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apocalypsos) wrote2008-02-15 10:54 pm
apocalypsos) wrote2008-02-15 10:54 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Gone, Baby, Gone (Supernatural) -- NC-17
Title: Gone, Baby, Gone
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,000 words, give or take
Spoilers: “Mystery Spot”
Summary: Sam could be needy before, but this is pushing it.
Author's Note: I completely blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keepaofthecheez and affectingly for this.
*
Gone, Baby, Gone
*
Two days after the thing with the Trickster, Dean goes to reach for the boysenberry syrup on the other side of the booth at breakfast and catches Sam staring.
“What?” he blurts out. “I got something on my face?”
After a long moment of staring at him with this lost lonely look in his eyes that kinda makes Dean want to go out back and punch himself in the face, Sam shakes his head and returns to poking at his poached eggs like he's going for a gold medal in breakfast-stabbing.
Dean grimaces and stuffs a forkful of sliced-up pancakes into his mouth. It's not like he doesn't get it, all right? If he'd had to watch Sam die over and over again for three straight months his brain probably would have exploded out his ears. And yeah, okay, maybe he'd be a little touchy now too, a little too grabby and a little too prone to watching Sam like a goddamn hawk to make sure he didn't do something stupid like stick his ginormous finger in a light socket or eat a big tub of e. Coli or something.
But maybe this was getting a little old.
*
Two hours later when Sam's got him bent over the back of the Impala on some back country road, pounding into Dean's ass like he's deliberately trying to warp the hell out of the minds of the cows in the field they're parked next to, his huge hands grabbing tight onto Dean's shoulders to maneuver him just so, Dean reconsiders his stance.
No, not like that, you perv.
Okay, maybe exactly like that. And shut up.
But this needier-than-normal business? Dean might be able to live with it.
*
That night, right about the time that Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's cross-show bantering is getting particularly feisty, Dean's head clears for a second and he frowns. “Hey, you sure you're not keeping anything from me about the Trickster?”
Sam pulls himself away from giving Dean his third blowjob of the day and shakes his head. “Nothing, man.”
“Honest?”
Rolling his eyes, Sam leans forward and gives Dean's cock a long meaningful swipe of his tongue from root to tip.
No one ever said that Dean had to have a coherent thought left after that.
Or the handjob that came after. Or the good long fuck they had in the shower after that.
... what? They were busy, all right?
*
The thing is, before the Trickster and the Groundhog Day time loop, their sex life was the very definition of casual. They were just Dean and Sam, the Winchester boys, brothers 'til the end, and they hunted and argued and played pool and hit on girls in bars, and sometimes when they were wound up after a hunt and Sam had that wired-on-fifty-seven-cups-of-coffee twitch and Dean really didn't feel like finding a willing girl at the local bar, they just kind of fell into bed together. Naked. With lots of lube. And the occasional dildo. And maybe the pizza delivery girl.
The point being, yeah, they were fucking. But not, like, all the time. Eventually they had to stop to eat and bathe and take in sunlight.
Dean took it as a bad sign when he spent more waking hours with Sam's dick in his ass than with Sam's dick out of it one Saturday after the time loop.
Granted, they weren't awake that long that day thanks to the seventeen-hour-long sexual extravaganza they had on Friday, but still.
*
In one ten-day period Sam gives or tries to give him oral sex fifty-seven times.
Dean cuts him off when he catches a glimpse of his cock in the bathroom and could swear it's gotten smaller.
Could you even have your dick sucked so often it shrinks?
You know what? Don't answer that.
*
Sam shoves him into the chair in their newest motel room, some cheap velvety seat that feels like it's been stuffed tight and hard with sawdust. Dean feels hot panting breaths against his throat and heavy hands at his waist, sliding under his shirt, tugging impatiently at his belt.
Okay, see, this is why he can't think straight anymore.
Oh, stop laughing.
“Sammy, come on, man,” he says, pushing at Sam's shoulder even as Sam finally gets his belt buckle undone and starts sliding downward. “Sam.”
Sam lifts his gaze, looking almost hurt. “What?”
“Seriously, Sam, what the hell --” Dean tries to come up with what he's trying to ask but his brain has officially gone dry, because all of his blood has gone directly to his dick, it's hard as hell, it's fucking trained by now. Sam's near it and it's practically yapping happily and wagging its tail like an anxious puppy waiting for a treat and oh, man, does that metaphor plant a really disturbing mental image in his head.
Sam just slowly pulls at Dean's zipper, and there's that lost lonely look in his eyes again, dark and wet and needy and fuck, who gives a damn? What does it fucking matter if Sam's doing this because he lost Dean a few hundred times over, because he doesn't want to do it again, because he's going to have to? Who freaking cared when --
And okay, maybe in the middle of Dean's very deep and important thought it's a bad idea to suck his cock down until Sam's nosing at his pubic hair.
