There was something amazing about being sucked and sucking at the same time, the feeling of Dean's mouth over him and the taste, the weight of Dean's cock on his tongue. There was the feeling of being surrounded by Dean, Dean's legs on either side of Sam, his body pressing against him, all around and over him, and still, not being able to get quite enough. This right here, this was what they had left for, so they could have these moments. It wasn't like they ever had time to do this back in Kansas with Mom and Dad at home. Mom and Dad were open-minded, sure. Practically hippies to their neighbors, but even so, even if Mom did make her own shampoo and Dad knew how to hunt deer for dinner, it didn't mean that they would approve of their sons' relationship together. No, moments were stolen when they could be, quick handjobs and blowjobs, nothing like this. Not being able to sprawl out, naked in the living room with the evening sun setting over them, and touch and suck and enjoy each other to the fullest.
Sam came first, pushing Dean off him in time to spill over, and then he waited, catching his breath and gently stroking his softening cock while Dean jacked himself hard and fast. Finally, Dean's breath caught, and he cursed, coming.
Still sweaty, they crawled towards each other, and Sam let Dean take him into his arms when they laid down on the rug together.
"Hey," Sam whispered, as Dean's fingers moved slowly across Sam's stomach.
"Hey what?"
"Thanks."
Dean murmured, fingers stilling, and he kissed the back of Sam’s neck. "Anytime, Sammy."
End
Fic
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
September 07-September 08
September 08-September 09
DruCT: 09.17
DruCT: 09.24
DruCT: 10.01
DruCT: 10.08
DruCT: 10.15
DruCT: 10.22
DruCT: 10.29
DruCT: 11.05
DruCT: 11.12
DruCT: 11.19
DruCT: 01.21
PixCT: 01.21
DruCT: 01.28
PixCT: 01.28
DruCT: 02.04
PixCT: 02.04
DruCT: 02.11
PixCT: 02.11
DruCT: 02.18
PixCT: 02.18
DruCT: 02.25
PixCT: 02.25
DruCT: 03.04
PixCT: 03.04
DruCT: 03.11
PixCT: 03.11
DruCT: 03.18
PixCT: 03.18
DruCT: 03.25
PixCT: 03.25
DruCT: 04.01
PixCT: 04.01
DruCT: 04.08
PixCT: 04.08
DruCT: 04.15
PixCT: 04.15
DruCT: 04.22
PixCT: 04.22
DruCT: 04.29
PixCT: 04.29
DruCT: 05.06
PixCT: 05.06
DruCT: 05.13
PixCT: 05.13
DruCT: 06.03
PixCT: 06.03
DruCT: 06.10
PixCT: 06.10
DruCT: 06.17
PixCT: 06.17
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 06.24
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
~2100 words
→ This is set in the same ‘verse as this CT, where John and Mary are alive and Sam and Dean go to Stanford together
- - - - -
Pix’s Pic Pick
They didn't see each other all that much. They both worked part-time and went to school full-time, just so they would have enough money to pay the rent on the apartment and enough credits to graduate on time. Their schedules were flip-flopped most of the time, Dean coming home from work when Sam was leaving for class or Dean in class while Sam was at home, so even if there was more time available, it wasn't coordinated together.
Sometimes, on the rare nights when they both were at home and not staying up until two in the morning and working on homework, they would crawl into bed with each other, too tired for anything more. Dean asked if Sam had a test the next day, and Sam asked how Dean's research for his graduate degree was coming. Work was work and not a career, and it wasn't spoken of unless needed. But, their words faded away with exhaustion sooner rather than later, and they slept, curled into one another in their shared apartment not all that far from the Stanford campus.
They were exhausted for what felt like every day, and they never got to see much of one another anymore--their big plan for independence out the window in the light of real life and adulthood responsibilities. Money was tight, but not completely lost because they kept working, but what good was money when they didn't even have each other?
One morning, as Dean came in from an overnight shift at work and collapsed at the table where Sam was finishing the footnotes in an essay, Sam asked, "Do you regret coming out here?"
Dean looked up at him. There were dark patches beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his skin was greasy and unshaven. He looked horrible, but he smiled all the same for Sam. "Not a bit."
"Never?" Sam raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
Dean chuckled. "Okay. Maybe, sometimes I think how easy things could be had we stayed back in Kansas."
