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beansideTitle: Southern Comfort
Rating: Porn.
Disclaimer: Not mine. This is purely for entertainment purposes.
Summary: See also, Rating.
This is my fic from the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_gleeweek Guess the Author contest. Hope you enjoyed!
They never did this with the lights on, Sam realized. Always in the dark, like it somehow made it less real. Like it was better that way. Like that made it less wrong.
Once, he’d tried to predict when Dean would come to him, or how things would go. He’d given up after a few weeks. It made no sense to anyone except his brother. Sometimes, it was after a hunt, shivering with adrenaline. Then, it would be fast, hard. Dean would lube himself up and press down onto him hard, barely any prep, whispering filth while he rode Sam’s cock. Sometimes it was in the middle of the night, callused fingers sliding inside him, pressing slow and easy while Dean murmured soft nonsense.
And sometimes, once in a long while, it was like this.
They’d finished a hunt two days ago, but neither of them had felt the least bit triumphant about it. Sure, the ghost had been killing people—children, but it hadn’t meant to. Coming face to face with the ghost of the severely mentally disabled teen had messed with both of them, but especially Dean. The kid had been killed by the football team he’d been the waterboy for—some stupid prank gone wrong.
All the ghost had wanted was someone to play with. Dean had kept the ghost busy, talked to him, told him stupid jokes while Sam had done the salt and burn.
Since then, if Dean had said two sentences, it was a lot.
The Impala looked great, though. He’d washed it, waxed it and even vacuumed the inside.
Which explained the rain, really. It had been pouring since just before nightfall, a steady downpour punctuated by almost lazy flashes of lightning and soft rumbles of thunder that was totally going to wash away all of Dean’s careful waxing. The power had gone out around midnight, and they’d had to open the windows. Even with the rain, September in Alabama was hot.
Sam shifted in the damp sheets, looking at the fluttering curtains above his bed, feeling the light mist of rain cooling his face. It had to be nearly eight, but it was every bit as dark as it had been at six. He could hear the desk clerk’s radio—they should invest in a battery powered one—playing a tinny country song, just barely audible over the steady rain.
He didn’t hear Dean move, just felt the bed dip beside him, the light scrape of fingertips along his collarbone. It was followed quickly by those soft lips, sliding over damp skin, the solid line of Dean’s body at his side.
Sam tilted his head a little, letting those lips find the spot just behind his earlobe that never failed to make him shiver, press closer to Dean. Strong fingers closed on his shoulder, and he started to roll, to offer Dean his back, but Dean stopped him. “Like this, Sam,” he whispered, urging Sam the other way, to face him.
Dean’s lips covered his, and Sam moaned low in his throat, squirming closer, until they were pressed together, Dean’s skin slick against him.
After a long moment, Dean shifted back, just a little. Sam wondered if Dean knew how bright the room was, that he could see the tired, desperately sad look in those green eyes. Dean should never look like that, but he saw it far too often these days.
Dean’s fingers slid along Sam’s cheek, and Sam mimicked him, mapping a face he knew better than his own. To his surprise, Dean closed his eyes, pressing closer to Sam’s hand, arching into the touch. “Sammy,” he whispered.
“I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, voice barely audible over the rumble of thunder. His hands started to move, stroking along heated skin.
Dean kissed him, harder this time, desperate and messy. He shivered as Sam’s hand slid down his spine, curving along his hip, pulling him closer. “I want-“
Sam moved, rolling Dean under him, pressing him down into the bed, lips moving along the stubbled jawline, biting at Dean’s throat. “Want you,” he murmured, lips brushing Dean’s ear.
Dean shuddered under him. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, tight. “Yeah, want that.”
Sam nodded slowly, looping his fingers around Dean’s wrists, and pressing them to the bed. “Let me touch you,” he murmured. “Please?”
For a moment, he was sure Dean would turn him down. Then, his breath hissed out, and he nodded, eyes squeezed shut.
Sliding off, Sam let his fingers trace the lines of Dean’s face, stroking over his cheekbones, down to run a fingertip over those damned lips. Jesus. They should really be illegal.
