whatever is going down

D'oh.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 17:59:17 GMT

The one time I am disappointed to be living in Canada: My S3 SPN DVD set has no mini-Impala for me.

This is sad. Sad. So sad.

Woe.

Speaking of fandom...

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 04:51:56 GMT

Just got back from watching Tropic Thunder. About to crash, as the day was waaaay busier than expected (but zomg fun! awesome new shoes! four inch heels! evil twin approved!) but honestly. In complete seriousness. No joke.

I would totally write fanfic for Satan's Alley. :D

Seriously.

A good point, yes.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 17:15:09 GMT

I am so deliriously happy this weekend. No particular reason, other than puttering about the house and giant bowls full of fresh cherries and blueberries, but man. Deliriously. Happy.

Meanwhile, the brain has not yet returned from it's unplanned leave of absence, but laylah gives me hope! areyougame is accepting prompts starting tomorrow, and unf. Unf. There are so many small-fandom video games out there that I love to itty bitty quivering little pieces (just look at her list - there's fifteen or more on there that I'll write for). GIVE PROMPTS FOR US, PEOPLE. I haven't written a darned thing all summer, I'm either going to be incredibly prolific or indulge in massive word counts. Perversion practically guaranteed.

Evil twin needs to stop working for a living, it takes up too much of her time. Dear lottery, please be mine.

SHIT.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 02:18:01 GMT

The one year that I'm absolutely freakin' sure I'm going, I forget to pre-reg for Y-Con. Hello, smart girl, where'd you leave your head today. >:|

Random musics! Swiped this from the IT guy at work to share with the evil twin, since she spends half her life keeping me in tasty tunes, so here, have some Elbow. Make with the clicky: The Seldom Seen Kid.

ps. evil twin is a walking fandom orgasm, in case you didn't know.

Incredibly, ineffably, important.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 15:42:17 GMT

I search for pictures. Pictures of Sam-hair. And not just any Sam-hair, but the hair that manages to be cute and flippy without stepping over that oh-so-close line of omgSamWHY, you make me (and Dean) cry. I KNOW there are entire POSTS out there dedicated to Sam-hair. I NEEDS PICS.

...just don't ask why. Yet. XD

A Blue in need will porn for you indeed?

Whoa.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:48:49 GMT

It... has been a long time since I even looked at IJ. o.o I fail at fandom! But I WIN at summer. It's been fabulously warm and delicious. I've puttered about the house and garden and reclaimed it from the massive sick that nearly murdered me last week (and that the evil twin has managed to catch from me through texting :x). It's so nice living somewhere that actually has a summer as opposed to a ten minute flash of sunlight between blizzards.

I'm... not even going to ask what I missed. Hello ten zillion entries. XD And omg, wee, backlog of fic to read!

In conclusion: Hi, internets, hi hi! :D

I am still asleep.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 17:45:09 GMT

Evil twin! Cosplay! TONY FREAKIN' STARK. I. I'm not sure what to do with myself. It's. He. Y'KNOW?

I see there is SPN wank. I don't know and I don't care, all I wanna know is does this mean my chances of ACCIDENTALLY FALLING ON JARED'S COCK IMPROVED?

HAVE THEY? THIS IS IMPORTANT.

Capslock brought to you by Not Enough Sleep and Tony freakin' Stark.

Fic: Drive You Wild - Sam/Dean/Tony freakin' Stark (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 03:23:55 GMT

New fandom. New hole in the head. BUT I'M DRAGGING THE EVIL TWIN DOWN WITH ME, BABYCAKES.

Seriously. These three? Enough awesome in one place to make the world implode. That sound you hear right now, that is the world imploding.

In my head, this is titled Wham Bam, Thank You Iron Man.

Drive You Wild
Supernatural/Iron Man. Sam/Dean/Tony. NC-17. ~4100 words.
"Do you like burgers? I like burgers."

*

Drive You Wild

Right in the middle of belting out the first chorus in Highway to Hell, Dean stops short. Sam glances over as he leans closer to the rearview mirror, scowling and muttering, "What the hell?"

"What?" Sam asks, twisting in his seat just in time to see a sleek silver Audi slide in right beside them on the two-lane blacktop.

"You gotta be kiddin me," Dean says.

There's one guy in the car, decked out in something as sleek and trendy as his ride, hair slicked back and eyes hidden behind thin black lenses. He jerks his chin at the clear stretch of road ahead, teeth flashing movie-star white in bright coastal sun.

Sam says, "Seriously," and downs a mouthful of stale, lukewarm water.

"Rich asshole," Dean gripes. "California, man. Bakes their brains right in their skulls." He gives the car an obvious once-over, baring his own teeth in a grin when the guy cocks an eyebrow and returns the favour.

"You know," Sam says, "scraping the car off the side of a cliff isn't as much of a hoot as it sounds, honestly."

Dean's fingers flex on the wheel.

"Dean."

The Impala gains about an inch of pavement.

"Dean."

The guy tosses them a two-fingered salute.

"Oh Christ," Sam prays, water spilling down his front as he abandons the bottle for the door handle.

*

"Great," Dean says, balanced on the balls of his feet to get a closer look at the favour the guy's done on his paint job. "Just great. You bribe somebody at the DMV to get that piece of plastic in your wallet?"

"I'll take that as gracious acceptance of both my apology and the very generous offer that came with it," the guy says, hooking his sunglasses in the collar of his vintage tee.

"Hell no." Dean gets up, brushes his hands off on his jeans. They're ripped here, faded there, and if it weren't for the stain near his left knee that's either hot sauce, engine grease or harpy blood, they'd be a good match for the designer pair the other guy's strutting around in. "Thanks but no thanks."

After a short moment of silence, Sam feels the weight of two incredibly stubborn gazes settle on him. He makes a go at ignoring them, keeping his lean against the driver's side casual and his eyes on the horizon, but it's sort of like trying to pretend gravity doesn't exist.

"Maybe you could tell your boyfriend here I'm just trying to help," the guy says as soon as Sam looks up. "He'd be an idiot to turn me down."

Dean makes a noise like a cat choking on a hairball. Sam ignores him, says, "I'm Sam, he's Dean. Who're you?"

The guy's grin is almost the mirror image of Dean's, huge and full of teeth, smug enough to make that spot between Sam's shoulder blades itch. "Tony," he says, his hand coming up on reflex.

Sam takes it in his own, notes the firm, easy warmth, the nicks and calluses no amount of money can smooth away. He flicks a glance at the Audi's license plate. Stark winks.

Dean eyeballs their clasped hands for a long wary second before stalking between them to tug open the driver's side door. "Alright, hotshot. Where's this workshop?"

Stark slides his shades back on. "Just try to keep up this time."

*

In spite of himself, Dean purses his lips in a low whistle. Stark's smile lights his eyes with a low, lazy heat, that same sort of look Dean gets in his when some girl checking him out gets stuck on his package. For the first time since birth, Dean's oblivious.

"Huh," Sam says, as Dean sidles on up to one of the cars lined up floor-model style along one side of the workshop.

"This a '67?" Dean asks, hand hovering millimetres above the glossy blue finish.

"Not an absolutely horrible year," Stark concedes. He unzips his jacket and flings it over one of the dozens and dozens of machines haphazardly laying around. It twitches as if it's surprised before dutifully rolling away to drop it on top of a desk already piled with an entire store's fall line-up.

"Should have everything you need right there," Stark says, tugging up his shirtsleeves and dropping easily into a wheeled chair. "Do you like burgers? I like burgers. Miss Potts?"

Dean pulls himself away from peering into the tinted window of a screaming yellow car to throw Sam a look over the roof. Sam just shrugs.

"Mr. Stark," replies a disembodied female voice.

"That Jeeves's wife?" Dean asks.

"Jarvis," the honey-smooth, English-tinted AI corrects.

"Ah, no," Stark says. "Miss Potts is very female. Human," he tacks on quickly.

"Very," she responds, wryly.

Stark clears his throat. "Two for dinner, Miss Potts. Send out for the usual."

"Right away?"

"An hour?" Stark asks, glancing from Sam to Dean. Before either can answer, he says, decisively, "An hour," and taps a button on one of the many screens glowing in a semi-circle around him.

"See how he does that?" Dean says, strolling back to the Impala and shrugging out of his jacket. "'Cause he's a smooth operator, Sammy. You and me, we might say bossy jackass, but no." Dean tosses his jacket in the back seat, one distrustful eye on the wardrobe 'bot lurking silently across the room. "He'd say he's smooth."

"Hey, I can eat your share too," Stark says, hands up, palms out. "Metabolism of a teenager."