Sam sighed, capped his pen, and began placing papers into the folder he'd need for class. "Maybe we should reconsider this, then..."
"Reconsider what?"
"This," Sam said, making a large, sweeping gesture to the small kitchen where they sat. The table was something they'd purchased downtown at the second-hand store. Their kitchen counters were piled with papers and unopened mail, clean dishes that hadn't been put back into the cupboards and schoolbooks left opened with sticky notes on the edges. The refrigerator was mostly bare--inside and out. The few magnets were ones they'd collected when they were kids--on roadtrips with Mom and Dad across the country--and the food was what little would survive for more than a week at a time. A small plant sat on the windowsill that looked out onto the street below.
"You mean," Dean said, "go back home. To Kansas."
Sam rubbed at his eyes. He felt tired--as usual--and the day hadn't even started yet. "Maybe we bit off more than we could chew, you know? I don't know if we thought this through all the way. Sure, it sounded like a good plan--you and me moving out here to Stanford together, living by our own rules--but I don't know if this is really what either of us had in mind. I know it's not what I had in mind."
Dean cocked his head. "What did you have in mind?"
Sam shrugged, placed the folders and books into his backpack, and he swung the backpack up, looping his arms through the straps. "Something different. Something where we could be happier. I don't feel happy anymore, Dean. I haven't felt happy in a really long time." He sighed and turned to walk out their door.
"Sammy," Dean began from behind him.
"I've got to get to class," Sam said. "Can we talk about this later? Maybe just forget I said anything at all." He looked over his shoulder to see Dean's tightened face.
"Yeah, no problem," Dean said quietly. "I'll see you later then."
"Yup. Later," Sam said and walked out the door to go to class.
- - - - -
Late that afternoon, when Sam returned home from class, he was surprised to find something cooking on the stove and the radio playing softly in the background. Lowering his backpack quietly onto the couch, Sam called out, "Dean?"
"Just a second!" Dean yelled back from what had to be the bathroom towards the back of the apartment.
Sam looked around. The kitchen was greatly cleaned from when he had seen it that morning, and even the living room looked like it had been spruced up.
Walking through the dining room into the kitchen, Sam smelled something delicious, and he discovered a pot of--dare it be--homemade spaghetti warming on the stovetop. Inside the oven, a pan of garlic bread cooked and sizzled.
"I see you found dinner."
Sam turned around to see Dean coming down the hallway into the dining room. He looked bright and fresh, his hair wet from a shower, and he smelled sweet of cologne. Sam wanted to throw himself at Dean right then and there, but the confusion and surprise held him back.
"What's going on?"
"Making dinner. What's it look like?" Dean opened the door of the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of red wine. "You do like wine, don't you?"
"Dean. I'm not even 21."
"So?"
"Well, I just--"
"Wine or beer? I thought if we were going all out with the spaghetti and bread, I might as well continue the Italian theme with wine, but if you're not up to it, we can just stick with beer. Or water, I guess...because that's really all we have. Unless you want coffee. You want coffee, Sammy?"
Sam shook his head, as if clearing it, and he said, "The wine's fine." He couldn't remember the last time he and Dean had dinner together. The last time he had homemade spaghetti was at home in Kansas, made by Mom, of course. This was surreal. And slightly scary. "I thought you had to work tonight," Sam said.
"I did."
"And?"
"I called. Told them I was sick."
"Dean!"
"Oh, and I might have picked up your assignments for your morning class tomorrow. Told the professor you had an appointment."
"You did what?"
"Look, Sam," Dean said, pulling two plastic cups out of the cupboard, "you pointed it out this morning. Things aren't that great here. You're not happy. I'm not happy. We're not happy. Fuck, man, we barely get to see each other even though we live in the same damn apartment."
"So you go and play human dayplanner with our schedules."
"Damn straight," Dean said. "Sometimes you gotta make your own happiness.” He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. He offered one to Sam, who took a drink slowly. "So, tonight, I don't want you thinking about anything at all." He smiled and reached for Sam's wrist. There, he undid Sam's black watch and placed it next to the computer mouse that sat on their coffee table in the living room. "Now, you can't think about anything else or what time it is and what you need to be doing or anything like that."