“Sam,” Dean murmured.
“Shh.” He slid his hand lower, tracing Dean’s chest, the hard muscle that jumped under his touch. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured.
He was expecting a wisecrack, or for Dean to pull away. Anything but the little sighed breath, and the way Dean relaxed under his touch.
“I felt bad for that kid,” Dean offered suddenly, not bothering to open his eyes.
Sam’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed touching, stroking soft circles over Dean’s flat stomach. “It sucked.”
“He was just lonely.”
For a minute, Sam didn’t respond, hearing the ‘I know how it feels,’ that Dean would never add. “Yeah,” he finally managed, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “I guess he was.”
“It’s hard, when no one bothers to see you,” Dean said, voice carefully bland.
“I-“ I see you. “I guess it is.”
He knew right away it was the wrong answer. Dean’s face shuttered, eyes opening. “So, gonna fuck me anytime today?”
Goddamnit. It had been too long; he still couldn’t find the right words. Fucking Winchesters and their fucking bullshit language of things that never got said. “No.”
“Then hand me the lube, dude, and I’ll take care of things.”
“Dean, shut up,” Sam muttered, bending to nip at his collarbone. “Just…let me enjoy this.”
“Enjoy what? This is not caring and sharing time, Sammy. This is ‘Dean is getting blue balls’ time.”
“Tough.” Sam went back to touching, sliding his fingertips over the sharp line of Dean’s hipbone. He’d been seeing a lot of more of Dean’s hips lately. He’d lost enough weight that the jeans sagged, riding low enough that Sam knew when Dean had gone commando.
“The first year, I hated Stanford,” Sam said. “I didn’t fit in, hated my roommate.” His fingers slid lower, stroking at the crease of Dean’s thigh.
Dean closed his eyes, sighing. “I’m never getting fucked, am I?”
“I took my blades with me everywhere. Even to the shower.”
“Sam versus Mildew,” Dean muttered. “Less talking, more of your hand on my dick, man.”
“I missed you and Dad. Packed my shit like six times. Once, I even made it to the bus station. Realized I had no idea where the hell you were.”
Dean was quiet, and Sam looked up, meeting his eyes, shrugging. “I wanted to be seen, to be a person, to meet people. But the first year, it’s all classes with 200 other people in a lecture hall, just another freshman.”
Without looking away, Dean brought his hand up, stroking Sam’s cheek lightly. The Winchester translator was coming back online, obviously. Because he heard that loud and clear. I’m sorry. I missed you.
Don’t leave me.
There was only one way to answer that, Sam thought. He curled his fingers around Dean’s cock, sliding along its length, watching Dean’s eyes flutter, the shiver that ran up his body. “God, you’re so fucking hard. Never get tired of touching you,” Sam purred. You’re perfect.
“Fuck,” Dean gasped, hips rolling slow and sweet like the California surf. “C’mon, Sam, please. Fuck me.”
“Shh.” He uncapped the lube, pouring some in the palm of his hand, warming it. “I thought I told you no.” He licked over a hard nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, letting the words sink in. As Dean tensed, eyes opening to glare at Sam, he curled his hand around Dean’s cock, sliding down tight and slow.
“Sam-Oh, yeah,” Dean hissed. “Fuck, yeah. Just like-Wait, don’t stop.”
He sounded so damned affronted that it was all Sam could do not to laugh at him. Then, he was straddling Dean’s hips, sliding down with a smooth roll of his hips, back arching as Dean’s hands slid around his waist, steadying him.
“Jesus Christ, so fucking tight,” Dean moaned. “God, Sam.”
For a long moment, Sam held still, let himself adjust. “So big,” he hissed. “God, Dean. Feels so good.”
With a soft whir, the lights came back on, throwing Dean’s face into sharp relief, and Sam bit back a soft moan at the look in his eyes. Dean didn’t seem to notice, hands stroking along Sam’s skin, curling around his cock, stroking him until he couldn’t hold still any longer.