"Is that why?" Sam nods at the neon glow centred in Stark's chest.

"This?" Absently, Stark drums his fingers against it, the odd metal-plastic sound echoing flatly. "Keeps me going. And going."

"And going," Dean cuts in. "Awesome. I'm gonna fix my car now. You know, the one you fucked up."

Stark smiles, wide and self-satisfied.

*

It takes a whole ten minutes for Stark to get bored with whatever he's tinkering at in favour of plunking himself down next to Sam, offering a critical eye that drives Dean up the wall in thirty seconds flat.

"You know what?" Dean snaps after the third time Stark tries to hand him one something-or-other instead of whatever Dean's currently clutching in a white-knuckled grip. "Why don't you get down here and do this?"

Sam chokes on his tongue. Both men toss him irritated glances and he waves a hand, confident he'll get his breathing back under control in time for the Apocalypse wrought about by Dean willingly letting anyone but a Winchester near his baby. Any second now, the sky's going to explode, tear the roof right off Stark's impressively modern house. They'll all probably have five, ten seconds to piss themselves before the world implodes.

"Put my hands all over another man's business?" Stark says. "Hardly fair if I don't return the favour." While Sam tries not to choke on his tongue a second time, because Jesus Christ, even Dean's got to be picking up on it now, Stark rolls himself over to the open hood of an old roadster. "'32. The output's been giving me grief for a week."

Dean gets up on one knee, wiping his hands on his jeans instead of the rag jammed into his pocket. He eyeballs the roadster like a stray scenting a prime rib. "A week, huh."

"Want to take a look at it?"

Dean wanders over, cautiously sniffs around the engine for a minute, a minute more, lets Stark inch closer and closer until there's a wide palm braced on the small of his back, and then he says, blunt and bald-faced and so Dean it actually makes Sam's heart kick at his ribs, "You gotta move that hand down and around if you wanna get a handful of the good stuff."

"And here I thought you were playing hard to get," Stark says, and Sam would laugh, he really, really would, except Dean's picked up Stark's hand and put it right over his crotch, curled those long fingers tightly beneath his own. Stark's tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Just hard, then."

Stark throws a loaded glance Sam's way, but Sam just settles lower in his seat, legs spread wide, hands loose between his thighs.

Dean lets Stark's hand go but it stays right where it is, flexing slowly. He puts his own on Stark's shoulder, slides it up to cup the side of his neck, managing to leave one perfect smear of black grease in his wake. "Me or him?" Dean asks, voice dipped low, eyes gone heavy.

Right off, no contest, Stark says, "Both." His eyes glitter like the reactor's sharp light. "One to suck, one to fuck."

That hits Sam hard in the gut, hard as when those words roll silk-smooth off Dean's tongue. But if it gets to Dean, it doesn't show. He just says, "Guests get first choice," slick conman tilt to his mouth that dares Stark to say no.

"That sounds fair," is what Stark says, starting to lean closer to Dean before hesitating, his gaze sliding to Sam again.

Dean glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

So, maybe sometimes, Sam's as slow on the uptake as Dean. They're both watching him, expectant, impatient, and he's wondering if there's going to be ground rules about kissing, or who puts what where and when before it hits him: they're looking for permission. His permission.

"Dean fucks you," Sam says, rougher than he meant to but he sees the shiver that trips down Dean's spine, sees Stark feel it, recognise it. "You suck me."

Stark lets out a slow, even breath, grin flashing back full force. "That sounds more than fair." He looks up, because Dean's got more than an inch or two on him and Sam wonders if Stark finds that as hot as he does, and says, "Will there be broken bones if I kiss him?"

Dean's hand curls on Stark's side, slides possessively down to his hip. "You asking him or me?"

"Both."

Sam says, "No," and Dean breathes, "You heard him," into Stark's mouth, following the words with the wet slide of his tongue.

Stark doesn't hold back a thing, moans right into it and presses himself to Dean for more. His hand is trapped between them, smooth muscles in his forearm flexing, and Dean widens his stance, grinds. With a hard grunt, he jerks his hand free and slaps it flat to Dean's ass, fingers scrabbling and twisting for a decent grip on worn denim pulled tight.

Dean releases Stark's mouth in favour of rasping his teeth over Stark's chin, working his way around to finding all the best places to chew on Stark's neck. Stark's full of helpful, pushy encouragement, mumbling, "There, there, no there," and cutting himself off with a groan when Dean gets it just right.

"Guy's as bossy as you, Sammy," Dean says.

Grinning, Stark scratches blunt fingernails through the hair at Dean's nape. "You looked the type to enjoy it," he says, and to Sam, "Tell me I'm wrong."

To Dean's fierce scowl, Sam can only raise his hands helplessly. "He's not wrong."

"That so," Dean growls, and Sam has to wonder if Stark has the same hit of lust shivering through his gut when Dean smacks the Ford's hood down and shoves him over it face-first.

Stark might be a little bit more breathless this time, but he hasn't lost an ounce of that cocky swagger when he says, "Yep."

Dean twists a hand in Stark's shirt, rucks it up right underneath his armpits. "Sam, grab my duffle, would ya?"

Before Sam's out of his chair, Stark counters, "Main workstation. Top drawer." He pushes up on his elbows to point out the one, stretching out the long, smooth line of his back like a lazy housecat beneath Dean's palm.

Sam finds four bottles of mostly-empty Gun Oil, the sort that's distinctly not meant for actual weaponry. He lobs two to Dean, one after the other, and holds up the other two between the fingers of a hand.

With a shrug, Stark says, "I really love my work."

One-handed, Dean reaches beneath Stark and starts fumbling at his belt. "Can't fault the man for that."

"Most certainly can't," Stark agrees, thumb hooked impatiently in the waistband of his jeans, ready to shove them down the second Dean unzips him. "Do you need some help there?"

Wearily, Dean says, "Sam?"

"What?" Sam nudges the chair he's claimed from Stark's workstation about a foot to the left, bracing it against one of the desks. Perfect.

"Sam."

"Dean."

"Get over here, asshole."

"Yeah," Stark agrees, his smile not budging an inch when Dean grabs his hand and slaps it back on the car, muttering irritably for him to keep it right the fuck there this time. "Asshole. Get over here."

Sam sighs, one long, heavy sound of his eternal suffering, and heaves himself to his feet. His dick is fucking killing him, trapped in jeans that are never, ever loose enough. "You know, maybe I wanted to watch you fuck him first."

Dean grins that smarmy, shit-eating grin of his and jerks his chin at Stark. "Hold him, princess."

Helpfully, Stark sticks an arm up and waves it in Sam's face. Now the two of them are grinning at him like loons. He fights to keep back an answering smile as he grabs at Stark's wrists, stretches him right out across the narrow hood and drops down so they're face to face.

There's a rustle and thump of cloth hitting concrete and Stark breathes, "Finally," gaze jumping up to meet Sam's before dropping to his lips. "Hi. You should kiss me now."

Sam glances up to see Dean watching them, his hand sliding down Stark's side to disappear between his legs. "I should?"

"You should," Stark repeats, breath puffing out on a moan as his eyes flutter shut, open again. "Really."

It's not the worst idea ever. Sam brushes his mouth lightly against Stark's, feels soft lips and the prickle of short hair. He's used to the roughness of Dean's stubble but this is new. He mouths at Stark's lips, lingers at the edges where smooth skin gives way to neatly-trimmed beard, and blatantly ignores the way Stark strains to make it sink into a deeper, real kiss.

When Stark's mouth goes completely slack beneath his, Sam opens his eyes. There's a tiny crease between Stark's brows, eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming faster, shorter. Dean's gaze catches his, the whole of Dean's bottom lip caught between sharp white teeth right before Stark lets loose with a grating curse.

"He's good with his hands," Stark explains, voice rumbling low in his throat. "Nice fingers."

Sam's cock jerks, a pulsating rush of hot-wet at the tip. "Thick," he says.

Stark nods, twisting against Sam's grip in an attempt to get some leverage, push back harder.

Almost a rasp, Sam asks, "How many?"

Slowly, Stark's eyes open. His pupils are blown wide, black eating away at soft brown. He wets his lips, says, "Just two."

Without looking up, Dean says, "He's tight, almost as tight as you," and guesses, "Been awhile."

Another slow, lazy curl of pleasure winds up the base of Sam's spine. He has to swallow twice to get enough spit to wet his throat before he says, mouth to mouth with Stark, "Hasn't even touched your dick yet, has he."

"Wouldn't really mind if he did," Stark says, sharp edges of his words lost to softer noises as Dean works him open. "I'm not really- Jesus fuck."

