fifty frenchmen can't be wrong (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
some_stars) wrote2006-11-20 01:06 am
some_stars) wrote2006-11-20 01:06 am
Entry tags:
i think i use this icon...too much.
.....the lengths I will go to to procrastinate are truly astounding, sometimes.
so you know, i was asking the other day about how all the fisting stories in SPN fandom are sam doing dean, etc.? and then i got ideas? and, uh.
(written just now, abrupt ending, totally unedited, blah blah etc. i will fix it in the morning! or, you know, sometime.)
Dean can't entirely figure how he ended up here, and if that's kind of a weird thing to think with his hand halfway up his little brother's ass, well--it's Sam. Sam, who is what a chick magazine would probably call Sexually Adventurous, all into trying new things, which Dean guesses is what happens when you spend a while with just one person. It's hard to get really deep down and dirty with the kinky shit when you only fuck people you met a few hours ago, and anyway he likes the, the steadiness of just fucking, predictable solid center to all the different smells and voices and sounds.
But then, it's been a while since he smelled or heard anyone besides Sam, and Sam's into all *kinds* of crazy shit. There's a bag of freaking *sex toys* in the trunk now, where Dean's always a little worried he'll grab one by accident and end up facing down a ghost with a vibrating oversized neon green dick instead of a shotgun. They've tried out all kinds of weird-ass positions, because Sam--the giant geek--has actually *read* the Kama Sutra. They've done it with blindfolds, gags, handcuffs, feathers, knives, a gun once--unloaded and halfway disassembled, because Sam might have an imagination straight out of a porno movie, but neither of them are *stupid.*
So basically, when Sam walked out of the drugstore and back to the car with a huge bottle of lube and a box of size-large latex gloves, Dean just went ahead and rolled with it. After raising his eyebrows and saying, "Man, those better not be for you, you got paws like a damn gorilla."
"Uh. No," Sam said, and blushed a little, which he hadn't done for a while, and pretty much guaranteed Dean an instant hard-on. "No, they're for you, uh. If you want?"
Dean was suddenly *really aware* of his hands. They weren't gigantic like Sam's, but they were big enough to make him wonder how the fuck Sam expected this to work, and then felt himself go hot all over from picturing it. "*Shit* yes," he said fervently, already pulling out of the parking lot, and Sam snickered and relaxed and then--now--here they are.
Freaking *dripping,* like some sort of hideous lube-based carnage just went down. He's got one of Sam's ankles on his shoulder, one hand holding himself up, and the other--he can't stop staring at where his hand is sliding in, gloved and slick-shiny and slow. Fingers folded over--he started with two, forever ago, then three and Sam had to tell him to go to four. With his voice all shaky and thick, spilling out of him like liquid--"More, come on, do it," and Dean did and Sam *took* it. Takes it, unbearably tight even pressure all around his fingers, and Sam gasping and arching and open. Riding the knobbly swell of Dean's knuckles, squeezing down hard enough to hurt.
"Jesus," Dean mutters, "so fucking tight, Sammy, okay? Is it okay?" He needs to ask, even though Sam is hard and dripping against his belly, even though his goddamn *toes* are curling and flexing, but Dean has to make sure, because this is *completely insane.*
And oh, god, Sam just makes this noise like a moan and a purr and a sob all mixed up, scratching uselessly at the sheets like he can't even remember how to move his hands. Dean bites his lip and--for some reason, he doesn't know--holds his breath as he folds his thumb down and pushes. There's a half-second when Sam tenses and squeezes his eyes shut, and Dean feels like his stomach's fallen out--but then the last wide swell is past and he slips in to the wrist. He barely has time to stare disbelievingly before Sam groans and comes, eyes wide, heel drumming hard and jerky where it's hooked over Dean's shoulder.
Dean watches, dizzy, breathes. It's not like anything he's seen before, the way the orgasm just rolls through Sam, makes him tighten down on Dean's hand and come and come till he's just shivering, whimpering with every shift of Dean's fingers. "Fuck," Dean breathes, barely hearing himself, "fucking--god, Sam, baby, c'mon..." Endless seconds, minutes, and his hand starts to ache but he can't even begin to move from where he is. It feels almost too close, like there's something dangerous about holding Sam this deep, this open.