Sam bent, lips finding Dean’s, drinking his wordless moans and gasps, rising and falling against him. It was a bad angle; slow and awkward and rougher than he’d have liked. It was perfect; sweat and spit, and nails and teeth.
Dean’s hands were in motion, fluttering over his back, his shoulders, nails scraping his biceps like he didn’t know what to do with them. His breath was coming in short gasps, pupils blown wide, voice ragged.
“That’s it, Dean. I’ve got you.” I love you.
Dean arched sharply, hips slamming into Sam once, twice. He tensed, his nails digging into Sam’s shoulders, breath sliding out in a low hiss. “Sam!”
Sam kissed him again, moaning low in his throat. “Yeah, like that. God, so good.” As Dean’s shudders faded, he sat up, hand going to his own cock, jacking roughly.
Dean shoved his hand away, those rough fingers curling around him, pressing just right. “That’s it, c’mon, Sammy. Come for me,” he growled.
Pleasure streaked through him, voice and touch and Dean’s eyes watching him come undone. “Fuck, I’m gonna- Oh, oh…” His voice broke, harsh and wild, and Dean was there, holding him while he shook, finishing him with a hand slick with Sam’s come.
Sam toppled onto Dean, breathing like he’d run a mile. Dean touched him, fingers stroking idle patterns on his back. He was murmuring nonsense, voice hoarse, ragged with use.
After a few minutes, Sam sighed, relaxing. “I didn’t need college to be someone,” he finally said.
“Oh, God. Are we back on our feelings? Jesus, Sam. Can’t you just want to cuddle like the other girls?”
“I was already someone,” Sam said, ignoring him. “I was John Winchester’s boy. And your Sammy.” I understand. I won’t leave you again.
Dean’s breath sucked in hard for a moment, then let out. “Dude, off me. You weigh a ton, Gigantor.”
Sam smiled, shifting off him, curling against Dean’s side. “I love you, too.” He pressed a kiss against Dean’s shoulder. “Bitch.”
--End
Rating: Porn.
Disclaimer: Not mine. This is purely for entertainment purposes.
Summary: See also, Rating.
This is my fic from the
spn_gleeweek Guess the Author contest. Hope you enjoyed!They never did this with the lights on, Sam realized. Always in the dark, like it somehow made it less real. Like it was better that way. Like that made it less wrong.
Once, he’d tried to predict when Dean would come to him, or how things would go. He’d given up after a few weeks. It made no sense to anyone except his brother. Sometimes, it was after a hunt, shivering with adrenaline. Then, it would be fast, hard. Dean would lube himself up and press down onto him hard, barely any prep, whispering filth while he rode Sam’s cock. Sometimes it was in the middle of the night, callused fingers sliding inside him, pressing slow and easy while Dean murmured soft nonsense.
And sometimes, once in a long while, it was like this.
They’d finished a hunt two days ago, but neither of them had felt the least bit triumphant about it. Sure, the ghost had been killing people—children, but it hadn’t meant to. Coming face to face with the ghost of the severely mentally disabled teen had messed with both of them, but especially Dean. The kid had been killed by the football team he’d been the waterboy for—some stupid prank gone wrong.
All the ghost had wanted was someone to play with. Dean had kept the ghost busy, talked to him, told him stupid jokes while Sam had done the salt and burn.
Since then, if Dean had said two sentences, it was a lot.
The Impala looked great, though. He’d washed it, waxed it and even vacuumed the inside.
Which explained the rain, really. It had been pouring since just before nightfall, a steady downpour punctuated by almost lazy flashes of lightning and soft rumbles of thunder that was totally going to wash away all of Dean’s careful waxing. The power had gone out around midnight, and they’d had to open the windows. Even with the rain, September in Alabama was hot.
Sam shifted in the damp sheets, looking at the fluttering curtains above his bed, feeling the light mist of rain cooling his face. It had to be nearly eight, but it was every bit as dark as it had been at six. He could hear the desk clerk’s radio—they should invest in a battery powered one—playing a tinny country song, just barely audible over the steady rain.