Stark's head dips down and all Sam wants to do is grab it, force it up again so he can see what Dean's doing to him writ clear across his face. So either Stark's really good at guessing what people want or he's just greedy for more of a kiss than Sam's given him yet, because he lifts his head, surges forward to get his mouth skipping across Sam's cheek, saying, "That'd be three," before the slick glide of his tongue touches Sam's lips.

And Sam wants to kiss him. He really, really does, just shove his tongue in Stark's mouth and listen to him moan. That doesn't really do much to explain why he transfers Stark's wrists to one hand, letting the sharp sound Stark makes feed his ego as he leans up, props his free hand on the hood and leans in to claim Dean's mouth instead.

Dean makes a surprised noise but doesn't miss a beat, twisting his arm harder when Sam's tongue licks into his mouth. Sam imagines he can taste a little bit of Stark on Dean's tongue. It whets his appetite to find out just what Stark tastes like all on his own.

"Hey," Stark says, more than a little breathless and well on his way to fucked out. "I'm in the middle here, pay attention."

Against Dean's mouth, Sam whispers, "You're not fucking him hard enough."

Dean grunts. "Bitch, bitch, bitch," he mutters and pulls back, fumbling one-handed at his own jeans this time. "Slick me up."

Stark twists and turns between them, trying to wrench around far enough to get a good look. Before Dean can complain, Sam eases back, tugs Stark's arms hard enough to have him fall heavily against the hood.

"I'm not above incessant begging to get what I want," Stark warns.

Sam smiles, smooth and cocksure. He's not above making Stark do it, either. He brings his mouth close to Stark's again, lets their lips brush together lightly. "Just tell me when he's in you."

The sound Stark makes then gets right under Sam's skin, ripples through him like a wave of hot desert air.

"All the way," Stark says, not really a question.

"All the way."

Dean says, "Fuck," but doesn't interrupt again. There's another rustle of cloth and the chime of loose change spilling to the concrete. Under the tight circle of Sam's fingers, Stark's wrists flex, hands curling into fists.

Just for Stark's ears, Sam murmurs, "Dirty talk makes him crazy."

"Yeah?" Stark breathes, tongue darting out to dampen his lips, catching on Sam's. "What about you?"

"Why d'you think I don't have my dick in your mouth yet?"

Stark's lips start to curl into a grin and then stumble right out of it again. He twists, there's the scrape of metal on metal beneath his chest, and he lets out an irritated noise, somewhere just south of a groan. "He's fucking teasing me."

"Don't tell me you don't like it," Sam says. He almost pulls away to look for himself but he's getting off a hell of a lot harder than he thought he would on the way Stark's pleasure-thick words spill into his mouth. The air's warm and close between them, heavy with sweat and the smell of Stark's overheated skin. "How?"

Another clang of metal; Stark's knee banging into the roadster, Sam thinks. "Just dragging his dick over me," Stark says, pulling against Sam's grip like he doesn't even mean to. "Pushes in, pulls out."

Sam's going to blow his load long before he even gets his cock near Stark's mouth. "Tell me how far."

"The head, little more- there, c'mon, keep going." Stark's tongue glides along Sam's bottom lip, barely dips inside before he's cursing again. "He do this to you, just hold you open with his cock?"

Sam shifts to ease the ache in his knees but he can't do a damn thing about the bone-deep throb in his dick, not without making it too easy for Stark to jerk free. "That's what I do to him."

"Inhumane," Stark says, and sounds like he's going to add more but his voice dissolves into a ragged, panting moan. He tries again a second time with no luck, his fingers stretching out to snag in the buttons of Sam's shirt.

Sam fits their mouths together, the clumsy way Stark kisses him sparking like fresh gunpowder in his veins, and then Stark breaks away from it, gasping out, "Shaves his balls and if he doesn't fuck me right the hell now, I'm going off without either one of you."

"You heard the man," Sam says to Dean. He gets a grunt in response and Stark's mouth back on his. From the shaky, hungry way Stark's tongue lashes at his, he figures Dean's decided to make sure Stark's the last man standing.

This time, when Stark breaks the kiss, it's to gesture impatiently at Sam's crotch. "Can't talk now," he grates out. "Getting fucked." Another hurry up, c'mon motion. "Blowjob."

That's not the worst idea ever, either. Sam lets go of one of Stark's wrists to open up his jeans, tug his cock out and give it a few quick pulls just to take the edge off. Which doesn't work at all, because Stark's gaze is glued to the shining smear at the head, his jaw gone slack on a quick intake of breath.

Stark wraps his free hand around the one Sam's got on his cock and yanks the other one towards the back of his head. He scrambles up on his elbows, grunts absently when one of Dean's harder thrusts makes him slip. Once Sam's fingers are buried in his hair, both of his hands still over Sam's, he says, "Try not to choke me too much."

Then it's all wet, sloppy heat, the accidental scrape of teeth that Stark obviously isn't one bit sorry for because he's not actually doing a goddamn thing. He's nothing but pliant between them, body loose and moving easy with the unsteady rhythm. Dean looks up, his face sex-flushed and sort of awed and Sam's got to agree, he really does, because Stark's letting them just give it to him.

From the choked-off noises Stark's making, it's the best damn idea he's had all year.

Dean loses it first. The exact moment Dean goes still, head dropped down, body curved sharply over Stark's, Stark's lips tighten up around Sam's dick. His tongue goes from flat and firm along the underside to licking hard at the head when Sam pulls back far enough, the thick noises in his throat turning harsher, more demanding.

Teeth clenched, Sam manages to spit out, "After," and he doesn't know how but Dean gets it. Both his hands dip beneath Stark. Sam imagines one wrapped tight around his dick, pulling in long, hard strokes, the other with fingers buried to the first knuckle inside tight, come-slick heat.

He feels Stark's coordination go to shit all over again and tries vainly to hold off from delivering a surprise shot in the mouth. Over the pounding rush inside his own head he hears Stark cough, feels his own come spill back over his dick, but Stark doesn't let him slip all the way free. He opens bleary eyes to see Stark doing his fucking best to lick up whatever he can't swallow, come smeared in wet strings down his chin.

After a long, long minute, while Sam's waiting for his knees to unlock and maybe his heart to quit trying to smash through his ribs, Stark's forehead thunks softly against the hood. Dean urges him back up, hand splayed wide on his belly sliding up, smearing glistening over his ribs. Stark just looks down, turns more towards the light and says, "Good thinking. Wouldn't want that mucking around in the engine."

"No problem," Dean says, tugging his jeans back halfway up his thighs and rummaging for the rag still in his pocket. "I'm a considerate guy."

Stark snatches the rag and tosses it to Sam, then points to the scratches all over the hotrod's paint job. "You know you're going to have to fix that, too."

A light, feminine throat-clearing noise draws their attention to the stairwell. Sam guesses it's Miss Potts standing there in a crisp green suit with three sacks of Burger King in one hand, two beers in the other and a third bottle tucked under one arm.

Dean quickly tugs his jeans all the way up. Sam's got the rag to preserve his modesty and his jeans never made it down his hips anyway, and Stark? Well, Stark just stands there, grins cheekily and says, "This still isn't the worst thing you've ever caught me doing."

*

They stay for about a day or so. Dean does some extra work on the car while Sam entertains himself with poking through the information Jarvis contentedly gathers up. Stark hums to himself and putters about the workshop, doing this and that, wrangling Dean into helping him with the Ford between leers and innuendo.

By the time they leave, Sam's laptop could probably hack the Pentagon and the Impala's running smoother than it has in about a decade. A couple weeks later, when they find a shiny new Visa in one of their drop boxes, complete with matching IDs, Dean says, "You feel like burgers? I feel like burgers."

*
End

Fic: Page Fourteen (and Fifteen) - Sam/Dean (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 31 May 2008 21:22:12 GMT

Says I to the evil twin, "Evil twin! Where has all our filthy dirty kink gone?" And the evil twin, she gasps, clearly aghast, and she says.... well, she sorta says a lot of things, and by a lot of things, I obviously mean she lets Rufus take over her brain to list off his favourite hobbies. We picked one that made Dean squirm.

And then we added the one that made him squirm more. :D

Page Fourteen (and Fifteen)
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. D/s tones, enema, fisting. ~5600 words.
Sam's pretty sure Dean doesn't secretly harbour a food fetish, no matter how worked up he gets over a mini cheesesteak.

