SPN: mellow down easy (Sam/Dean, NC17)
Title: mellow down easy (or leave it to Beaver)
Author: technosage
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 721
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: It mighta happened. We don't know.
Summary: Dean doesn't like Sam's plan for his birthday…much.
Mocking yellow eyes, the unmistakable scent of ozone, inhuman grip around his throat, choking him.
Fadeshift.
Soothing warmth bathes his balls, curls from his belly to his toes. The ocean laps at his lower body, flirts with his dick.
Wait, what?
Dean wakes to the sweet swipe of Sam's tongue over the length of his morning wood. Just that fast, wake-up hard-on becomes full-blown arousal. He growls, passes a hand over his eyes. "Sun better be up."
Sam smiles, wide mouth stretching wider around the head of his cock. He screws tight lips down the shaft, nuzzles his nose against Dean's pubic hair, then pulls off with a long, hard suck. There's an obscene, slurpy pop when Sam releases him, then, "S'after ten."
Something almost kittenish in Sam's sex-soaked, self-satisfied purr has Dean's gut knotting, hands fisting in coarse motel sheets, and his Spidey-sense tingling. "Who died?"
The mouth that tempts him starts to thin into Sam bitchface number sixteen why d'you have to be such an asshole, Dean? but before it can organize, it fades, the corners of gray-green cat eyes crinkling instead. His Spidey-sense goes to Defcon-3, and he grabs for Sam's shaggy mop - at least it's good for something. "The hell, Sam?"
His brother's tongue swipes through the slit, and Dean's hips flex hard, despite his annoyance. Smacking his lips like a kid with a grape soda, Sam grins. "Your birthday."
Dean rolls his eyes and cuffs the back of Sam's head. "Just when I think you might've grown a set." Truth is, he's kinda touched, but he'll be torched before he admits it to Sam. "Could you be more of a girl?"
No bitchface, not even the deep, dark growl that makes his toes curl - something else he's not admitting, but he doesn't have to, Sam knows, oh god does he know. Just a fuckwitted smile, and his tongue wrapping around Dean again, pulling him in.
"Christo."
Sam's eyes flash with laughter and the vibrations around his dick pull out a long moan - okay, more of a whimper, but it's his birthday, he's twenty-eight, and full-grown hunters don't whimper. Even when their brothers' fucking sinful mouths make them believe there might be God, heaven, angels, the whole shebang. "What?" he pants. "Had to try. If I'm getting a wake-up hummer, I wanna know it's you and not some succubus I'm gonna hafta off when it's over."
Nothing. Not even a slap on the side of the ass for suggesting he'd let some hellbitch suck him off.
Sam might be the college-boy, but Dean didn't survive loas and lamiae and looters during the Katrina riots by being stupid. "Thinking you'll, ah fuck, Sam, be the perfect angel today, huh? Jesuschrist. Best brother ever, right?" He's damned proud of speaking in complete sentences with Sam bobbing up and down his cock like a demented duck.
He looks up, meets Dean's gaze, grins and nods - oh fuck fucking fuck his tongue is doing something ridiculous to the bundle of nerves behind the head - and now Sam looks like a demented boywhore, pretty pink lips wider than his lust-glazed eyes.
Dean groans, and it's only about a quarter irritation. His fingers tighten in Sam's hair again. "Quit it."
Obediently, Sam pulls off his dick, shrugs. "Whatever you say, Dean."
Blowing out a breath, he clubs Sam in the shoulder. "Not the blowjob, jackass, the Beaver Cleaver routine."
A flicker of something soft, hurt, shows in Sam's eyes and Dean wants to club himself - over the head, with a cudgel. Silky strands slip through his fingers; he thumbs along Sam's far-too-beautiful cheekbone. "Bitch," he breathes out, soft. "Quit pouting and suck me."
Clouds fade, Sam beams. "Happy birthday, jerk," he murmurs, before swallowing Dean down.
He thrusts up fast, Sam gags and claws his ass.
Dean smiles around a whimper, yeah, whimper. Much better.
A biddable Sam scares him more than a legion of evil demon sons of bitches, but this - hot and wet and suction to make a Hoover blush? Sam cocky, confident, aggressive? Wicked promise burning in his eyes, and Dean's ass aching for the pounding he knows is coming?
Dean moans, and he might as well just say I'm a slut for your dick. His hands stroke, pet, tangle restlessly in Sam's hair.
This? Just might be his best birthday ever.
Notes: Um. It's apparently Dean's birthday, so, y'know, since he gives me SO much, I thought a present was in order. Shout out thanks and massive love to the prettiest pink sparkly girl ever, keepaofthecheez for beta and both titles, so blame her y'all. ♥ I love you, Lindsay. ♥
Author: technosage
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 721
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: It mighta happened. We don't know.
