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Title: Down on your luck
Words: ~2600
Rating: Adult
Genre: Wincest Established Relationship
Characters: Sam/Dean
Warnings/Enticements: PWP
Spoilers: nope
Disclaimer: our porn makes more people want to watch your show.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
merihn who is down on her luck this week.
Thank you tosylvanwitch and sadelyrate for hand-holding and lima_sierra for beta.
Summary: "You've got a filthy mouth," Sam said, before licking it…
Down on your Luck
Dean was feeling down on his luck. Broke his left wrist when he got thrown through a window by a really pissed off poltergeist, so a game of pool wasn't gonna work. His last two credit cards had been declined not once, but twice, which was always a pretty good sign that it was about damn time to hit the post office box, but the Visa for Mr. Stephen Ray was in Nebraska, and he and Sam were down in Baton Rouge. The game of cards he'd found was going well until the man with the mother-of-pearl handled pistol accused Dean of stowing an Ace in his cast. He totally hadn't, but Dean had this policy where he didn't argue with armed drunk eccentrics. Not over a game of cards. Not when the other five men at the table were the drunk's friends.
So Dean had nothing but a shot of Whiskey, six bucks, and an itch so bad on the back of his wrist that he was about to smash the cast right off to get to it. Where the fuck was Sam when he needed him?
The hand that landed on his shoulder was heavy and hearty, the clap of a good buddy, but the thumb that dipped under his collar was pure Sam. Soothing and sexy at the same time. "Sammy," Dean said, so glad to see him it was an ache in his chest.
Sam's smile was tired. "I managed to get us half a tank."
Yeah. That was the other thing. They had no hotel room and the Impala's tank was empty. This hunt sucked.
"Your card was good?"
"Nah," Sam said. "Gave some woman in a Jag a sob story about how I was this poor scholarship student and I just found out my brother had cancer and I was trying to get home to Kansas to see him, but I didn't have enough money for gas. She gave me twenty bucks."
Dean felt a flare of jealousy. "What'd you have to do for her?"
"What?" Sam looked incredulous. "Nothing, man. What do you think I am?"
Dean leaned forward until he was speaking right into Sam's ear. "I think you're mine." It was everything he could do not to lay claim right there with his palm, but this was definitely not that kind of bar.
"Looks like we're sleeping in the car tonight, so you'll have to take a rain check."
No way was Dean that down on his luck. "Dude, the bathrooms in here? Totally clean." He had his lips right up against Sam's ear, and he could feel Sam's shiver in the brush of hair on his cheek.
Sitting back on his stool, Dean watched Sam look around the bar. He could practically hear Sam thinking, Why does Dean only want to fuck in redneck joints and biker bars? That one place in West Hollywood would have been perfect, and he made us go back to the hotel. But he was teetering, Dean could tell. It'd been three days, and since they'd started this, Sam had been hell-bent on making up for all that lost time when he'd sworn off sex after Jess. Thirty-six hours was usually his limit.
"Come on. I'll suck you til you're begging and then fuck you hard and slow, just how you like it." Dean was leaning in close again. Not too close, just a guy trying to talk to his friend over the music. From his vantage point he had a perfect view of that muscle in Sam's jaw twitching with the effort of not saying Fuck, yes.
Sam kept his eyes on the row of bottles behind the bar and just said, "Is it in the back?"
"Through that door and turn left. Stall by the window." Oh, yeah.
Dean finished his drink and left his last single under the glass for the bartender. Tried to keep the I'mma gonna get laid saunter down to a minimum as he followed in his brother's footsteps.
He hadn't been lying to get into Sam's pants. The bathroom was remarkably clean. Dean hoped that didn't mean there was going to be a guy with a mop popping along to interrupt them. A balding man in a shiny green suit straight off the mafia-pimp costume rail was washing his hands. Dean headed towards the urinals against the wall, exaggerating the difficulty his cast gave him undoing his fly to give the guy time to leave. As soon as the door shut behind Mr. Green, Dean tapped on the end stall. Sam let him in.