He didn’t hear Dean move, just felt the bed dip beside him, the light scrape of fingertips along his collarbone. It was followed quickly by those soft lips, sliding over damp skin, the solid line of Dean’s body at his side.
Sam tilted his head a little, letting those lips find the spot just behind his earlobe that never failed to make him shiver, press closer to Dean. Strong fingers closed on his shoulder, and he started to roll, to offer Dean his back, but Dean stopped him. “Like this, Sam,” he whispered, urging Sam the other way, to face him.
Dean’s lips covered his, and Sam moaned low in his throat, squirming closer, until they were pressed together, Dean’s skin slick against him.
After a long moment, Dean shifted back, just a little. Sam wondered if Dean knew how bright the room was, that he could see the tired, desperately sad look in those green eyes. Dean should never look like that, but he saw it far too often these days.
Dean’s fingers slid along Sam’s cheek, and Sam mimicked him, mapping a face he knew better than his own. To his surprise, Dean closed his eyes, pressing closer to Sam’s hand, arching into the touch. “Sammy,” he whispered.
“I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, voice barely audible over the rumble of thunder. His hands started to move, stroking along heated skin.
Dean kissed him, harder this time, desperate and messy. He shivered as Sam’s hand slid down his spine, curving along his hip, pulling him closer. “I want-“
Sam moved, rolling Dean under him, pressing him down into the bed, lips moving along the stubbled jawline, biting at Dean’s throat. “Want you,” he murmured, lips brushing Dean’s ear.
Dean shuddered under him. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, tight. “Yeah, want that.”
Sam nodded slowly, looping his fingers around Dean’s wrists, and pressing them to the bed. “Let me touch you,” he murmured. “Please?”
For a moment, he was sure Dean would turn him down. Then, his breath hissed out, and he nodded, eyes squeezed shut.
Sliding off, Sam let his fingers trace the lines of Dean’s face, stroking over his cheekbones, down to run a fingertip over those damned lips. Jesus. They should really be illegal.
“Sam,” Dean murmured.
“Shh.” He slid his hand lower, tracing Dean’s chest, the hard muscle that jumped under his touch. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured.
He was expecting a wisecrack, or for Dean to pull away. Anything but the little sighed breath, and the way Dean relaxed under his touch.
“I felt bad for that kid,” Dean offered suddenly, not bothering to open his eyes.
Sam’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed touching, stroking soft circles over Dean’s flat stomach. “It sucked.”
“He was just lonely.”
For a minute, Sam didn’t respond, hearing the ‘I know how it feels,’ that Dean would never add. “Yeah,” he finally managed, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “I guess he was.”
“It’s hard, when no one bothers to see you,” Dean said, voice carefully bland.
“I-“ I see you. “I guess it is.”
He knew right away it was the wrong answer. Dean’s face shuttered, eyes opening. “So, gonna fuck me anytime today?”
Goddamnit. It had been too long; he still couldn’t find the right words. Fucking Winchesters and their fucking bullshit language of things that never got said. “No.”
“Then hand me the lube, dude, and I’ll take care of things.”
“Dean, shut up,” Sam muttered, bending to nip at his collarbone. “Just…let me enjoy this.”
“Enjoy what? This is not caring and sharing time, Sammy. This is ‘Dean is getting blue balls’ time.”
“Tough.” Sam went back to touching, sliding his fingertips over the sharp line of Dean’s hipbone. He’d been seeing a lot of more of Dean’s hips lately. He’d lost enough weight that the jeans sagged, riding low enough that Sam knew when Dean had gone commando.
“The first year, I hated Stanford,” Sam said. “I didn’t fit in, hated my roommate.” His fingers slid lower, stroking at the crease of Dean’s thigh.
Dean closed his eyes, sighing. “I’m never getting fucked, am I?”
“I took my blades with me everywhere. Even to the shower.”
“Sam versus Mildew,” Dean muttered. “Less talking, more of your hand on my dick, man.”
“I missed you and Dad. Packed my shit like six times. Once, I even made it to the bus station. Realized I had no idea where the hell you were.”