Summary: Dean doesn't like Sam's plan for his birthday…much.
Mocking yellow eyes, the unmistakable scent of ozone, inhuman grip around his throat, choking him.
Fadeshift.
Soothing warmth bathes his balls, curls from his belly to his toes. The ocean laps at his lower body, flirts with his dick.
Wait, what?
Dean wakes to the sweet swipe of Sam's tongue over the length of his morning wood. Just that fast, wake-up hard-on becomes full-blown arousal. He growls, passes a hand over his eyes. "Sun better be up."
Sam smiles, wide mouth stretching wider around the head of his cock. He screws tight lips down the shaft, nuzzles his nose against Dean's pubic hair, then pulls off with a long, hard suck. There's an obscene, slurpy pop when Sam releases him, then, "S'after ten."
Something almost kittenish in Sam's sex-soaked, self-satisfied purr has Dean's gut knotting, hands fisting in coarse motel sheets, and his Spidey-sense tingling. "Who died?"
The mouth that tempts him starts to thin into Sam bitchface number sixteen why d'you have to be such an asshole, Dean? but before it can organize, it fades, the corners of gray-green cat eyes crinkling instead. His Spidey-sense goes to Defcon-3, and he grabs for Sam's shaggy mop - at least it's good for something. "The hell, Sam?"
His brother's tongue swipes through the slit, and Dean's hips flex hard, despite his annoyance. Smacking his lips like a kid with a grape soda, Sam grins. "Your birthday."
Dean rolls his eyes and cuffs the back of Sam's head. "Just when I think you might've grown a set." Truth is, he's kinda touched, but he'll be torched before he admits it to Sam. "Could you be more of a girl?"
No bitchface, not even the deep, dark growl that makes his toes curl - something else he's not admitting, but he doesn't have to, Sam knows, oh god does he know. Just a fuckwitted smile, and his tongue wrapping around Dean again, pulling him in.
"Christo."
Sam's eyes flash with laughter and the vibrations around his dick pull out a long moan - okay, more of a whimper, but it's his birthday, he's twenty-eight, and full-grown hunters don't whimper. Even when their brothers' fucking sinful mouths make them believe there might be God, heaven, angels, the whole shebang. "What?" he pants. "Had to try. If I'm getting a wake-up hummer, I wanna know it's you and not some succubus I'm gonna hafta off when it's over."
Nothing. Not even a slap on the side of the ass for suggesting he'd let some hellbitch suck him off.
Sam might be the college-boy, but Dean didn't survive loas and lamiae and looters during the Katrina riots by being stupid. "Thinking you'll, ah fuck, Sam, be the perfect angel today, huh? Jesuschrist. Best brother ever, right?" He's damned proud of speaking in complete sentences with Sam bobbing up and down his cock like a demented duck.
He looks up, meets Dean's gaze, grins and nods - oh fuck fucking fuck his tongue is doing something ridiculous to the bundle of nerves behind the head - and now Sam looks like a demented boywhore, pretty pink lips wider than his lust-glazed eyes.
Dean groans, and it's only about a quarter irritation. His fingers tighten in Sam's hair again. "Quit it."
Obediently, Sam pulls off his dick, shrugs. "Whatever you say, Dean."
Blowing out a breath, he clubs Sam in the shoulder. "Not the blowjob, jackass, the Beaver Cleaver routine."
A flicker of something soft, hurt, shows in Sam's eyes and Dean wants to club himself - over the head, with a cudgel. Silky strands slip through his fingers; he thumbs along Sam's far-too-beautiful cheekbone. "Bitch," he breathes out, soft. "Quit pouting and suck me."
Clouds fade, Sam beams. "Happy birthday, jerk," he murmurs, before swallowing Dean down.
He thrusts up fast, Sam gags and claws his ass.
Dean smiles around a whimper, yeah, whimper. Much better.
A biddable Sam scares him more than a legion of evil demon sons of bitches, but this - hot and wet and suction to make a Hoover blush? Sam cocky, confident, aggressive? Wicked promise burning in his eyes, and Dean's ass aching for the pounding he knows is coming?
Dean moans, and he might as well just say I'm a slut for your dick. His hands stroke, pet, tangle restlessly in Sam's hair.
This? Just might be his best birthday ever.
Notes: Um. It's apparently Dean's birthday, so, y'know, since he gives me SO much, I thought a present was in order. Shout out thanks and massive love to the prettiest pink sparkly girl ever, keepaofthecheez for beta and both titles, so blame her y'all. ♥ I love you, Lindsay. ♥