"You've got a fucking filthy mouth," Sam said, before licking it, erasing any chance Dean might have had to answer. The next thing he said might have been "Three days," but he was working Dean's lower lip with his teeth at the time so it was a little unclear.
"Just fucking kiss me," Dean said. Sam did.
In the nick of time, Dean remembered his cast and only brought his right hand up to grip Sam's head. Sam had him pressed up against the cold metal of the stall, his heavy heat solid against Dean's chest and thighs. Hips rocking, rubbing his cock in the groove of Dean's hip, making those little noises in the back of his throat that told Dean if he wanted to do more than watch Sam come in his pants, he'd better get on with it.
When Sam moved to bite and suck along Dean's jaw, Dean said something that he hoped was, "Suck you now," and pushed Sam away. Which killed him, but they were in a bathroom stall, and they could save the making out for the back seat later.
Sam had no problem getting with the program if the speed he was going at his belt and fly was anything to go by. Dean was barely on his knees before Sam's cock was rubbing up against his cheek. "Want it?" Sam said. He stroked its length along Dean's stubble and then pulled back to rub the tip on Dean's lips.
"Mine," Dean told him and pushed Sam's hand away, gripping Sam's shaft himself. "Mine," he said again, licking the taste of his brother into his mouth.
Dean thought of the tricks he'd learned over the years as his arsenal. Same as he knew which gun, which bullets, which blade to pull out of the trunk to get each job done, he didn’t have to think any more about what to do with his mouth and hands to get what he wanted out of Sam. The get him off quick when he was so hard it hurt blow job, had moaning, lots of spit, and fingers pressing right behind Sam's balls. The Sammy Special—and no, Sam didn’t know Dean called it that, and he wasn’t finding out—aka the keeps Sam on the edge for ages until his orgasm sneaks up on him and hits him so hard he passes out blow job had kissing, suction a hoover would be proud of, little flicks of his tongue, long slow strokes of his fingers, and a sixth sense that told him just when to stop everything and do nothing but breathe over Sam's flushed skin.
This was a suck til he begs to be fucked blow job though, and for that Dean needed a tight grip at the base of Sam's cock and a hot, slick mouth for Sam to thrust into. Usually it would also include fingers pressing into Sam's ass, but Dean was one handed at the moment, and he thought the firm grip was more important. Sam never wanted to be fucked just after he'd come.
When Sam went stiff, Dean was afraid he'd been too eager and that Sam was going to come in his mouth, but then he heard the snick of the door shutting and the footsteps coming towards them. Sam was mouthing, "STOP" at him, but Dean, just slow as anything, kept his mouth moving over the head of Sam's cock. Pushed down until the crown was stretching his soft palate, and then backed off until it was tucked behind Dean's teeth. Squeezed a little tighter, licked, and then pushed down again.
Sam was holding his breath, and the only sound was the stranger's piss hitting porcelain. Dean had his eyes locked on his brother's face and would have been grinning were it not for the fact that his lips were otherwise occupied. The fingers gripping his shoulders weren't doing anything remotely like pushing him away. Fortunately the guy was a filthy pig who didn’t bother washing his hands, and he was gone again before Sam suffocated himself.
"Christ, Dean, fuck me now," Sam said, when he'd gotten his breath back.
Dean blessed the club in New Orleans that had fishbowls full of condoms and little sachets of lube right there on the bar. Pocket-friendly packaging that meant he was always prepared. He thought for a second that Dad would be proud, realized the context, and decided that thought could go wherever it was bad, unhelpful thoughts went.
The trouble with the little packets was that there wasn't as much to go around. Dean put on the condom first, while Sam was turning towards the wall and pushing his jeans and boxers down over his hips. Pressing up against Sam's back, Dean whispered, "I'm short on hands here. Hold yourself open for me." When Sam complied it was enough to make Dean breathless.
"Come on, Dean. Fuck me already," Sam said, and pulled himself wider.
"Fuck." Dean got his dick right up against Sam's hole, fumbled the open lube between two fingers of his plastered hand, and managed to slick Sam, his good fingers and his cock all at once. "Who 'da man," he muttered.
