Fic: Ballad of the BBQ Boys (Wincest, Sam POV, NC-17)
Ballad of the BBQ Boys
Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: S3, The Magnificent Seven
Word Count: 1,175
Summary: Sam isn’t pissed. A coda to the S3 opener, wherein sex isn’t a solution, but it’s easy to pretend that it could be.
Author’s Notes: Written for ignited.
*
Sam isn't pissed, really he isn't, it's just, okay, you know what, screw it - he's pissed.
Dean's got enough barbeque chicken and ribs on Sam's bed that Sam's expecting that he's invited that busload of soccer girls who checked into the other motel rooms, the ones that scampered around Sam when he got a bucket of ice, which he planned to throw on Dean before Dean tried to start an orgy in the swimming pool.
"Man, I am starving. Hey, what about you?"
Like, like, some hundred miles ago, Dean just flat out said no fucking chance, he's gone in less than a year, and that's all Sam can do, watch him be an ass for a year and then be dead. Stuck in Hell for all of eternity.
There's a thousand words on his tongue but they get all jumbled up and Sam just stands there, gawking at Dean. Dean, who has decided that he doesn't, can't, dare spare any of the glistening bones, gnawing on the gristle and fat, sauce dripping down his chin.
Then, Dean sucks whatever's left on it, leaves his mouth with an audible pop and he tries to wipe his chin, spreading it all over his face. Grins at Sam because hey, they're still not in the middle of a fight, right?
Sam's seeing red, knows the expression now, it's red like this: smeared barbeque sauce over freckled tan skin.
Doesn't know what gets into him, grabs Dean by his shirt, scrunches two fistfuls of shirt, he'd tear it off if he could, pulls Dean to his socked feet, probably knocks off Dean's stupid feast from Sam's bed. He's not going to care about it. Not now, no freaking way.
"Dammit, Dean." Wants to say how angry he is, how he can't accept this, too many things to say and no way to get past Dean's thick skull and that's it, the barbeque sauce is the end of it, cannot find a better way to do this, smashes his lips to Dean's, gets a what the fuck muttered that turns into a groan the moment Sam sucks off that sauce. Which isn't even that good, sickly sweet, not enough smoke.
Dean puts his hands on Sam's face, stilling him, and before Sam can shake him, before he pulls him to the other bed, empty, waiting to be wrecked, and Dean's voice is low, fake, still not there yet, not with Sam, no desperation. "This isn't what-"
"What?" Sam's laugh is hard to keep from screaming. "This is nothing right? No big deal. You're going to Hell, I can't follow you there."
"Sam." A warning, and that pisses Sam off, that's it, sets him off, does tear his shirt this time, yank and pull, Dean lands on the bed, hard, nearly gets knocked off but recovers.
"No." Starts babbling, leaning over Dean, unzipping Dean's pants, he's hard, almost surprises Sam, "We're going to do this. And we're not just...letting this all happen. End of the world. You gonna leave me here? I'm going to save you, Dean."
Wants Dean to believe it, sucks a trail of sick-sweet barbeque sauce off Dean's jawline as Dean comes all over Sam's hand. Nothing’s going to make this better.
But Sam can almost make himself forget it when Dean licks his hand clean (it isn’t, but, for once, Sam shuts off his brain) and Sam makes sure to free his dick from his pants or Dean’ll just dive in there.
Only it’s not just his hands because Dean bends over and it’s going to be messy, quick, too many things boiling over, Sam can barely look at Dean, sees his mouth wet and his face’s flushed. Lips parting open so he can tongue the head of Sam’s dick and then he makes this funny face, like he’s doubtful something will work and before Sam asks, he’s down the warm heat of Dean’s mouth and god, back of the throat, no, God, deeper than that.
And when Dean comes back up, not for air, breathes through his nose, like he’s done this before and man, Sam’s seen enough of what Dean’s willing to do to near strangers, and now, with someone he’s familiar with, for a dizzying split-second, Sam’s almost terrified, because Dean’s unhinged, the barn door to his sanity’s been blown apart and now he’s tearing through the cornfields of crazy.
Sam may have lost the plot of that metaphor.
Then Dean does it, that pop, stroking Sam, not letting Sam hold off, no, that’s not the game Dean plays. Bites his bottom lip for a moment, considering, says to Sam, “You have to let go, Sam.”
