Fic: Slip me another - Sam/Dean (1/1)
Feb. 12th, 2009 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_soaringSlip me another
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~400 words. A blindfold_spn request for one of the boys drunk/drugged.
Dean should be shot.
*
Slip me another
Dean should be shot.
He should be dragged out into the street and shot. With his own god damn gun.
What he most definitely, without a doubt, no question, shouldn't be? Is doing this.
Sam's blitzed out of his fucking mind. He's a sprawl of long, lazy limbs and glitter-sharp eyes, near dead-weight dipping the mattress of Dean's bed.
The chick back at the bar, the one who'd slipped Sam that teeny little pill, she'd been good. Slid right under Sam's radar while he'd been busy working that fresh-faced, college boy con.
"Jesus Christ," Sam mutters, scrubbing the back of a hand over his lips. "I can't- What the hell'd she-"
"S'alright, Sammy, I gotcha." Throat gone dry as a bleached-white bone, Dean tugs the last few buttons free and hooks his fingers under the waistband. Sam's skin is blazing against his knuckles. Soft, too, his belly so fucking smooth. Down a little further than that, the elastic of Sam's shorts.
Boxer-briefs, black. Dean knows because he watched out of the corner of his eye while Sam slipped them on a couple hours ago. "Lift up," Dean tells him.
Sam says, "What're you," but raises his hips anyway, a sharp breath sucked in between his teeth as his underwear go down with his jeans.
So maybe Dean could've tipped him off, pulled a slick move of his own to get that glass out of Sam's hand. Could've, should've, would've, except he didn't.
And now he's got Sam half naked beneath him, one hand on the sickle sharp cut of Sam's hip and the other skimming up the inside of his thigh going for gold.
Sam shudders, dragging one knee up, letting his legs fall wide in some stupid, incredibly misinformed invitation. Because, see, Sam's not the sick, twisted fuck that wants his brother to stick it to him seven ways to Sunday. That'd be Dean.
But Sam's not in his right mind now, and Dean never had one to begin with, so it's almost like a free pass to curl both hands around Sam's cock. Almost doesn't count that it's his brother's precome smeared wet over his lips, slick and not quite bitter on his tongue. That he's wanted to feel Sam cup his face like this, make that low, ragged noise as he slides down over thick, hot flesh until it hits the back of his throat, makes him wonder if Sam's far enough gone that he'll fuck Dean's mouth raw.
Almost.
*
End
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~400 words. A blindfold_spn request for one of the boys drunk/drugged.
Dean should be shot.
Slip me another
Dean should be shot.
He should be dragged out into the street and shot. With his own god damn gun.
What he most definitely, without a doubt, no question, shouldn't be? Is doing this.
Sam's blitzed out of his fucking mind. He's a sprawl of long, lazy limbs and glitter-sharp eyes, near dead-weight dipping the mattress of Dean's bed.
The chick back at the bar, the one who'd slipped Sam that teeny little pill, she'd been good. Slid right under Sam's radar while he'd been busy working that fresh-faced, college boy con.
"Jesus Christ," Sam mutters, scrubbing the back of a hand over his lips. "I can't- What the hell'd she-"
"S'alright, Sammy, I gotcha." Throat gone dry as a bleached-white bone, Dean tugs the last few buttons free and hooks his fingers under the waistband. Sam's skin is blazing against his knuckles. Soft, too, his belly so fucking smooth. Down a little further than that, the elastic of Sam's shorts.
Boxer-briefs, black. Dean knows because he watched out of the corner of his eye while Sam slipped them on a couple hours ago. "Lift up," Dean tells him.
Sam says, "What're you," but raises his hips anyway, a sharp breath sucked in between his teeth as his underwear go down with his jeans.
So maybe Dean could've tipped him off, pulled a slick move of his own to get that glass out of Sam's hand. Could've, should've, would've, except he didn't.
And now he's got Sam half naked beneath him, one hand on the sickle sharp cut of Sam's hip and the other skimming up the inside of his thigh going for gold.
Sam shudders, dragging one knee up, letting his legs fall wide in some stupid, incredibly misinformed invitation. Because, see, Sam's not the sick, twisted fuck that wants his brother to stick it to him seven ways to Sunday. That'd be Dean.
But Sam's not in his right mind now, and Dean never had one to begin with, so it's almost like a free pass to curl both hands around Sam's cock. Almost doesn't count that it's his brother's precome smeared wet over his lips, slick and not quite bitter on his tongue. That he's wanted to feel Sam cup his face like this, make that low, ragged noise as he slides down over thick, hot flesh until it hits the back of his throat, makes him wonder if Sam's far enough gone that he'll fuck Dean's mouth raw.
Almost.
End
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