Uh, yeah. Bad idea, good idea. It's a fine line.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,000 words, give or take
Spoilers: “Mystery Spot”
Summary: Sam could be needy before, but this is pushing it.
Author's Note: I completely blame
keepaofthecheez and affectingly for this. Gone, Baby, Gone
*
Two days after the thing with the Trickster, Dean goes to reach for the boysenberry syrup on the other side of the booth at breakfast and catches Sam staring.
“What?” he blurts out. “I got something on my face?”
After a long moment of staring at him with this lost lonely look in his eyes that kinda makes Dean want to go out back and punch himself in the face, Sam shakes his head and returns to poking at his poached eggs like he's going for a gold medal in breakfast-stabbing.
Dean grimaces and stuffs a forkful of sliced-up pancakes into his mouth. It's not like he doesn't get it, all right? If he'd had to watch Sam die over and over again for three straight months his brain probably would have exploded out his ears. And yeah, okay, maybe he'd be a little touchy now too, a little too grabby and a little too prone to watching Sam like a goddamn hawk to make sure he didn't do something stupid like stick his ginormous finger in a light socket or eat a big tub of e. Coli or something.
But maybe this was getting a little old.
Two hours later when Sam's got him bent over the back of the Impala on some back country road, pounding into Dean's ass like he's deliberately trying to warp the hell out of the minds of the cows in the field they're parked next to, his huge hands grabbing tight onto Dean's shoulders to maneuver him just so, Dean reconsiders his stance.
No, not like that, you perv.
Okay, maybe exactly like that. And shut up.
But this needier-than-normal business? Dean might be able to live with it.
That night, right about the time that Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's cross-show bantering is getting particularly feisty, Dean's head clears for a second and he frowns. “Hey, you sure you're not keeping anything from me about the Trickster?”
Sam pulls himself away from giving Dean his third blowjob of the day and shakes his head. “Nothing, man.”
“Honest?”
Rolling his eyes, Sam leans forward and gives Dean's cock a long meaningful swipe of his tongue from root to tip.
No one ever said that Dean had to have a coherent thought left after that.
Or the handjob that came after. Or the good long fuck they had in the shower after that.
... what? They were busy, all right?
The thing is, before the Trickster and the Groundhog Day time loop, their sex life was the very definition of casual. They were just Dean and Sam, the Winchester boys, brothers 'til the end, and they hunted and argued and played pool and hit on girls in bars, and sometimes when they were wound up after a hunt and Sam had that wired-on-fifty-seven-cups-of-coffee twitch and Dean really didn't feel like finding a willing girl at the local bar, they just kind of fell into bed together. Naked. With lots of lube. And the occasional dildo. And maybe the pizza delivery girl.
The point being, yeah, they were fucking. But not, like, all the time. Eventually they had to stop to eat and bathe and take in sunlight.
Dean took it as a bad sign when he spent more waking hours with Sam's dick in his ass than with Sam's dick out of it one Saturday after the time loop.
Granted, they weren't awake that long that day thanks to the seventeen-hour-long sexual extravaganza they had on Friday, but still.
In one ten-day period Sam gives or tries to give him oral sex fifty-seven times.
Dean cuts him off when he catches a glimpse of his cock in the bathroom and could swear it's gotten smaller.
Could you even have your dick sucked so often it shrinks?
You know what? Don't answer that.
Sam shoves him into the chair in their newest motel room, some cheap velvety seat that feels like it's been stuffed tight and hard with sawdust. Dean feels hot panting breaths against his throat and heavy hands at his waist, sliding under his shirt, tugging impatiently at his belt.
Okay, see, this is why he can't think straight anymore.
Oh, stop laughing.
“Sammy, come on, man,” he says, pushing at Sam's shoulder even as Sam finally gets his belt buckle undone and starts sliding downward. “Sam.”
Sam lifts his gaze, looking almost hurt. “What?”
“Seriously, Sam, what the hell --” Dean tries to come up with what he's trying to ask but his brain has officially gone dry, because all of his blood has gone directly to his dick, it's hard as hell, it's fucking trained by now. Sam's near it and it's practically yapping happily and wagging its tail like an anxious puppy waiting for a treat and oh, man, does that metaphor plant a really disturbing mental image in his head.
Sam just slowly pulls at Dean's zipper, and there's that lost lonely look in his eyes again, dark and wet and needy and fuck, who gives a damn? What does it fucking matter if Sam's doing this because he lost Dean a few hundred times over, because he doesn't want to do it again, because he's going to have to? Who freaking cared when --
And okay, maybe in the middle of Dean's very deep and important thought it's a bad idea to suck his cock down until Sam's nosing at his pubic hair.
Uh, yeah. Bad idea, good idea. It's a fine line.