A quick Rock Star!Dean ficlet ...
Dec. 13th, 2006 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsos... because I just passed two thousand words on my Yuletide assignment and I'm listening to the classic rock station on Yahoo and ... well. SMUT.
Title: The Wanted Man
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author's note: Rock Star!Dean 'verse, started in They'll Never Catch On.
**
The Wanted Man
**
Sam comes back to the motel from the latest hunt covered in gore with three shallow gashes across his cheek just in time for the premiere of Dean's new video on MTV.
There are things he should be doing -- scrubbing the stench of rawhead guts from his hair, peeling away the stiffening darkened fabric from his skin before it sticks there, slapping butterfly bandages over the cuts in his cheek -- but he reaches for the remote before any of them even occur to him. Dean is a voice on the other end of the phone these days, talking nonstop with fake good cheer to get himself through plane flights, screaming into his cell while rushing through a crowd of fans, joking with the rest of the guys on the tour bus while Sam listens in from the driver's seat of the Impala. He barely ever sees Dean anymore.
Well, he's seeing him now.
Fuck, is he ever.
The new song is good. Maybe even great, but Sam wouldn't know. Dean sends him cassette tapes all the time, won't let Sam put in a CD player and listens to Sam's requests for one like they're minor acts of blasphemy. The cassette tapes are, as Dean puts it, "to make up for that girly emo shit you keep playing in my car." He sends Sam ZZ Top and Metallica and Sabbath to offset the college radio stations Sam tunes into as he crosses the country, classic rock versions of vaccinations. The new song sounds like those mixes, loud and strong and hard, Dean letting the guitars take the lead this time around. The audio on the cheap motel TV isn't the best but Sam doesn't need it. He's already heard the song before a dozen times, crammed onto the end of one of Dean's mix tapes like an afterthought.
But the video. The video, man.
Dean's trying to kill him. It's the only fucking explanation.
It could just be their manager, the one who knows that most of the audience comes to their concerts to crawl into Dean's pants and never come out again. Oh, sure, a lot of the girls are there for Ian or Mike or Tyler, but most of them want Dean. The one who barely ever wears a fucking shirt on stage, the one who flirts as often as he exhales, the one who once stopped playing to haul a girl from the hysterical crowd at the front of the stage before she got crushed.
Chicks dig a hero with a pair of drumsticks, it turns out.
Sam freezes as he watches Dean in action this time around, because that's what this is. It's three and a half minutes of All About Dean, the hot drummer who'll fuck anyone who stands still long enough and says please. He goes through what passes for a normal day on screen, ducks into corners and shadows with waitresses and lifeguards. He makes out with the clerk at the supermarket and gets her to give him his groceries free of charge. He winks at the camera and goes into a motel room, coming out hours later and saying flirty goodbyes to a long string of beautiful people, gorgeous blondes and sexy brunettes, men and women, the occasional redhead and ...
Jesus.
And a tall dark-haired guy who looks frighteningly like Sam.
Sam thinks maybe he should have timed himself, that maybe if there's a category in the Guinness Book of World Records for the quickest time for a guy to get hard he just beat it by a mile. On the TV screen Dean flashes the definitely-not-Sam a smile as he passes by, a wicked grin that the definitely-not-Sam returns. It's this weird in-joke or something, like while they were in that motel room they fucked a dozen times and broke several federal weapons laws and committed credit card fraud and burglary and incest, and isn't that just the hottest goddamn thing on the planet?
They treat it as a joke in the video -- look, Dean Winchester's so hot everybody wants him -- but Sam isn't laughing.
He curses under his breath, hissed and sharp, and it takes him a second to realize he's stripping as if Dean were actually in the room. He tugs away his stiff clothes as if Dean's hands are on them, too, pulling them away, revealing more and more golden skin. It's one thing he should have done from the second he walked into the room. He's going to have to burn them all anyway, the clothes unsalvagable no matter how many times he puts them through the laundry.
In his mind Dean tosses away the T-shirt, leaves a heated trail of eager kisses over Sam's collarbone.
The song is over and the video is long gone, and now it's some blonde pop tart wearing more pink than Sam's ever seen in his life prancing across the TV screen. Sam staggers into the bathroom as soon as he's naked, giving the television an annoyed glare as he goes.
The TV turns off without him touching it, but he tries to ignore that.
Instead he focuses on the solid heat of his fingers around his dick, the weak pressure of the motel shower against his back as he leans forward with one palm pressed against the wall. Sam strokes himself like Dean would if he were here, hard and slow and so fucking deliberate. Sam would tremble all over as he felt Dean's smile pressed against his skin somewhere as if this were exactly what Dean was going for. Sam falling apart at the seams, Sam pressing into as much of Dean as he can reach regardless of whether not it'll tear him to pieces to do it. Sam moves forward without conscious thought, picturing Dean trapped between him and the wall as Dean gives him the sort of handjob that means Sam damn well better remember this when he's gone.
That he'd better be jerking off to its memory while he's on tour, Sam amends, his last coherent thought before he comes.
He doesn't notice until he leaves the bathroom that he's humming the band's new song with a smile on his face.