Dean was quiet, and Sam looked up, meeting his eyes, shrugging. “I wanted to be seen, to be a person, to meet people. But the first year, it’s all classes with 200 other people in a lecture hall, just another freshman.”
Without looking away, Dean brought his hand up, stroking Sam’s cheek lightly. The Winchester translator was coming back online, obviously. Because he heard that loud and clear. I’m sorry. I missed you.
Don’t leave me.
There was only one way to answer that, Sam thought. He curled his fingers around Dean’s cock, sliding along its length, watching Dean’s eyes flutter, the shiver that ran up his body. “God, you’re so fucking hard. Never get tired of touching you,” Sam purred. You’re perfect.
“Fuck,” Dean gasped, hips rolling slow and sweet like the California surf. “C’mon, Sam, please. Fuck me.”
“Shh.” He uncapped the lube, pouring some in the palm of his hand, warming it. “I thought I told you no.” He licked over a hard nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, letting the words sink in. As Dean tensed, eyes opening to glare at Sam, he curled his hand around Dean’s cock, sliding down tight and slow.
“Sam-Oh, yeah,” Dean hissed. “Fuck, yeah. Just like-Wait, don’t stop.”
He sounded so damned affronted that it was all Sam could do not to laugh at him. Then, he was straddling Dean’s hips, sliding down with a smooth roll of his hips, back arching as Dean’s hands slid around his waist, steadying him.
“Jesus Christ, so fucking tight,” Dean moaned. “God, Sam.”
For a long moment, Sam held still, let himself adjust. “So big,” he hissed. “God, Dean. Feels so good.”
With a soft whir, the lights came back on, throwing Dean’s face into sharp relief, and Sam bit back a soft moan at the look in his eyes. Dean didn’t seem to notice, hands stroking along Sam’s skin, curling around his cock, stroking him until he couldn’t hold still any longer.
Sam bent, lips finding Dean’s, drinking his wordless moans and gasps, rising and falling against him. It was a bad angle; slow and awkward and rougher than he’d have liked. It was perfect; sweat and spit, and nails and teeth.
Dean’s hands were in motion, fluttering over his back, his shoulders, nails scraping his biceps like he didn’t know what to do with them. His breath was coming in short gasps, pupils blown wide, voice ragged.
“That’s it, Dean. I’ve got you.” I love you.
Dean arched sharply, hips slamming into Sam once, twice. He tensed, his nails digging into Sam’s shoulders, breath sliding out in a low hiss. “Sam!”
Sam kissed him again, moaning low in his throat. “Yeah, like that. God, so good.” As Dean’s shudders faded, he sat up, hand going to his own cock, jacking roughly.
Dean shoved his hand away, those rough fingers curling around him, pressing just right. “That’s it, c’mon, Sammy. Come for me,” he growled.
Pleasure streaked through him, voice and touch and Dean’s eyes watching him come undone. “Fuck, I’m gonna- Oh, oh…” His voice broke, harsh and wild, and Dean was there, holding him while he shook, finishing him with a hand slick with Sam’s come.
Sam toppled onto Dean, breathing like he’d run a mile. Dean touched him, fingers stroking idle patterns on his back. He was murmuring nonsense, voice hoarse, ragged with use.
After a few minutes, Sam sighed, relaxing. “I didn’t need college to be someone,” he finally said.
“Oh, God. Are we back on our feelings? Jesus, Sam. Can’t you just want to cuddle like the other girls?”
“I was already someone,” Sam said, ignoring him. “I was John Winchester’s boy. And your Sammy.” I understand. I won’t leave you again.
Dean’s breath sucked in hard for a moment, then let out. “Dude, off me. You weigh a ton, Gigantor.”
Sam smiled, shifting off him, curling against Dean’s side. “I love you, too.” He pressed a kiss against Dean’s shoulder. “Bitch.”
--End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 12:17 am (UTC)That was brilliant. So the boys. it was so very hurty... so hurty.
I loved it.
And of course, the wonderful sex... can never get over the wonderful sex between them. They're just made for each other.
You nailed it. I loved it.
♥