Sam stood back and watched as Dean pulled the garlic bread out of the oven and finished the spaghetti.
"Homemade spaghetti, huh? I'm not sure if I believe this," Sam said, as he set the table, placing their mismatched plates and silverware down.
"Don't get too cocky there. It's just Hamburger Helper. And," Dean said, pulling the garlic bread out of the oven, big floral mitts on his hands, "the bread came frozen too."
Sam laughed, tousled Dean's hair as he passed. "I'm sure it all still tastes great."
At last, when everything was finished, they sat down at the table, just the two of them, for dinner. They didn't talk about school. They didn't talk about work. They talked about the things they loved, their dreams and hopes. Places they wanted to travel and books they wanted to read for fun. Shared family memories, and Sam smiled as he ate, wondering how many other people could find so much history and so much future in one person.
After dinner, they placed their dishes in the sink and turned on the faucet. Sam rolled up his sleeves and squirted a glob of the blue soap into the water to make it foam when Dean came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist and resting his chin on Sam's shoulder.
"The dishes aren't going anywhere," Dean said.
Sam leaned his head against Dean's, placing his hands over Dean's where they rested on Sam's jean button, and said, "I hope you're planning more than a game of Go Fish for tonight."
Sam felt Dean's chuckle rise through him before falling from his lips. "If you're wanting a card game, we can go with that, but I was thinking of something different." Dean undid the button of Sam's jeans and pulled down his zipper. Gently, Dean slid a hand into Sam's pants, his hand curling up to cup Sam's cock and stroke him there.
Sam groaned instinctively. It'd been too long since they had relaxed enough to enjoy each other like this, and he almost fell back against Dean, content to let Dean carry him right then and there.
Sam shuddered and sighed. "Maybe we should get out of the kitchen," he whispered.
Dean kissed him on the cheek. "Bedroom?"
"Don't...don't think I can make it that far." Dean had barely touched him, and Sam was so hard, he felt as though he could barely walk straight.
"Mmm," Dean murmured, "living room it is, then."
They made it to the living room, but not the couch. Dean had Sam's pants off and on the floor when Sam asked, "What about you?"
"What about me?" Dean asked. They were standing, pressed chest to chest, and Dean was jacking Sam off slowly, his forehead resting against Sam's shoulder.
"You know what I mean," Sam said, reaching for Dean. He reached underneath Dean's shirt and pulled it off over his head before going to work on his pants. At last, both of them naked, they went to the floor, where Sam rolled over to place himself on top of Dean.
"You know what we should do?" Sam asked, looking down at Dean.
"Get on with it and quit torturing me?"
Sam laughed. "Almost." He flipped himself around, so that his head was between Dean's legs, and then he rolled, putting Dean on top, allowing Dean's cock to rest against his cheek.
Above him, Sam heard Dean whisper a curse and then he took Sam into his mouth.
There was something amazing about being sucked and sucking at the same time, the feeling of Dean's mouth over him and the taste, the weight of Dean's cock on his tongue. There was the feeling of being surrounded by Dean, Dean's legs on either side of Sam, his body pressing against him, all around and over him, and still, not being able to get quite enough. This right here, this was what they had left for, so they could have these moments. It wasn't like they ever had time to do this back in Kansas with Mom and Dad at home. Mom and Dad were open-minded, sure. Practically hippies to their neighbors, but even so, even if Mom did make her own shampoo and Dad knew how to hunt deer for dinner, it didn't mean that they would approve of their sons' relationship together. No, moments were stolen when they could be, quick handjobs and blowjobs, nothing like this. Not being able to sprawl out, naked in the living room with the evening sun setting over them, and touch and suck and enjoy each other to the fullest.
Sam came first, pushing Dean off him in time to spill over, and then he waited, catching his breath and gently stroking his softening cock while Dean jacked himself hard and fast. Finally, Dean's breath caught, and he cursed, coming.
Still sweaty, they crawled towards each other, and Sam let Dean take him into his arms when they laid down on the rug together.
"Hey," Sam whispered, as Dean's fingers moved slowly across Sam's stomach.
"Hey what?"
"Thanks."
Dean murmured, fingers stilling, and he kissed the back of Sam’s neck. "Anytime, Sammy."
End