*

Page Fourteen (and Fifteen)

Sam sets a six-pack of the local light lager on the counter next to Dean's flask of cheap rye whiskey. He spares the sour middle-aged woman ringing them up a small smile and goes for his wallet. Which he finds out isn't in his jacket pocket, or any pocket, because Dean fed it to the black dog back in Colorado that'd been trying to take a chunk out of Sam's thigh.

On a deep sigh, Sam says, "Dean."

Flipping intently through a magazine on the far side of the counter, Dean says, "Hm?"

"Could you get this?"

Dean grunts softly, his eyebrows coming together as he turns another page.

"Dean. Money."

The woman's gargoyle-nails tap out a quick rhythm on the plastic case full of scratch n' win lottery tickets.

Plastering on a tight smile, Sam jerks Dean's wallet out of his back pocket. He catches a glimpse of the glossy pages his brother's staring at and rolls his eyes. "Seriously. Like you don't get enough."

"No such thing, Sammy," Dean says, tossing the cashier a casual wink.

She doesn't look impressed, but she takes the crumpled, smoke-stained twenty Sam hands over and slaps his miniscule change on the plastic.

"Thanks," Sam says, carefully tugging the brown bag out of her reach. "Have a nice evening."

Distractedly, Dean scoops up the coins one-handed and tucks them in his jeans pocket. "Don't mind him," he says, barely glancing up from the two-page spread he's got folded over that doesn't leave a damn thing to the imagination. "He's got this thing about paper cuts."

With a merry tinkling of the bell, Sam lets the door swing shut in Dean's face.

*

While Dean stuffs himself with lukewarm double pepperoni and cheese, Sam coaxes the ancient television to life. The only thing they get is the local news from three towns over but at least it drowns out Dean's sloppy chewing.

Sam steals the rest of the pillows from the other bed before flopping down next to him, the greasy pizza box open between their hips. "D'you have all the beer?"

Dean jerks his gaze away from the magazine he'd tossed at the foot of the bed. The cover is bright and garish, a woman with a red-painted mouth offering up a set of fairly high-end fake tits. Sam wonders if she tried to write them off as a business expense.

Belatedly, Dean says, "Yeah, sorry," and slaps a cold one into Sam's outstretched hand. "What's with you and the local shit?" He slumps lower on the bed, one foot slipping to the floor as his legs sprawl wide. There's no mistaking the heavy bulge of his dick.

"Dunno." Cracking the top on the edge of the scarred nightstand, Sam helps himself to a healthy swig. It's not so bad, just a little too much on the woody side for his taste. "What's with you and the porn?"

The two spots of colour high on Dean's cheeks deepen but his smile stays steady. The lamplight catches on the tiny bit of grease smeared at the corner of his lips. "Paper pussy's the only kind I'm gettin' these days."

Sam takes another longer pull on the bottle. If he didn't know better, he'd say Dean was playing games, but that's just not the way they do this. It's one of the things Sam was so startled to find turned him on. There's something to be said for Dean being perpetually horny and up-front about it.

"Are you trying to tell me you'd like to go pick up a girl for a threesome?"

After a two-second delay, Dean's laugh echoes sharp and happy. "Knew you were a kinky son of a bitch."

Absently picking at the label with one blunt nail, Sam says, "Well, are you?"

"Why, you honestly up for it?"

Sam gives that a moment's serious thought. The idea's pretty hot, and it's not like he's afraid of the damage some random girl could do (wasn't even really afraid of that before he found out what the inside of Dean's mouth tasted like). "Maybe," he ventures. "Not tonight."

Dean slaps his knee, says, "Atta boy," and Sam figures that's the end of it. He wipes his fingers on his jeans, poking at a bit of cheese stuck between his teeth with his tongue because it's sorta rude to suck somebody off with food in your mouth.

Unless that's their thing. Sam's pretty sure Dean doesn't secretly harbour a food fetish, no matter how worked up he gets over a mini cheesesteak.

But Dean's gaze has wandered back to the magazine, with occasional, uninterested glances at the television. His breaths are quick and shallow, a dark flush creeping out from under the worn collar of his tee. When Sam nudges the pizza box aside and slides a hand up between Dean's legs to get his attention, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Jesus Christ," Sam says, forcing out the laugh caught behind the lump in his throat. "You want a girl that bad?"

"Nah." Dean tilts his hips into the press of Sam's cupped hand, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks everywhere but the magazine and Sam.

"So." Slowly, Sam traces up the length of Dean's fly, just hard enough to follow the curve of his dick to the head. Dean's eyes threaten to close as he rubs tiny, deliberate circles around the ridge, and that combined is almost enough to make Sam forget what the hell he was going to say. "What's with the magazine?"

Dean's hips jerk and his eyes squeeze shut. Both of Sam's eyebrows shoot up. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that his brother's maybe oversexed and responsive as fuck (which is hot as fuck), but Jesus.

Sam's nail scrapes hard over denim. "Dean?"

"Page fourteen," Dean blurts, smoothly rolling off the bed and grabbing the empty ice bucket on his way. He scrubs a hand over his hair all the way down to the back of his neck. "I wanna do that. Gonna get some ice," he says, and bolts.

Blankly, Sam echoes, "Ice?" and the television helpfully answers that tomorrow's low is going to be fifty-two.

Clambering up to his knees, Sam makes a grab for the magazine. "Fourteen, fourteen," he mutters, absently rising to pace a rapid circuit from the foot of the bed to the dresser as he flips through page after page of pierced nipples and shaved cunts. He hits the end of the magazine, staring at it dumbly before quickly flipping back.

It's actually page fourteen and fifteen. One giant closeup.

Then he figures out what the hell he's looking at and hits the bed like a sack of potatoes.

"Okay," he says, just to make sure his voice doesn't squeak. "Right. Sure, Dean. Sure." Casting a wary glance at the door, Sam scrubs first one palm and then the other dry on his jeans, careful to not drop the magazine. It'll be at least ten, fifteen minutes before Dean wanders back, sheepish grin warring with that hopeful, eager light in his eyes.

The laptop boots up with a hiccupping whirr. Crossing his fingers, Sam starts poking around for unsecured wireless. It only takes him about a minute to find what he's looking for. Hunkering down, one hand pressed to the insistent throb of his dick, he starts reading.

It ends up being more like twenty minutes before the knob clicks and Dean eels his way inside. He takes one look at the laptop and the abandoned magazine and his shoulders slump.

Before Dean can slap on some bravado, Sam asks, "You sure?"

The half-empty ice bucket thunks on the smaller table near the door. "Wouldn't have mentioned it if I wasn't."

Carefully, since one hard thought might be enough to have Sam cream himself at this point, he stands, starts backing Dean up against the locked door. "So you've thought about it. A lot."

Dean goes easy, one hand coming up to curl solid and warm on Sam's waist like a habit. "Enough. Got some chafing there, Sammy?"

Sam lifts his arms, bracketing Dean as he flattens his hands on bubbled paint. He shakes his head once, letting a tiny smile quirk the corner of his mouth.

Dean swallows, flashing the sharp white edges of his teeth before they catch briefly on the softness of his lower lip. "Too kinky for you?"

Fingers hooked in Dean's empty beltloops, Sam jerks him away from the door and shoves him right back up against it, face-first. He fumbles the zip the first time, wrenches it hard enough to hear the catch and grind of metal teeth the second. Dean sucks in a breath that's half-laugh, half-moan when Sam grabs him by the pockets and yanks his jeans straight down to his ankles in one go.

Sam's got a couple things he might want to say, mostly about Dean's methods of communication, but now that he's on his knees and Dean's shuffling back, boots inching further and further apart, it doesn't seem all that important.

Brushing a light, brief kiss to the dip of Dean's spine, Sam says, "Both hands."

On a rough noise, Dean reaches back, long fingers dark against the pale skin of his ass, and spreads himself wide. Sam has to swallow twice to get his heart back where it belongs, eyes fixed on the pink flush of Dean's hole. Dean doesn't have much in the way of shame or interest in playing hard to get, but Sam's not sure he's ever seen his brother go this easily without at least a couple minutes heavy screwing around.

"How long have you been thinking about it?" Sam slides his hands up the insides of Dean's thighs again, framing Dean's sac with his palms and his thumbs stretched out, barely brushing the tight rim. It feels dirty as fuck to just sit there and watch it twitch.

"Few days, maybe," Dean says, low and too steady. There's precome already smearing the head of his cock and Sam hasn't even really touched him yet. "Sam, c'mon."

"What?" Gently, Sam thumbs dry at Dean's hole, leans in close enough to let his breath tease. "This?"

Dean's fist thumps against the door. "Yes, fuck, that."

Sam swallows again, mouth suddenly Sahara-dry. "You clean?"