Fuck him, Dean with all his bravado and desperate attempts to raise hell in these petty ways, could lead Sam to knocking Dean away, take care it himself.
Only, it’s sick and wrong, Sam wants this, but he shakes his head, stubborn runs in both of their bodies after all, “No.”
“How long you gonna last? Can’t do this forever.”
“You’re forgetting,” Sam gasps, grabs Dean by the wrist, too hard, thinks of what the demon Pride told him, the secrets he’s still keeping, demonic blood dripping into his mouth when he was six months old, “If there’s a will-”
Presses Dean into the mattress, pining his wrists down, Sam says, loud and clear in Dean’s ear, “There’s got to be a way. Stop pissing me off.”
“Dude, you’ve,” Dean struggles, shirt rolling up with effort, nearly humping the bed to try to buck Sam off.
“We’re still fighting.”
“If that’s what you call fucking,” Dean says, resigned, anxiety in his voice.
“That barbeque sauce is nasty.” Sam looks over to the mess that they’ve already made. So much more to go.
“Don’t I know it. But we’ll be in good barbeque country later. We have time.”
Sam bites Dean for that. Hard, on the back of his neck.
“Shit! Okay, I get it, you’re angry and you’re gonna leave bitemarks. Dammit, Sam, this isn’t what I want to-”
“What do you want, Dean?”
It’s hard but Dean manages to look at Sam, one-eyed, glinting fierce, “I want you to let me go.”
Sam obliges, still hard and angry, confusion turning his stomach into knots. “We’re still fighting about this.”
But he lets Dean loose, climbing off of him.
“Sure.” Dean nods then looks over at Sam’s swollen dick, fake sympathy on his face. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Has to use all of his willpower not to roll his eyes and just barely succeeds. “You’re such an asshole.”
But Sam lets him, tongue gliding up and down, Dean smug as ever when Sam comes into Dean’s mouth. And to show off, Dean swallows it all, not like a bitter pill, but with vivid enjoyment and Sam lets him take the fake victory, knowing that the fight’s going to be there in the morning, along with the remains of Dean’s latest food frenzy.
Because Sam isn’t joking, if Dean’s going down, they’re doing this all together.
end
Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: S3, The Magnificent Seven
Word Count: 1,175
Summary: Sam isn’t pissed. A coda to the S3 opener, wherein sex isn’t a solution, but it’s easy to pretend that it could be.
Author’s Notes: Written for ignited.
*
Sam isn't pissed, really he isn't, it's just, okay, you know what, screw it - he's pissed.
Dean's got enough barbeque chicken and ribs on Sam's bed that Sam's expecting that he's invited that busload of soccer girls who checked into the other motel rooms, the ones that scampered around Sam when he got a bucket of ice, which he planned to throw on Dean before Dean tried to start an orgy in the swimming pool.
"Man, I am starving. Hey, what about you?"
Like, like, some hundred miles ago, Dean just flat out said no fucking chance, he's gone in less than a year, and that's all Sam can do, watch him be an ass for a year and then be dead. Stuck in Hell for all of eternity.
There's a thousand words on his tongue but they get all jumbled up and Sam just stands there, gawking at Dean. Dean, who has decided that he doesn't, can't, dare spare any of the glistening bones, gnawing on the gristle and fat, sauce dripping down his chin.
Then, Dean sucks whatever's left on it, leaves his mouth with an audible pop and he tries to wipe his chin, spreading it all over his face. Grins at Sam because hey, they're still not in the middle of a fight, right?
Sam's seeing red, knows the expression now, it's red like this: smeared barbeque sauce over freckled tan skin.
Doesn't know what gets into him, grabs Dean by his shirt, scrunches two fistfuls of shirt, he'd tear it off if he could, pulls Dean to his socked feet, probably knocks off Dean's stupid feast from Sam's bed. He's not going to care about it. Not now, no freaking way.
"Dammit, Dean." Wants to say how angry he is, how he can't accept this, too many things to say and no way to get past Dean's thick skull and that's it, the barbeque sauce is the end of it, cannot find a better way to do this, smashes his lips to Dean's, gets a what the fuck muttered that turns into a groan the moment Sam sucks off that sauce. Which isn't even that good, sickly sweet, not enough smoke.
