spn: now showing in technicolor [dean/sam]
Just a little something pornery written for stone_princess using the prompts: movie, ice cream, jeans. As always, thanks to ink_stain for the readthrough and prodding.
now showing in technicolor
Sam's fingers are ice-cream sticky and callus rough against Dean's skin, and Dean's never been happier that it's been a while since they visited a laundromat. Going commando definitely has its upsides, especially when Sam's working at the buttons of Dean's jeans, his breath gusting in little humid pants against Dean's dick.
"Oh, god." Dean groans, biting his lip to muffle it in as he glances apprehensively around the darkened cinema. The last thing he needs -- they both need -- is to be arrested for indecent exposure. There's really no way to explain it, especially when, for once, they're carrying their own IDs. But he can't say no to Sam, he never could. Not that he wants or ever wanted to.
He's not sure how Sam's actually managed to fit down there, it's got to be fucking uncomfortable, but -- holymarymotherofgodforgiveusourtrespassesandwelovethosewhotrespassagainstus -- Dean doesn't really give a shit, not when Sam's doing that.
Dean can feel the whimper building in his throat and the only thing holding him still is Sam's hands on his hips. It's all he can do to keep his eyes -- unfocused and who the fuck cares what they came to see? -- on the movie in front of him. He wants to move, he wants to moan, he wants to wrap his fingers in Sam's hair, but no.
Jail, Dean. Jail and bad things and oh fuck, please.
He catches the plea between his teeth, eyes screwed tight, until it's nothing more than a low whine. Dean can feel Sam grinning and knows that any other time that would piss him off, but now? Not so much. Not when the very idea of that grin being wrapped around his dick sends a shudder through Dean's spine that feels like it's wracking his entire body and dribbling his brain out his ears.
The colours flaring across his vision have nothing to do with the movie and everything to with Sam. Sam's tongue, Sam's mouth, Sam's teeth. Dean feels wrung out and used, sensitised almost to the point of pain, and he loves it.
Blinking and panting hard, Dean can taste blood in his mouth and his hands -- hell, both arms, clear to his shoulders -- are aching, demanding he let go and stretch. But when Sam leans back licking his lips, the light from the screen limning one cheekbone, Dean can do nothing but stare.
now showing in technicolor
Sam's fingers are ice-cream sticky and callus rough against Dean's skin, and Dean's never been happier that it's been a while since they visited a laundromat. Going commando definitely has its upsides, especially when Sam's working at the buttons of Dean's jeans, his breath gusting in little humid pants against Dean's dick.
"Oh, god." Dean groans, biting his lip to muffle it in as he glances apprehensively around the darkened cinema. The last thing he needs -- they both need -- is to be arrested for indecent exposure. There's really no way to explain it, especially when, for once, they're carrying their own IDs. But he can't say no to Sam, he never could. Not that he wants or ever wanted to.
He's not sure how Sam's actually managed to fit down there, it's got to be fucking uncomfortable, but -- holymarymotherofgodforgiveusourtrespassesandwelovethosewhotrespassagainstus -- Dean doesn't really give a shit, not when Sam's doing that.
Dean can feel the whimper building in his throat and the only thing holding him still is Sam's hands on his hips. It's all he can do to keep his eyes -- unfocused and who the fuck cares what they came to see? -- on the movie in front of him. He wants to move, he wants to moan, he wants to wrap his fingers in Sam's hair, but no.
Jail, Dean. Jail and bad things and oh fuck, please.
He catches the plea between his teeth, eyes screwed tight, until it's nothing more than a low whine. Dean can feel Sam grinning and knows that any other time that would piss him off, but now? Not so much. Not when the very idea of that grin being wrapped around his dick sends a shudder through Dean's spine that feels like it's wracking his entire body and dribbling his brain out his ears.
The colours flaring across his vision have nothing to do with the movie and everything to with Sam. Sam's tongue, Sam's mouth, Sam's teeth. Dean feels wrung out and used, sensitised almost to the point of pain, and he loves it.
Blinking and panting hard, Dean can taste blood in his mouth and his hands -- hell, both arms, clear to his shoulders -- are aching, demanding he let go and stretch. But when Sam leans back licking his lips, the light from the screen limning one cheekbone, Dean can do nothing but stare.