Above him, Dean freezes. A sound sort of like a laugh leads into, "Why'd you think I took that shower?"

The image of Dean locked away in the bathroom actually preparing for this pulls a low sound out of Sam's gut. He breathes slow and deep, air saturated with the warmth of Dean's skin filling his lungs. "What'd you use? And don't move your hand," he adds, dropping a quick kiss to tightly-clenched muscle.

"What d'ya mean, what'd I use?" Dean twists to glance down, meets Sam's gaze. "I- Jesus Christ, Sam, just my fingers, what else was I supposed to do?"

Sam lets out a hot, gusty breath that makes Dean's skin prickle into gooseflesh. "C'mon," he says, standing up to grip the collar of Dean's shirt. "Bathroom."

Warily, Dean says, "What for?"

"To do this right," Sam says, tugging Dean steadily across the room by whatever grip he can get and keep on the shambles of Dean's clothes. Halfway through wrestling Dean out of his shirt, Sam stops to kiss him again, this one hard clash of teeth and tongue that knocks Dean back a step. When Sam breaks free, Dean's lips are as flushed red as his cheeks.

"Shoulda confiscated the laptop," Dean mutters, shrugging the rest of the way out of his button-down.

I'll make it good Sam wants to say. But the truth is, the hot lump sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach isn't so sure. Dean might've just looked at that magazine and thought hey, hot without thinking about why.

Sam's thought about why quite a bit in the last half hour.

"Take off your boots." Sam grabs the hem of Dean's tee to haul it off. Dean stumbles again and tosses him a look that might've been irritated except for the grin that won't wipe clean. "In the tub."

"Not that I got a problem with marathoning it or- Christ, Sam, what the hell?"

Following Dean's gaze, Sam shrugs. "Short notice."

Cautiously, Dean wanders over to poke the thin hose draped over the edge of the rust-pocked tub. "Short notice for what? Perfecting your siphoning technique for the national gas shortage?"

A tiny sparking thrill lights at the base of Sam's spine. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely at the tub before pushing the ratty curtain aside. The smallest of their holy water jugs sits empty beneath the leaky faucet, hose jabbed into a hole cut on one side and sealed as tightly as Sam could manage. "It's the pre-game show?" he ventures.

Dean's mouth works soundlessly as a dark flush creeps steadily up his chest. The fluttering heat in Sam's stomach flares. "Are you serious?"

"As you are."

Another few seconds of loaded silence, then, "That's... pretty kinky."

Relief surges druglike through Sam's veins. "Boots," he repeats, busying himself with searching through the sparse stack of towels for the least threadbare one. By the time he turns around to spread it over the tub's chipped enamel, his hands have stopped shaking.

Dean steps into the tub, hesitating before Sam says, "On your knees, facing away from the tap."

"Just what kinda sites did you hit for info, Sammy?"

Sam smoothes his hand up Dean's spine, wetting his lips at the rippling shiver that follows in his wake. "Good ones," Sam answers, his smile strong in his voice. He splays his hand wide between the sharp lines of Dean's shoulder blades. "Chest down."

"Ass up, legs wide? Coulda just told me to assume the position," Dean says, joke falling short on a hitching breath as Sam pushes.

Settling down on his own knees, Sam lets his fingers drift back down Dean's side, dip just under the curve of his ass and up between the cheeks. "I guess that means you don't need me to talk you through this."

There's a half-second delay that says this has gone pretty far beyond what Dean had in mind. But he says, "You want to talk dirty, be my guest."

Releasing a slow breath, Sam gets some slick on his fingers and goes right back to where he left off, one fingertip at Dean's hole with only a touch of pressure. With his mouth trailing wet almost-kisses up to the red-hot shell of Dean's ear, Sam says, "You're really gonna let me do this, huh. Clean you out before putting my whole fist up inside you."

Dean exhales loudly at the harder press of Sam's finger, twisting as if to glance up and thinking better of it. "Yeah, guess so."

"You know what that's going to feel like?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean's teeth scrape his lip. Leaning closer, Sam slips his free hand down Dean's chest, feels him tense in anticipation of it wrapped firmly around his cock. Sam stops just before the dark hair low on Dean's belly fans out in neatly-trimmed lines, spreading his fingers wide.

"Right there," Sam says, the stubble on Dean's cheek rough against his mouth. Two fingers sink easily into slippery heat, but it's the push of his hand against flat stomach muscles that earns him an eager twitch of Dean's cock. "That's where I'm gonna be."

"Not if you don't fuckin' get on with it, you won't."

Any other time, that'd be enough to tempt Sam to call the whole thing off. It isn't the fact that this is probably as willing as Dean's ever going to be, or that quitting now would make it harder for Dean to ask next time he wants something not so vanilla. It's not even the selfish ache in his dick to see his brother split wide open and vulnerable.

The wet noise of his fingers pulling free echoes obscenely loud on the cracked tile. He reaches for the hose and turns the taps on slow, checking the temp a couple times to make sure. Trailing a dripping hand across Dean's ass, hoping like hell his voice doesn't crack like he's just hit puberty for round two, Sam asks, "You ready?"

"Go for it."

Water trickles clear and clean from the free end of the hose as Sam experimentally lifts the jug. It takes him a couple tries to force words past the thick lump in his throat. "Tell me if it's too fast."

"Sam."

"I'm serious."

When the water flows warm across Dean's ass, following the same path of Sam's hand, Dean jerks. Heat prickles under Sam's skin, spreading out from the twisting coil low in his belly. One small shift has the flow spilling straight over Dean's hole, washing away the slick.

Sam inches closer until his knees bang against the side of the tub. He plugs the end of the hose with his thumb, awkwardly smearing lube around it one-handed, obsessively checking for all the nicks he'd already smoothed away. "Dean," he says, two parts warning, one part request.

"Okay, I'll-"

"Tell me how it feels," Sam cuts in. The black rubber is stark and cruel-looking against Dean's flushed skin. "I want to know."

Less harsh, Dean says, "Okay," and drops his head down, forehead cushioned on a loose fist. "Just- Quit making me wait."

Watching Dean open up around that slim bit of hose, hearing the way his breath skips a beat, sends a throbbing rush straight to Sam's cock. He palms the cheek of Dean's ass, meant it to be soothing but ends up being all about pulling him open, seeing the clutch of tight muscle force the hose out just to slide it back in deeper.

"God." Scrubbing his mouth dry on the back of his wrist, Sam snatches up the jug again. "God, Dean, you gotta ease up."

Dean shakes his head, grunts, "Don't warn me. Just do it."

That's not a good idea and Sam knows it, knows he's lying to himself when he thinks okay, but only because Dean wants it, because it's that he wants it. Wants to hear the shock, see it in the startled flex-shift of muscle.

Sam rubs the edge of his thumb around the stretch of Dean's hole, holding off as long as he can. It's only a few seconds before impatience shows in the set of Dean's shoulders. Before he turns, Sam shifts the jug higher, eyes darting between the water level and Dean's flushed face.

It's only the span of a heartbeat but feels like a molasses-thick eternity before Dean breathes out, "Christ."

"Okay?"

"Fucked up, Sammy," Dean says, shifting restlessly. He eases forward a few more inches on his elbows, stretching his back into a long, sinuous line. Sam nearly drops the whole works. "This is real fucked up."

Sam breathes his agreement, not sure he could actually form words. The water's draining faster than it really should. He tries to gauge how much Dean can take and bites off a groan as he fidgets again, muttering curses.

Hoping it isn't, Sam asks, "Too much?"

"S'okay."

"Then clench."

"Wha- fuck." A fresher, darker flush explodes on the back of Dean's neck. "Jesus Christ."

"You said not to warn you." Sam tugs the hose the rest of the way free and lets it drop, getting both hands back on Dean's ass to pull him open, take a nice, long look at his hole gone red and desperately tight. One gentle stroke of his fingertips has Dean hissing in warning.

Sucking in a harsh answering breath, Sam says, "You can hold it," and leaves two fingers pressed firmly to Dean's hole. His other hand slides down, and he's squirming as much as Dean is, cock a heavy throbbing weight, when his fingers skim over the slight rise of Dean's stomach, press lightly against it.

Dean says, "Don't."

"You can hold it," Sam repeats, pressing harder, spitting a single reverent curse over Dean's sharp gasp. "You can, do it for me."

Sam flattens his hand to Dean's sweat-damp skin, rolling the heel against the liquid fullness. A warm trickle of water over his other fingers accompanies another sharp noise and half-hearted attempt to squirm away from the pressure.

Shakily, Dean asks, "You getting off on this?"