"Wha—" Sam started, but Dean slid two fingers into his ass and he never finished the thought.
"You're so hot. So hot for me. God, Sam—" The door opened again, and Dean busied his mouth sucking a bruise into the top of Sam's back to keep himself quiet. It wasn’t doing much for Sam's ability to stay silent, but that wasn't Dean's problem. Sam put his arm up and rested his head on it, biting his wrist when Dean angled his fingers just right and kept stroking. Sam didn't need to say, I'm so getting you back for this, it was coming through loud and clear. Dean bit harder to keep from laughing.
This guy, of course, was Mr. OCD. Washing, scrubbing, doing fuck knew what while Dean slicked two fingers, and then three, in and out of Sam's ass. Finally, after about three years of drying to finish off his decade at the sink, the guy left. Dean pulled his fingers out, splashed the rest of the lube onto his cock, and slid in while Sam said, "Now. Now. Now," in a harsh voice.
Dean cursed his cast, and after some debate, rested it against the small of Sam's back, wrapping his other hand around Sam's cock. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to keep his promise of hard and slow. Not with Sam slamming back into him and wrapping his own fingers around Dean's, speeding up the strokes on his cock. Dean obliged, fucking with abandon and just going along for the ride as Sam jerked his own dick.
When Dean came, he nearly lost his balance, not having a hand to hold on with, but managed to catch himself with the crook of his elbow at Sam's waist and his cheek on Sam's back. "Do it, Sam. Fuck. Come all over my fingers."
Just sometimes? Sam did as he was told.
They were cleaned up and drying their hands before the next person came in. When he sniffed pointedly and glared at them, Dean cracked up. Sam had to drag him out of the bathroom by his arm.
When they were safe in the car, Sam finally cracked a smile. "There's a campground 'bout twenty miles from here. Five bucks a night for cars, free showers. Tomorrow we can find you another poker game or something. Sound good?"
Sounded good. Dean had half a tank of gas, five dollars in his pocket, and the best fucking brother in the world. Pun definitely intended. His luck was looking up.
Read On
Words: ~2600
Rating: Adult
Genre: Wincest Established Relationship
Characters: Sam/Dean
Warnings/Enticements: PWP
Spoilers: nope
Disclaimer: our porn makes more people want to watch your show.
A/N: Written for
merihn who is down on her luck this week. Thank you to
sylvanwitch and sadelyrate for hand-holding and lima_sierra for beta. Summary: "You've got a filthy mouth," Sam said, before licking it…
Down on your Luck
Dean was feeling down on his luck. Broke his left wrist when he got thrown through a window by a really pissed off poltergeist, so a game of pool wasn't gonna work. His last two credit cards had been declined not once, but twice, which was always a pretty good sign that it was about damn time to hit the post office box, but the Visa for Mr. Stephen Ray was in Nebraska, and he and Sam were down in Baton Rouge. The game of cards he'd found was going well until the man with the mother-of-pearl handled pistol accused Dean of stowing an Ace in his cast. He totally hadn't, but Dean had this policy where he didn't argue with armed drunk eccentrics. Not over a game of cards. Not when the other five men at the table were the drunk's friends.
So Dean had nothing but a shot of Whiskey, six bucks, and an itch so bad on the back of his wrist that he was about to smash the cast right off to get to it. Where the fuck was Sam when he needed him?
The hand that landed on his shoulder was heavy and hearty, the clap of a good buddy, but the thumb that dipped under his collar was pure Sam. Soothing and sexy at the same time. "Sammy," Dean said, so glad to see him it was an ache in his chest.
Sam's smile was tired. "I managed to get us half a tank."
Yeah. That was the other thing. They had no hotel room and the Impala's tank was empty. This hunt sucked.
"Your card was good?"
"Nah," Sam said. "Gave some woman in a Jag a sob story about how I was this poor scholarship student and I just found out my brother had cancer and I was trying to get home to Kansas to see him, but I didn't have enough money for gas. She gave me twenty bucks."
Dean felt a flare of jealousy. "What'd you have to do for her?"