****
Dear Yahoo ... playing "Carry On Wayward Son" while I'm writing Wincest? HEE. Pervs. And psychic ones at that. ;)
Title: The Wanted Man
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author's note: Rock Star!Dean 'verse, started in They'll Never Catch On.
The Wanted Man
**
Sam comes back to the motel from the latest hunt covered in gore with three shallow gashes across his cheek just in time for the premiere of Dean's new video on MTV.
There are things he should be doing -- scrubbing the stench of rawhead guts from his hair, peeling away the stiffening darkened fabric from his skin before it sticks there, slapping butterfly bandages over the cuts in his cheek -- but he reaches for the remote before any of them even occur to him. Dean is a voice on the other end of the phone these days, talking nonstop with fake good cheer to get himself through plane flights, screaming into his cell while rushing through a crowd of fans, joking with the rest of the guys on the tour bus while Sam listens in from the driver's seat of the Impala. He barely ever sees Dean anymore.
Well, he's seeing him now.
Fuck, is he ever.
The new song is good. Maybe even great, but Sam wouldn't know. Dean sends him cassette tapes all the time, won't let Sam put in a CD player and listens to Sam's requests for one like they're minor acts of blasphemy. The cassette tapes are, as Dean puts it, "to make up for that girly emo shit you keep playing in my car." He sends Sam ZZ Top and Metallica and Sabbath to offset the college radio stations Sam tunes into as he crosses the country, classic rock versions of vaccinations. The new song sounds like those mixes, loud and strong and hard, Dean letting the guitars take the lead this time around. The audio on the cheap motel TV isn't the best but Sam doesn't need it. He's already heard the song before a dozen times, crammed onto the end of one of Dean's mix tapes like an afterthought.
But the video. The video, man.
Dean's trying to kill him. It's the only fucking explanation.
It could just be their manager, the one who knows that most of the audience comes to their concerts to crawl into Dean's pants and never come out again. Oh, sure, a lot of the girls are there for Ian or Mike or Tyler, but most of them want Dean. The one who barely ever wears a fucking shirt on stage, the one who flirts as often as he exhales, the one who once stopped playing to haul a girl from the hysterical crowd at the front of the stage before she got crushed.
Chicks dig a hero with a pair of drumsticks, it turns out.
Sam freezes as he watches Dean in action this time around, because that's what this is. It's three and a half minutes of All About Dean, the hot drummer who'll fuck anyone who stands still long enough and says please. He goes through what passes for a normal day on screen, ducks into corners and shadows with waitresses and lifeguards. He makes out with the clerk at the supermarket and gets her to give him his groceries free of charge. He winks at the camera and goes into a motel room, coming out hours later and saying flirty goodbyes to a long string of beautiful people, gorgeous blondes and sexy brunettes, men and women, the occasional redhead and ...
Jesus.
And a tall dark-haired guy who looks frighteningly like Sam.
Sam thinks maybe he should have timed himself, that maybe if there's a category in the Guinness Book of World Records for the quickest time for a guy to get hard he just beat it by a mile. On the TV screen Dean flashes the definitely-not-Sam a smile as he passes by, a wicked grin that the definitely-not-Sam returns. It's this weird in-joke or something, like while they were in that motel room they fucked a dozen times and broke several federal weapons laws and committed credit card fraud and burglary and incest, and isn't that just the hottest goddamn thing on the planet?
They treat it as a joke in the video -- look, Dean Winchester's so hot everybody wants him -- but Sam isn't laughing.
He curses under his breath, hissed and sharp, and it takes him a second to realize he's stripping as if Dean were actually in the room. He tugs away his stiff clothes as if Dean's hands are on them, too, pulling them away, revealing more and more golden skin. It's one thing he should have done from the second he walked into the room. He's going to have to burn them all anyway, the clothes unsalvagable no matter how many times he puts them through the laundry.
In his mind Dean tosses away the T-shirt, leaves a heated trail of eager kisses over Sam's collarbone.
The song is over and the video is long gone, and now it's some blonde pop tart wearing more pink than Sam's ever seen in his life prancing across the TV screen. Sam staggers into the bathroom as soon as he's naked, giving the television an annoyed glare as he goes.
The TV turns off without him touching it, but he tries to ignore that.
Instead he focuses on the solid heat of his fingers around his dick, the weak pressure of the motel shower against his back as he leans forward with one palm pressed against the wall. Sam strokes himself like Dean would if he were here, hard and slow and so fucking deliberate. Sam would tremble all over as he felt Dean's smile pressed against his skin somewhere as if this were exactly what Dean was going for. Sam falling apart at the seams, Sam pressing into as much of Dean as he can reach regardless of whether not it'll tear him to pieces to do it. Sam moves forward without conscious thought, picturing Dean trapped between him and the wall as Dean gives him the sort of handjob that means Sam damn well better remember this when he's gone.
That he'd better be jerking off to its memory while he's on tour, Sam amends, his last coherent thought before he comes.
He doesn't notice until he leaves the bathroom that he's humming the band's new song with a smile on his face.
****
Dear Yahoo ... playing "Carry On Wayward Son" while I'm writing Wincest? HEE. Pervs. And psychic ones at that. ;)
