Sam/Dean. Hard R for sexuality, language. ~790 words.
CRACK, TWT, AND THE PORNIEST THING I'VE WRITTEN which really isn't saying much but oh god. I'm so sorry. Also, BACON LUBE = KINDA LIKE BACON BITS ONLY NOT REALLY, and Obama sex-dolls will never get old.
When Dean stomped into the motel room, Sam barely had time to close his laptop before he heard, “Catch, bitch,” and nearly got brained by a small flying object.
“What is this?” he asked, looking down at the object in his hand, and suddenly all thoughts of researching satyrs and the inevitably uncomfortable implications of their physiology promptly got steamrollered. “…Dude, is this bacon-flavored?”
“Isn’t it awesome,” said Dean, like a kid that’d just figured out a girl’s cooties were actually kind of mind-blowing.
“Oh my god you have no shame.”
He paused in the middle of dropping the rest of their supplies onto one of the beds. “What?”
“Where did you find this?”
Sam’s fingers tightened around the red- and pink-streaked tube of lube. There may have been thoughts about Western capitalism, American indulgences, and how his brother had finally been thrown into a wall a few times too many, and it didn’t immediately register that Dean was undoing his belt.
“Where there’s bacon-flavored mayo, there’s bacon-flavored lube. Natural order of things. Now take off your pants.”
“What? No! I’m not letting you fuck me with the bacon-flavored lube you got at Wal-Mart.”
“But Sam,” whined Dean.
“I’ll buy you one of those gay vanilla hazelnut non-fat Care Bear latte things tomorrow.”
“Would you want to get fucked with it?”
“Hey, I found it first, dipshit. You can bat another time, this is my game.”
If Sam had a nickel for every time Dean Missed the Point. “My ass is going to smell like bacon, Dean.”
“So we’ll stay away from rednecks who like a bit of pulled pork with their side of incest. Pulled pork, get it? Get it? Sam? Where are you going? Ow, son of a bitch!”
Around three the following morning, Dean woke up in a bed that smelled of jizz, sweat, and plastic bacon. Sam was sprawled next to him on his belly and taking up a good two-thirds of the already too-small mattress, the selfish brat, an arm and a leg tossed haphazardly over Dean as though entitled to the same space as his big brother, and why didn’t all those fucking Lucky Charms stunt his fucking growth? Jesus. Heavy with sleep, Dean halfheartedly tried to shove Sam off the bed – served the fucker right – but only succeeded in nudging him over maybe half an inch.
“Chop you off at the fucking knees,” he muttered aloud, words slurred into sounds more appropriate for a dog kennel. The bruise on his arm where Sam had socked him earlier protested as he shifted forward, let his hand follow the long groove of spine to the sudden rise of his ass. There was still the wetness of sweat and spit there, left by tongue and the flex of muscle, and his fingers slid lower to where Sam was still loose, still fucked open and slick because Dean had made damn sure that Sam’s mind was so blown he’d completely forgotten to take a shower afterwards. Practically passed out because Dean was just that awesome, and because it meant he wouldn’t have to hear Sam’s bitching until the morning.
Still drowsy as a hibernating bear Dean moved closer, lying on his side with his face pressed against Sam’s shoulder and his cock pleasantly, lazily full against Sam’s flank. Sam mumbled something into his pillow as Dean pressed the pads of his fingers against the rim of Sam’s hole, the smooth skin still flushed hot with abuse and slick with the lube that tasted like cheap Bacon Bits. He muffled a grin against Sam’s shoulder because, dude, he’d totally won this battle. Twice.
Sam shifted again, a languid shiver of muscle that briefly emphasized the dip of his spine, starting to wake up as two of Dean’s fingertips slid inside easily. Heat, the unnatural slide of lube, the thicker slide of come, and Dean was contemplating how much energy he really had and how he wanted to take advantage of this opportunity when Sam growled, “Get off me.”
Dean snickered and rolled his hips against Sam’s thigh, because if that wasn’t a double-entendre then he was Barack fucking Obama and wow awkward mental image there. But Sam huffed like the giant teenage girl he was and wiggled his lower half away, leaving Dean with the uncomfortable sensation of lube and come all over his hand, and said, “I smell like a diner’s breakfast special.”
“I’d still eat you, baby,” Dean automatically leered, couldn’t help it, practically a knee-jerk response.
Sam pushed him off the bed.
I WILL HIDE MY FACE IN SHAME.