"What?" Sam looked incredulous. "Nothing, man. What do you think I am?"
Dean leaned forward until he was speaking right into Sam's ear. "I think you're mine." It was everything he could do not to lay claim right there with his palm, but this was definitely not that kind of bar.
"Looks like we're sleeping in the car tonight, so you'll have to take a rain check."
No way was Dean that down on his luck. "Dude, the bathrooms in here? Totally clean." He had his lips right up against Sam's ear, and he could feel Sam's shiver in the brush of hair on his cheek.
Sitting back on his stool, Dean watched Sam look around the bar. He could practically hear Sam thinking, Why does Dean only want to fuck in redneck joints and biker bars? That one place in West Hollywood would have been perfect, and he made us go back to the hotel. But he was teetering, Dean could tell. It'd been three days, and since they'd started this, Sam had been hell-bent on making up for all that lost time when he'd sworn off sex after Jess. Thirty-six hours was usually his limit.
"Come on. I'll suck you til you're begging and then fuck you hard and slow, just how you like it." Dean was leaning in close again. Not too close, just a guy trying to talk to his friend over the music. From his vantage point he had a perfect view of that muscle in Sam's jaw twitching with the effort of not saying Fuck, yes.
Sam kept his eyes on the row of bottles behind the bar and just said, "Is it in the back?"
"Through that door and turn left. Stall by the window." Oh, yeah.
Dean finished his drink and left his last single under the glass for the bartender. Tried to keep the I'mma gonna get laid saunter down to a minimum as he followed in his brother's footsteps.
He hadn't been lying to get into Sam's pants. The bathroom was remarkably clean. Dean hoped that didn't mean there was going to be a guy with a mop popping along to interrupt them. A balding man in a shiny green suit straight off the mafia-pimp costume rail was washing his hands. Dean headed towards the urinals against the wall, exaggerating the difficulty his cast gave him undoing his fly to give the guy time to leave. As soon as the door shut behind Mr. Green, Dean tapped on the end stall. Sam let him in.
"You've got a fucking filthy mouth," Sam said, before licking it, erasing any chance Dean might have had to answer. The next thing he said might have been "Three days," but he was working Dean's lower lip with his teeth at the time so it was a little unclear.
"Just fucking kiss me," Dean said. Sam did.
In the nick of time, Dean remembered his cast and only brought his right hand up to grip Sam's head. Sam had him pressed up against the cold metal of the stall, his heavy heat solid against Dean's chest and thighs. Hips rocking, rubbing his cock in the groove of Dean's hip, making those little noises in the back of his throat that told Dean if he wanted to do more than watch Sam come in his pants, he'd better get on with it.
When Sam moved to bite and suck along Dean's jaw, Dean said something that he hoped was, "Suck you now," and pushed Sam away. Which killed him, but they were in a bathroom stall, and they could save the making out for the back seat later.
Sam had no problem getting with the program if the speed he was going at his belt and fly was anything to go by. Dean was barely on his knees before Sam's cock was rubbing up against his cheek. "Want it?" Sam said. He stroked its length along Dean's stubble and then pulled back to rub the tip on Dean's lips.
"Mine," Dean told him and pushed Sam's hand away, gripping Sam's shaft himself. "Mine," he said again, licking the taste of his brother into his mouth.
Dean thought of the tricks he'd learned over the years as his arsenal. Same as he knew which gun, which bullets, which blade to pull out of the trunk to get each job done, he didn’t have to think any more about what to do with his mouth and hands to get what he wanted out of Sam. The get him off quick when he was so hard it hurt blow job, had moaning, lots of spit, and fingers pressing right behind Sam's balls. The Sammy Special—and no, Sam didn’t know Dean called it that, and he wasn’t finding out—aka the keeps Sam on the edge for ages until his orgasm sneaks up on him and hits him so hard he passes out blow job had kissing, suction a hoover would be proud of, little flicks of his tongue, long slow strokes of his fingers, and a sixth sense that told him just when to stop everything and do nothing but breathe over Sam's flushed skin.
