I Like the Way You Move, Sam/Dean, NC-17
Apr. 21st, 2008 07:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymTitle: I Like the Way You Move
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 540
Disclaimer: They're not mine
Warnings/Spoilers: Pre-series, Sam's 16
A/N:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wendy asked for comment porn, and so I porned. Then she said I should post it, and I always do what my Wendy says. :)
Dean watches sweatdrops roll down the back of Sam's neck, and disappear into the fabric of his t-shirt. It's gotta be a thousand friggin' degrees outside -- and even hotter inside their little home-on-the-swampland -- and Sam's doing push-ups.
It might be kind of pathetically funny, except for the way it has him achingly hard. That might be pathetic, but it's not funny. Not at all.
"Dad's not gonna give you brownie points for passin' out from heatstroke, braintrust." Insult him, get him mad, get him to stop. That's all Dean wants.
"No shit, Sherlock," Sam grunts, and Dean swallows as his eyes follow the movements. Sleek, sweaty skin, gleaming in the dim light of the living room. "Not why. I'm doin' it."
"Then why?" Dean doesn't mind training, but he's not going above and beyond the call when it's hot enough to melt pretty much everything.
Sam pauses in the down position, and quick as a blink -- that's all Dean has time to do -- he's up and moving, all long limbs and fluid grace, backing Dean up until his back hits the front door. Sam leans in, in, so close Dean sees how sweaty he is, hair wet all along his face and his nape. He smells hot, musky. Not reeking, like he should, just hot. Dean swallows and forces himself not to lean forward; hears a tiny sound that maybe could be a whimper when Sam crowds in closer.
"'Cos I know you like to watch," Sam breathes, so close now Dean feels the heat radiating off him. His dick twitches, throbs, and he groans unashamedly when Sam reaches down and palms him through his shorts. "I like it when you watch," Sam continues, fingers closing awkwardly around Dean's erection. After a minute Sam shoves his hand down the front of the shorts, wrapping those long fingers around Dean's dick.
Skin-to-skin, and Dean groans again, bucks forward into the touch. He closes the little bit of distance left between him and his brother and licks at the droplets on Sam's neck; bites down and sucks when Sam shudders against him.
It only takes a few more strokes before Dean's growling into Sam's heated skin and pumping his hips forward, coming on Sam's hand. He pants through the spasms, taking a minute to savor the ripples of pleasure still moving through him, then reaches for Sam to return the favor.
"Don't need to," Sam says, red-faced in a way that's got nothing to do with the heat. Dean strokes him anyway, enjoys watching Sam shiver and shake, and feeling him harden slowly against his hand. "God, Dean." He says Dean's name like an invocation; it sends a thrill all through him.
"Sixteen years old, Sammy--you can get hard when the wind blows, can't you?" He slides his hand inside Sam's shorts, spunk and sweat slicking the way for him.
"Can get hard for you," Sam mutters, arching forward.
Dean shoves down ruthlessly on the little voice that wants to shout 'brother! wrong!' and strokes Sam a little faster. There's plenty of time later for freaking out and recriminations. For now, he wants to enjoy what he's dreamed about for longer than he'll admit, even to himself.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 540
Disclaimer: They're not mine
Warnings/Spoilers: Pre-series, Sam's 16
A/N:
wendy asked for comment porn, and so I porned. Then she said I should post it, and I always do what my Wendy says. :)Dean watches sweatdrops roll down the back of Sam's neck, and disappear into the fabric of his t-shirt. It's gotta be a thousand friggin' degrees outside -- and even hotter inside their little home-on-the-swampland -- and Sam's doing push-ups.
It might be kind of pathetically funny, except for the way it has him achingly hard. That might be pathetic, but it's not funny. Not at all.
"Dad's not gonna give you brownie points for passin' out from heatstroke, braintrust." Insult him, get him mad, get him to stop. That's all Dean wants.
"No shit, Sherlock," Sam grunts, and Dean swallows as his eyes follow the movements. Sleek, sweaty skin, gleaming in the dim light of the living room. "Not why. I'm doin' it."
"Then why?" Dean doesn't mind training, but he's not going above and beyond the call when it's hot enough to melt pretty much everything.
Sam pauses in the down position, and quick as a blink -- that's all Dean has time to do -- he's up and moving, all long limbs and fluid grace, backing Dean up until his back hits the front door. Sam leans in, in, so close Dean sees how sweaty he is, hair wet all along his face and his nape. He smells hot, musky. Not reeking, like he should, just hot. Dean swallows and forces himself not to lean forward; hears a tiny sound that maybe could be a whimper when Sam crowds in closer.
"'Cos I know you like to watch," Sam breathes, so close now Dean feels the heat radiating off him. His dick twitches, throbs, and he groans unashamedly when Sam reaches down and palms him through his shorts. "I like it when you watch," Sam continues, fingers closing awkwardly around Dean's erection. After a minute Sam shoves his hand down the front of the shorts, wrapping those long fingers around Dean's dick.
Skin-to-skin, and Dean groans again, bucks forward into the touch. He closes the little bit of distance left between him and his brother and licks at the droplets on Sam's neck; bites down and sucks when Sam shudders against him.
It only takes a few more strokes before Dean's growling into Sam's heated skin and pumping his hips forward, coming on Sam's hand. He pants through the spasms, taking a minute to savor the ripples of pleasure still moving through him, then reaches for Sam to return the favor.
"Don't need to," Sam says, red-faced in a way that's got nothing to do with the heat. Dean strokes him anyway, enjoys watching Sam shiver and shake, and feeling him harden slowly against his hand. "God, Dean." He says Dean's name like an invocation; it sends a thrill all through him.
"Sixteen years old, Sammy--you can get hard when the wind blows, can't you?" He slides his hand inside Sam's shorts, spunk and sweat slicking the way for him.
"Can get hard for you," Sam mutters, arching forward.
Dean shoves down ruthlessly on the little voice that wants to shout 'brother! wrong!' and strokes Sam a little faster. There's plenty of time later for freaking out and recriminations. For now, he wants to enjoy what he's dreamed about for longer than he'll admit, even to himself.