Dean puts his hands on Sam's face, stilling him, and before Sam can shake him, before he pulls him to the other bed, empty, waiting to be wrecked, and Dean's voice is low, fake, still not there yet, not with Sam, no desperation. "This isn't what-"
"What?" Sam's laugh is hard to keep from screaming. "This is nothing right? No big deal. You're going to Hell, I can't follow you there."
"Sam." A warning, and that pisses Sam off, that's it, sets him off, does tear his shirt this time, yank and pull, Dean lands on the bed, hard, nearly gets knocked off but recovers.
"No." Starts babbling, leaning over Dean, unzipping Dean's pants, he's hard, almost surprises Sam, "We're going to do this. And we're not just...letting this all happen. End of the world. You gonna leave me here? I'm going to save you, Dean."
Wants Dean to believe it, sucks a trail of sick-sweet barbeque sauce off Dean's jawline as Dean comes all over Sam's hand. Nothing’s going to make this better.
But Sam can almost make himself forget it when Dean licks his hand clean (it isn’t, but, for once, Sam shuts off his brain) and Sam makes sure to free his dick from his pants or Dean’ll just dive in there.
Only it’s not just his hands because Dean bends over and it’s going to be messy, quick, too many things boiling over, Sam can barely look at Dean, sees his mouth wet and his face’s flushed. Lips parting open so he can tongue the head of Sam’s dick and then he makes this funny face, like he’s doubtful something will work and before Sam asks, he’s down the warm heat of Dean’s mouth and god, back of the throat, no, God, deeper than that.
And when Dean comes back up, not for air, breathes through his nose, like he’s done this before and man, Sam’s seen enough of what Dean’s willing to do to near strangers, and now, with someone he’s familiar with, for a dizzying split-second, Sam’s almost terrified, because Dean’s unhinged, the barn door to his sanity’s been blown apart and now he’s tearing through the cornfields of crazy.
Sam may have lost the plot of that metaphor.
Then Dean does it, that pop, stroking Sam, not letting Sam hold off, no, that’s not the game Dean plays. Bites his bottom lip for a moment, considering, says to Sam, “You have to let go, Sam.”
Fuck him, Dean with all his bravado and desperate attempts to raise hell in these petty ways, could lead Sam to knocking Dean away, take care it himself.
Only, it’s sick and wrong, Sam wants this, but he shakes his head, stubborn runs in both of their bodies after all, “No.”
“How long you gonna last? Can’t do this forever.”
“You’re forgetting,” Sam gasps, grabs Dean by the wrist, too hard, thinks of what the demon Pride told him, the secrets he’s still keeping, demonic blood dripping into his mouth when he was six months old, “If there’s a will-”
Presses Dean into the mattress, pining his wrists down, Sam says, loud and clear in Dean’s ear, “There’s got to be a way. Stop pissing me off.”
“Dude, you’ve,” Dean struggles, shirt rolling up with effort, nearly humping the bed to try to buck Sam off.
“We’re still fighting.”
“If that’s what you call fucking,” Dean says, resigned, anxiety in his voice.
“That barbeque sauce is nasty.” Sam looks over to the mess that they’ve already made. So much more to go.
“Don’t I know it. But we’ll be in good barbeque country later. We have time.”
Sam bites Dean for that. Hard, on the back of his neck.
“Shit! Okay, I get it, you’re angry and you’re gonna leave bitemarks. Dammit, Sam, this isn’t what I want to-”
“What do you want, Dean?”
It’s hard but Dean manages to look at Sam, one-eyed, glinting fierce, “I want you to let me go.”
Sam obliges, still hard and angry, confusion turning his stomach into knots. “We’re still fighting about this.”
But he lets Dean loose, climbing off of him.
“Sure.” Dean nods then looks over at Sam’s swollen dick, fake sympathy on his face. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Has to use all of his willpower not to roll his eyes and just barely succeeds. “You’re such an asshole.”
But Sam lets him, tongue gliding up and down, Dean smug as ever when Sam comes into Dean’s mouth. And to show off, Dean swallows it all, not like a bitter pill, but with vivid enjoyment and Sam lets him take the fake victory, knowing that the fight’s going to be there in the morning, along with the remains of Dean’s latest food frenzy.
Because Sam isn’t joking, if Dean’s going down, they’re doing this all together.
end