AND NOW I HAVE TO WORK, oh my god, *cries*
so you know, i was asking the other day about how all the fisting stories in SPN fandom are sam doing dean, etc.? and then i got ideas? and, uh.
(written just now, abrupt ending, totally unedited, blah blah etc. i will fix it in the morning! or, you know, sometime.)
Dean can't entirely figure how he ended up here, and if that's kind of a weird thing to think with his hand halfway up his little brother's ass, well--it's Sam. Sam, who is what a chick magazine would probably call Sexually Adventurous, all into trying new things, which Dean guesses is what happens when you spend a while with just one person. It's hard to get really deep down and dirty with the kinky shit when you only fuck people you met a few hours ago, and anyway he likes the, the steadiness of just fucking, predictable solid center to all the different smells and voices and sounds.
But then, it's been a while since he smelled or heard anyone besides Sam, and Sam's into all *kinds* of crazy shit. There's a bag of freaking *sex toys* in the trunk now, where Dean's always a little worried he'll grab one by accident and end up facing down a ghost with a vibrating oversized neon green dick instead of a shotgun. They've tried out all kinds of weird-ass positions, because Sam--the giant geek--has actually *read* the Kama Sutra. They've done it with blindfolds, gags, handcuffs, feathers, knives, a gun once--unloaded and halfway disassembled, because Sam might have an imagination straight out of a porno movie, but neither of them are *stupid.*
So basically, when Sam walked out of the drugstore and back to the car with a huge bottle of lube and a box of size-large latex gloves, Dean just went ahead and rolled with it. After raising his eyebrows and saying, "Man, those better not be for you, you got paws like a damn gorilla."
"Uh. No," Sam said, and blushed a little, which he hadn't done for a while, and pretty much guaranteed Dean an instant hard-on. "No, they're for you, uh. If you want?"
Dean was suddenly *really aware* of his hands. They weren't gigantic like Sam's, but they were big enough to make him wonder how the fuck Sam expected this to work, and then felt himself go hot all over from picturing it. "*Shit* yes," he said fervently, already pulling out of the parking lot, and Sam snickered and relaxed and then--now--here they are.
Freaking *dripping,* like some sort of hideous lube-based carnage just went down. He's got one of Sam's ankles on his shoulder, one hand holding himself up, and the other--he can't stop staring at where his hand is sliding in, gloved and slick-shiny and slow. Fingers folded over--he started with two, forever ago, then three and Sam had to tell him to go to four. With his voice all shaky and thick, spilling out of him like liquid--"More, come on, do it," and Dean did and Sam *took* it. Takes it, unbearably tight even pressure all around his fingers, and Sam gasping and arching and open. Riding the knobbly swell of Dean's knuckles, squeezing down hard enough to hurt.
"Jesus," Dean mutters, "so fucking tight, Sammy, okay? Is it okay?" He needs to ask, even though Sam is hard and dripping against his belly, even though his goddamn *toes* are curling and flexing, but Dean has to make sure, because this is *completely insane.*
And oh, god, Sam just makes this noise like a moan and a purr and a sob all mixed up, scratching uselessly at the sheets like he can't even remember how to move his hands. Dean bites his lip and--for some reason, he doesn't know--holds his breath as he folds his thumb down and pushes. There's a half-second when Sam tenses and squeezes his eyes shut, and Dean feels like his stomach's fallen out--but then the last wide swell is past and he slips in to the wrist. He barely has time to stare disbelievingly before Sam groans and comes, eyes wide, heel drumming hard and jerky where it's hooked over Dean's shoulder.
Dean watches, dizzy, breathes. It's not like anything he's seen before, the way the orgasm just rolls through Sam, makes him tighten down on Dean's hand and come and come till he's just shivering, whimpering with every shift of Dean's fingers. "Fuck," Dean breathes, barely hearing himself, "fucking--god, Sam, baby, c'mon..." Endless seconds, minutes, and his hand starts to ache but he can't even begin to move from where he is. It feels almost too close, like there's something dangerous about holding Sam this deep, this open.
AND NOW I HAVE TO WORK, oh my god, *cries*