Darting a quick glance up, Sam says, "Fuck, yes," unable to stop himself from rolling his hand a little harder or the greedy noise it yanks out of his throat. "Stand up."

Dean's breaths turn quick and shallow, panic-edged, as he shuffles one foot under himself. "Can't," he pants. "What for?"

"You're not letting go in there." Sam hooks a hand under Dean's armpit and steps to the side, clearing the way to the toilet. "C'mon."

Fingers scrabbling at the smooth tile, Dean tries to jerk out of Sam's grasp, breath hissing glass-sharp between his teeth. "Don't need an audience."

And maybe Sam should feel bad about the high-pitched, shocky noise bouncing of the walls when he slaps his hand flat to Dean's belly. Maybe he would, if it weren't for the haze filling up his head.

With one hand fisted at the base of Dean's spine, Sam forces him closer, palm pressing harder against him bit by bit. Sam feels more than hears the groan building up low in his throat. The sweat slicking Dean's neck tingles against his lips as he pulls Dean out of the tub, turns to back him up one unsteady step after another.

"But you've got one."

"This is seriously fucked up," Dean says, his voice already ragged like morning-after. He resists the weight of Sam's hand on his shoulder, his eyes gone almost totally black when they focus on Sam's face. "Sam, this isn't-"

The rest Sam forces him to bite back, first with his tongue stilling Dean's, then his knuckles digging into soft, vulnerable flesh. "You asked for it," Sam says, putting more weight on both his hands, not worried that it's only a half-truth, not quite comfortable that the sound Dean makes is more like pain but it sings as sweet as sin in his ears.

"I put it in you, you push it out. That's it." Under Sam's insistent hands, Dean's knees buckle slowly, his hands grabbing for support in pure reflex. "Just finish this for me."

Dean grates out, "Should make you promise," which is more like surrender than he probably thinks it is, and stares resolutely at the dirty grout on the floor.

Dean's hair is almost too short for it but Sam finds enough to fist, jerking Dean's head back up and pulling him forward until his chin rests on Sam's belly, right above the open buckle of his belt. "Don't look away."

The moment stretches long enough for Sam to think he's fucked it all up, then Dean curses low and quiet like he'd look away if only Sam let him. But he doesn't break the hold Sam's got on him, doesn't even try, not once. Water streams out of his body, emptying out in one continuous rush, background noise. The heat pouring off him sears Sam's skin.

It's finally Sam manhandling him back to the side of the tub that makes him look away, holding him, pinned back to chest, to clean him off with one of the tattered washcloths.

When Sam rinses the cloth for the last time, Dean's head is still bowed. The lube's where Sam left it, balanced on the very edge near the faucet. He snatches it up, flicks open the top and aim's a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.

At the first touch of Sam's fingers pushing back between his legs, Dean's shoulders hunch. "Sam," he says, voice cracked and raw. On one slow push, his spine arches.

Sam closes his eyes, narrowing his focus down to how easily Dean takes the slow, steady thrust of two fingers right to the first knuckle, the pliant weight of his brother in his arms. Drug-heady warmth swims up through him like a current.

Dean stumbles crossing the threshold. Another thrill spikes into Sam's gut, pleasure sharp and real as a strong-fingered hand squeezing tight around his dick. He steers Dean towards the bed, caught up in the sloppy half-kisses they're sharing and the breakneck rush screaming through his head. They're really going to do it. Dean's going to let him.

"Up on your knees," he says, crushed-gravel rough. "Like in the bathroom."

Slow as honey, Dean crawls up the bed, tucks his arms beneath his forehead. With anybody else, it'd be a show, deliberate and a little cheap. Somehow, Dean just makes it honest.

"You wanna see," he says, not really a question no matter the hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Sam kneels, still in his jeans because he can't risk the temptation. Soft, scarred skin is familiar under his hands but somehow new, different. Like it's the first time he's really touched Dean when he already has every ridge and dip and stretch memorised. He should be grateful Dean trusts him this much but all he feels is power-drunk and not nearly wary enough of it.

Lube squelches between his fingers, glistens all the way up to his wrist. Before the taste of it mars Dean's skin, he bends down, tongues one sweet kiss to pinkened flesh. Dean's almost too clean. The lack of salt-sweat heaviness in Sam's mouth makes him want to stop right here, rim Dean until he's slicked and senseless.

Dean takes both of his forefingers with barely a sound, saving a whimper-hiss of breath for when he pulls them apart, opening Dean up to his tongue. Lube smears Sam's chin, wet, cool. The heat inside Dean burns his lips, leaves them tingling and alive when he draws back to see how wide Dean'll willingly spread for him.

"Harder if you want," Dean says. His body is tense, anticipating. Pleading. Sam gives him three, pulls against the tight flesh of his hole and his back bows again, a hitching moan spilled out onto the sheets.

A flash of blood-rich, pink inner flesh drags a lower, deeper sound out of Sam. "More?" he asks, giving up the sight to feel Dean clench around the knot of his fingers. Dean's body clings to them, greedy and not yet loose enough for the flirt of a fourth. But Dean takes it anyway, jerking and cursing at the slightest twitch of Sam's hand between shallow, panting breaths.

Sam pushes up to the wide set of his knuckles, pausing there, waiting with a breath held on the teetering edge. Teeth sinking into his lip, he eases off, listens to the rustle of Dean wiping sweat from his face onto the sheets. Again and again, fucking slowly up to his knuckles and back, Sam waits for Dean to say yes, go, do it, but all he gets are noises lodged like smouldering coals in the base of his brain.

"Dean," he says, smoothing a hand up the too-sharp curve of Dean's spine, "tell me you're ready. Fuck, tell me, I want-"

"You want," Dean cuts him off, like he's going to finish the sentence, but says, "Please, please, c'mon." His hands are curled into claws, sunk deep in the pillows. The long stretch of his arms tremble. "Asked for it, didn't I."

"Yeah," Sam breathes. "Yeah, you did," and he squeezes his thumb in tight to his fingers, watches slack-jawed and so hungry for it his whole body aches, throbs in time to the beat of all his blood pounding south. The world spins around him, and he can only imagine how it tilts for Dean.

At the base of his thumb, Dean's body seizes up, stopping him short. Dean's saying, "C'mon, please, c'mon," rocking back into it, taking bit by tiny bit. A hand on his ass barely even slows him down and Sam thinks about pulling away, going slower, but it's like Dean's the one inside him driving him on, owning him.

When Dean's body finally gives, opening up to let Sam's hand sink in to his wrist, his rough curse is weaker than a whisper and completely drowned out by the thick, bone-deep groan drawn so damn slow out of Dean's throat. For a long minute, Sam can't even move, frozen with a hand buried in his brother's guts and eyes glued to the fitful twitch of his red-swollen hole.

Reverently, barely aware he's doing it and powerless to stop once he is, Sam's free hand runs up and down Dean's thighs, trails across his lower back and his ass, over and over. He eases another fraction of an inch deeper, pressing from the outside against Dean's stomach, desperate to curl his hand into a fist to feel it.

Another fraction, and another, almost his whole wrist and Dean says, flimsy as slashed ribbons, "Wait, god, wait."

Bending forward to press a kiss to the centre of Dean's back gains Sam another grudging millimetre. He says, "Dean," like a prayer and starts to spread his fingers, drowning in the impossible heat pressed so snugly around them.

"Wait," Dean hisses. "Not yet, not yet, let me."

"Let you?" Sam croaks out, his own arm starting to shake. "Fuck, okay, okay, just-" He fumbles the bottle the first time, nearly drops it a second after he flicks at the cap with his thumbnail. He slicks lube about a third of the way up his forearm, so much it drips to the sheets, pools at his wrist to drip slowly down to Dean's balls hanging heavy between his legs. "Okay?"

Dean's answer is one hand slapping against the headboard, skidding wildly from the sweat on his palm until he reaches the edge to grip. Between sharp gasps, he spits, "Now. Now, now, now," fucking himself back onto Sam's arm. He can't mean what Sam thinks, just can't, but he says, "Sam," like he knows exactly what's going through Sam's head.

Painfully slowly, afraid to feel Dean break from the inside even while he craves it, while the shift of muscle to accommodate him makes him need it, Sam curls his fingers one by one into a fist. Dean stills instantly, head tossed back, eyes screwed shut. His mouth is open on a scream that's silent until Sam rotates his wrist, pushing against the walls of Dean's body, and even then it barely ekes out, high and breathless.

Sam gropes for Dean's cock, finds it hot and slick enough that for a second, he thinks Dean's already gotten off, but Dean's still hard, rutting hesitantly into Sam's grip.