This was a suck til he begs to be fucked blow job though, and for that Dean needed a tight grip at the base of Sam's cock and a hot, slick mouth for Sam to thrust into. Usually it would also include fingers pressing into Sam's ass, but Dean was one handed at the moment, and he thought the firm grip was more important. Sam never wanted to be fucked just after he'd come.
When Sam went stiff, Dean was afraid he'd been too eager and that Sam was going to come in his mouth, but then he heard the snick of the door shutting and the footsteps coming towards them. Sam was mouthing, "STOP" at him, but Dean, just slow as anything, kept his mouth moving over the head of Sam's cock. Pushed down until the crown was stretching his soft palate, and then backed off until it was tucked behind Dean's teeth. Squeezed a little tighter, licked, and then pushed down again.
Sam was holding his breath, and the only sound was the stranger's piss hitting porcelain. Dean had his eyes locked on his brother's face and would have been grinning were it not for the fact that his lips were otherwise occupied. The fingers gripping his shoulders weren't doing anything remotely like pushing him away. Fortunately the guy was a filthy pig who didn’t bother washing his hands, and he was gone again before Sam suffocated himself.
"Christ, Dean, fuck me now," Sam said, when he'd gotten his breath back.
Dean blessed the club in New Orleans that had fishbowls full of condoms and little sachets of lube right there on the bar. Pocket-friendly packaging that meant he was always prepared. He thought for a second that Dad would be proud, realized the context, and decided that thought could go wherever it was bad, unhelpful thoughts went.
The trouble with the little packets was that there wasn't as much to go around. Dean put on the condom first, while Sam was turning towards the wall and pushing his jeans and boxers down over his hips. Pressing up against Sam's back, Dean whispered, "I'm short on hands here. Hold yourself open for me." When Sam complied it was enough to make Dean breathless.
"Come on, Dean. Fuck me already," Sam said, and pulled himself wider.
"Fuck." Dean got his dick right up against Sam's hole, fumbled the open lube between two fingers of his plastered hand, and managed to slick Sam, his good fingers and his cock all at once. "Who 'da man," he muttered.
"Wha—" Sam started, but Dean slid two fingers into his ass and he never finished the thought.
"You're so hot. So hot for me. God, Sam—" The door opened again, and Dean busied his mouth sucking a bruise into the top of Sam's back to keep himself quiet. It wasn’t doing much for Sam's ability to stay silent, but that wasn't Dean's problem. Sam put his arm up and rested his head on it, biting his wrist when Dean angled his fingers just right and kept stroking. Sam didn't need to say, I'm so getting you back for this, it was coming through loud and clear. Dean bit harder to keep from laughing.
This guy, of course, was Mr. OCD. Washing, scrubbing, doing fuck knew what while Dean slicked two fingers, and then three, in and out of Sam's ass. Finally, after about three years of drying to finish off his decade at the sink, the guy left. Dean pulled his fingers out, splashed the rest of the lube onto his cock, and slid in while Sam said, "Now. Now. Now," in a harsh voice.
Dean cursed his cast, and after some debate, rested it against the small of Sam's back, wrapping his other hand around Sam's cock. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to keep his promise of hard and slow. Not with Sam slamming back into him and wrapping his own fingers around Dean's, speeding up the strokes on his cock. Dean obliged, fucking with abandon and just going along for the ride as Sam jerked his own dick.
When Dean came, he nearly lost his balance, not having a hand to hold on with, but managed to catch himself with the crook of his elbow at Sam's waist and his cheek on Sam's back. "Do it, Sam. Fuck. Come all over my fingers."
Just sometimes? Sam did as he was told.
They were cleaned up and drying their hands before the next person came in. When he sniffed pointedly and glared at them, Dean cracked up. Sam had to drag him out of the bathroom by his arm.
When they were safe in the car, Sam finally cracked a smile. "There's a campground 'bout twenty miles from here. Five bucks a night for cars, free showers. Tomorrow we can find you another poker game or something. Sound good?"
Sounded good. Dean had half a tank of gas, five dollars in his pocket, and the best fucking brother in the world. Pun definitely intended. His luck was looking up.
Read On
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