Fucking asking permission.

Words slurred against the soft, vulnerable spot above Dean's kidney, Sam says, "Tell me." Dean gasps out a garbled answer, jerking from the scrape of Sam's teeth. "Tell me."

"Aches," Dean blurts. "Too deep, fuck, it aches. Feel it everywhere."

Biting viciously hard at the inside of his lip, Sam asks, "Too much?"

Dean shakes his head on another broken moan. "Not enough, almost. I, Sam-"

It is too much. Sam knows that. Even split wide open and nearly incoherent, Dean knows it, too. So that doesn't explain why Sam braces his hand between the sharp jut of Dean's shoulder blades, why he puts all his weight behind his shoulder and shoves, buries his arm inside Dean up to the shiny line of slick. Or why this shattered, cracked-glass noise breaks on the pillows when Sam starts reclaiming his hand, the widest part lodged against Dean's abused hole when his brother comes in thick, jerking waves all over the sex-stained sheets.

Dean goes limp the moment Sam's hand is free, barely caught in time from cracking his head on the bed. "Christ," Sam says, tugging him backwards, "Dean, roll over, Jesus Christ, I have to-"

Dean goes bonelessly willing onto his back, his eyes glazed and heavy, dark. His fingers are slippery with his own come as he cups his balls, reaches beneath to lift them out of the way, guide Sam's eye to the prize.

Sam doesn't even have to slick himself up, just rips at his jeans, lines up and sinks right in. It's like nothing else, hot and slippery and so fucking loose, soft flesh clutching at him with each of Dean's ragged breaths. He edges his fingers back down Dean's thigh, barely imagines what it's going to feel like before he forces his fingers in next to his cock and Dean's legs just fall open wider, yielding.

White-hot pleasure slams like a sucker punch. He feels Dean tense up, deliberately try to drag it out. The highway traffic rushing by only a few dozen feet away is drowned out by his heaving breaths synching up with Dean's.

He eases himself down, tucking his arms under Dean's shoulders, his forehead against the beat of Dean's pulse. Dean's skin tastes of sweat and sex again, rich and perfect. Sam licks it from his skin, then from his lips. Dean's kisses are languid, heavy and drugged as the banked light in his eyes.

Sam almost asks if Dean got what he wanted, just to hear him say it, but doesn't really have to. What he is going to ask, just as soon as he can, is that next time Dean wants something, maybe he could be a little less of an ass about it.

*
End

Yay, summer!

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 19 May 2008 18:23:14 GMT

Finally. SUNSHINE. I have spent the last three days basking in sweet, delicious sunshine. It really needs to not stop anytime soon.

Bullet points of random!

- I had plans to go see Iron Man today, but even the awesomeness of RDJ cannot get me off my couch. I so lazy. So, so lazy. Having the time to actually be lazy is nice, not being lazy would obviously be a waste of this lazy-time.

- SPN. Show, oh show. I've got a whole bunch of ideas kicking around my head to write, and not one of them has anything to do with canon. GO FIGURE. Where's my fun fic, huh? Enough with the soul-sucking angst, get on with the face-sucking schmoop.

- I am quite possibly going to screw off work on a whim in mid-July to hop a plane to Vegas, just because. I feel like I should gather up a crew, O11 style. XD

- I had better get my freakin' raise soon, 'cause I am SO TIRED of doing shit I'm not supposed to for free. -_-

- I will eventually post fic again. I think. Maybe.

- Where's my tequila?

Question!

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 06 May 2008 15:29:44 GMT

Does anyone know of a show or movie that could be recognizably shortened to JB? There are crew park signs up the road for it and I'm wondering if I care. XD

Oh boy.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 15:56:01 GMT

And now? Now I want fic where Dean discovers scented condoms. Because something that can make your junk smell like pie? AWESOME.

Fic!

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 18:26:42 GMT

Apparently, when it comes to fic, I write the porn and the evil twin? She writes the thinky-porn. Awesome, awesome Sam-with-powers story (that she was gonna SCRAP): Something Invisible is Gone.

You know, if you happen to like angst, porn, shameless exploitation of Catholicism and a side order of heist action. :D

ZOMG.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 21:09:41 GMT

Dude! Supernatural wrap party this Sunday! I HAVE THE HORRIBLE URGE TO CRASH IT LIKE A CRAZY FIEND.

Crazy, crazy fiend.

Fic: Life on a Chain - Sam/Dean, John/Dean (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 00:56:02 GMT

Team Porn also does completely shameless porn. Y'know, just sometimes. God, I love Dean and his issues.

Life on a Chain
Supernatural. Sam/Dean, John/Dean. NC-17. D/s tones. ~2400 words.
He's lost count of how many time he's seen his family bleed over him.

*

Life on a Chain

All Dean hears is the sound of his own harsh breath and the slick noise of a dick in his mouth. All he knows is the strong, thick-fingered hand heavy on his head, guiding and gentle, insistent only when he flicks his tongue just right. That grip tightens and for one perfect frozen moment, he's shoved face-first in his father's lap, coarse black hair rough on his lips, hot flesh bruising the tenderness of his throat. It's impossible to breathe past how good it feels, even after Dad's pulled him off with a wet, filthy pop.

"Son," Dad rasps, gravel-rough. Shivers skitter under Dean's skin, tighten the muscles between his shoulder blades. He lifts his gaze, expectant, but Dad isn't looking down at him.

Dread chips at the edges of Dean's warm haze. He knows before he moves. He's been sickly anticipating it, hot and cold all at once, thought about it before, knew in his guts that it would happen sooner than later. John's knees bracket his chest as he twists to meet Sam's shock-eyed stare.

The thud of Sam's backpack hitting the floor reverberates straight into Dean's bones. Sam tears down the hall, sneakers slapping hard on the cheap linoleum. The screen door hits the wall with a crunch and bangs shut.

Swallowing hard, fine tremors skating down his arms to make his hands shake against Dad's wide-spread thighs, Dean looks up.

"Go."

There's a crack in the plaster behind the back door. Sam's just outside, hands strained and spread, knuckles white as frost on the car's slick black hood. Blood shows bleak red around a fresh rip in his jeans. A brighter streak marks the sharp, cracked edge of the bumper.

At the sound of Dean on the stairs, Sam draws off and slams one foot right in the middle of the grille. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, the spring air cold on his teeth, and can't think of a single thing to say.

"What the fuck are you doing," Sam grates, staring straight ahead. One hand curls into a tight fist on the metal. "What- How could- Dean."

The heavy, desperate way Sam says the last churns up his stomach into something hot and roiling. He can't handle this right now (ever), not with Dad's sweat still sharp on his tongue.

"Sammy," he tries.

"Don't. Just. What the hell is the matter with you? Why're you letting him-" Sam breaks off when his voice cracks. He lets out a frustrated growl, smashing his knuckles into the hood again.

A sharp bark jumps out of Dean's throat. There's blood on Sam's hand this time. He's lost count of how many time he's seen his family bleed over him. "Not letting him do a damn thing."

Sam's shoulders hunch up around his ears, as if that's going to keep him from hearing anything that comes spilling out of Dean's mouth.

"Maybe it's me," Dean pushes. He's got no choice, it's that or back off, and if he stops now, nothing's going to keep Sam from running. His heart struggles inside his chest, torn between racing and grinding to a raw, aching stop. "Nothing but me, Sammy, you think about that?"

"It's sick!" Sam explodes. "I can't- Are you that fucking desperate for his approval? Are you that screwed in the head that you think-" Again, Sam stops flat, giving up on words and using his fists to speak for him.

"Lay off the car, Sam."

Dean doesn't know how to handle this at all. Even with how many times he's imagined (fantasised, with their father's come warm on his lips) here and now, he can't rescue a single thought from the buzzing in his head. The shaking in his fingertips run back up into his arms.

"The fucking car!" Sam whips around, wild and seething, makes a move to smash in a headlight and Dean lunges.

The sound, single loud crack, registers before the pain. Gingerly, Dean presses the back of his wrist to his split lip. Mud squishes between the fingers of his other hand. Looking up, he can barely see Sam through the blur of light layered over his vision.

"That what you want?" Sam shouts, arms flung wide, bigger than life. Everything's always huge with Sam, endless and apocalyptic. Dad's still inside, they both know he can hear everything. But Sam doesn't care and maybe Dad's not just listening. "You want him to use you? Hurt you? 'Cause that's what he's doing, whether you see it or not."

That's not it. That's not it at all. Sam's got to understand. It's not like that, never will be, but Dean's pulse is spiked, his world askew like he's on this drunken high, and he can't get a word past his heart thumping in his throat.

"What's the matter with you!" A couple quick, jerky steps bring him close to tower over Dean. Dean shakes his head, not sure how the hell he'd explain it even if he could. His silence isn't good enough for Sam--nothing is--and Sam grabs him by two handfuls of his shirt to haul him to his knees in the dirt.

He's not proud of the noise he makes but he can't hold it back (Say it boy, let me hear you). The fog in his head swirls thick, tar-black viscous thrill dripping down his spine. It's too soon after- He didn't get a chance to-

And Sam is glaring down at him like he knows exactly what sort of need is twisting him up inside.

The cracks in his voice lay it all bare, but Dean says, "Always gotta be about you, huh, Sammy." He licks his lips and tastes blood and grit. The split stings as his mouth stretches, fresh blood welling to run down to the point of his chin. "So fuckin' greedy all the time."

Sam's hissing breath adds another spark to the urge smouldering deep in Dean's gut. He drags in his own lungful of air, imagining that's the smell of Sam on winter-stale air.

"You think of it just now?" Dean asks. "Or were you wishin' it was your dick shoved down my throat as soon as you walked in?"

"Jesus Christ," Sam whispers.

"I can make it good." The moan that creeps into Dean's voice isn't at all faked. The look on Sam's face says he knows it, too. "You think he'd want it if I couldn't?" Fear of being smacked away keeps Dean cautious as he reaches out, hooks his fingers in Sam's front pocket. Sam's chest shudders on a long breath, his pupils blacking out. Dean's thumb brushes over the metal stud in the denim. "Afraid you're just like him?"

"Fuck you." Adrenaline rockets through Dean's veins, hits the haze head-on when Sam's long fingers curl around his wrist. For a split-second, he's lost, floating out in space with no one to anchor him down (never been there before, fucking terrifying, Sammy's gonna say no), but Sam says, "I can fuck you up too, Dean. Dad's not coming out here to finish what you started, you want me to be him for you now, too?"

No, Dean thinks, but he says, "Sam," fucked-out and absolutely wrecked even to his own ears.

Glass-sharp, Sam says, "Do it."

Dean goes stock-still, unsure, a minefield stretched out in every direction around him. Sam's got to know he can't take being jerked around like this. Dad's already broke him open, sent him out here naked and raw, and if Sam gives up on him now-

Sam's hand curls against the side of his neck (smoother skin, smaller palm, fingers stretched just that little bit further past the thin bruises he can already feel). "I said, do it. Pull my dick out."

It's like a freight-train slams straight into Dean's chest. His eyes slip shut but he opens them before Sam can snap the order--anticipating, not missing a twitch because Dean is good at this, he's good at it. Eagerness turns his fingers clumsy and he murmurs Sam's name under his breath, using the familiar dip and curl of it to force himself to do it right.

Sam's fuller in his hand than he thought--seventeen now, wide-shouldered and lanky, so fuckin' tall. He takes his time, breaths shivering and shallow, to lift Sam's balls out too, push his jeans away and bare it all. The jerk of Sam's hips when he touches the pad of his thumb to the head curves his lips in a smile. Sam wants this. Wants him.

"I'll be good," Dean whispers, lips barely brushing the shaft, learning the path of blood that makes Sam throb heavier in his grip. All he wants to do is suck Sam deep but he waits, drags it out, watches Sam spiral slowly higher before he gives in and licks away the precome clinging to Sam's slit.

Sam grates, "Fuck," and Dean echoes it, adds, "Oh, fuck, you taste like him, Sam, you-"

The thumb grazing Dean's chin edges up, presses in and drags down, pulling Dean's mouth wide. Nostrils flaring on a deep breath full of Sam, Dean waits. Saliva gathers, threatens to spill over his lips and he'll beg, Christ, he'll beg for it if that's what Sam wants, loud and shameless for the whole goddamn world to hear.

"I'm not him."

Dean says, "Sam-" roughly cut off when Sam's thumb shoves into his mouth, nail catching the ridges along the roof. Dean's first instinct is to suck, prove that he's not a waste of time, but Sam pins his tongue, wrenches his mouth open wider. The taste of salt-sweat spreading through his mouth drags a groan straight up from the pit of his stomach.

"I'm not him," Sam repeats. "Don't you dare pretend I'm him."

Tentatively, Dean wriggles his tongue, relief flooding as sweet as the taste of Sam's skin when the pressure eases enough for him to learn the lines and whorls of Sam's thumbprint.

"Say it," Sam hisses.

"Not him," Dean groans back. The mud has soaked through his jeans, clammy and cold, but he's burning up, focus crisp and clear, all for Sam. "Tell me what you want from me, I'll do it, Sam. I will. Just tell me."

And Sam understands. Dean can see it in his eyes. Never should have doubted it, Sam's his fucking brother, nobody'll ever have the chance to know him like Sam. Nothing's closer than family.

"I want you to get me off." Sam's quivering, pulsing harder in Dean's hand than his own heartbeat. Holding back for him. "Make your mouth wet for me. Soft," he says, and Dean hears, Show me how much you love me.

Tongue soft and flat and spit-slick, Dean slowly fills his mouth with Sam's cock, hyper-aware to every breath Sam takes, every twitch-flex of the fingers sliding back into the hair at the nape of his neck. His own dick aches, swollen hard and leaking in sympathy with each drop of precome that squeezes from Sam's slit.

He lets the heady feeling get away with him for just one second, only one, and his teeth scrape delicate flesh. Breath freezing in his lungs, he darts a quick look up. After a moment that stretches too long, Sam says, "Don't do it again," thumb stroking the soft skin beneath Dean's ear, and means, It's okay, I forgive you, I'll still love you if you only try to be perfect.

In a scalding rush, Dean wants Sam to fuck his mouth. Not slow, not gentle, just fuck it, fast and brutal for Dean to carry the ache with him for weeks. How bad he wants it creeps out of him in wordless noise, muffled and slurred around Sam's dick, in the way he clutches rumpled handfuls of Sam's jeans and sucks, cheeks hollowed and hungry.

He won't ask for it. This is what Sam wants, what Sam needs. He offers it up with a heavy look and his jaw gone slack, and when Sam takes it, starts to fuck his throat raw and voiceless, cradles his head in both hands to pull him all the way down, it's because just this once, he's good enough to deserve it.

"Dean," Sam says, a warning, and the pride caged up carefully in Dean's chest unfurls, spreads warm and wonderful out along his limbs to the very tips. He takes the whole length of Sam straight down and holds there, shaking and smothering, using the desperate clutch of his throat to give Sam every last thing he can.

He doesn't notice the blackness eating at the edges of his vision until Sam pulls him free and curses, says in a voice as thoroughly fucked as Dean feels, "Breathe."

Dazed and reeling, barely aware of the sticky warmth spilled inside his own clothes, Dean feels Sam drop to the ground, gather him close in a lax, lazy heap. He burrows into the warmth, floating again but safe this time. Dimly, he registers Dad's heavy tread on the step.

Maybe he didn't finish what they'd started, but he still did what their father wanted. Sam gets it now, Dean's sure. He has to.

Dad says, "Sam," and Sam shifts slightly, still careful to keep as much of himself touching Dean as possible. "You know you can't leave him now."

"Dad," Sam says, harsh in Dean's ear. Half-heartedly, Dean tries to twist to see what's going on but Sam holds tighter. That's all Dean needs to quiet again.

"If you break him, you put him back together," Dad says. "That's the way it works, son." Another step, the scrape of a boot on peeling paint. The weight of his approval settles as warm and welcome as newest responsibility he's placed on Dean's shoulders (still take care of Sam, just different now). "He's your brother."

*

The night he breaks into Sam's apartment, frozen at the threshold to soak in the desperately familiar feeling of Sam that's seeped into the walls themselves, Dean thinks, Just until they find Dad.

He reminds himself of that promise when he's flat on his back staring up at Sam's sleep-creased face, when he's smiling widely at the person Sam wants more than him, when he's flying high all the way to Jericho with Sam sprawled happy and careless, warm and real and almost his, in the passenger seat.

Just until they find Dad.

*
End

A thought, I has one.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 22:26:51 GMT

You know what I really, really want? Fisting fic. Yes. Sam/Dean fisting fic. Dirty, filthy Sam/Dean fisting fic.

But my write is all writered out. ._.

...seriously, though. With Sam's big ass hands? And DEAN, all broken to itty bitty pieces and maybe a little shifty at first, because hey, that's pretty kinky there, Sammy boy, and all those trust issues and zomg. WE WANTS IT. And by we, I obviously mean me, the evil twin and the WORLD.