Current mood:	accomplished
Entry tags:	one-way ticket to the special hell, spn, types faster than she thinks

New Fic: "...Robert Frost Spinning in His Grave." Wincest, NC-17
Title: The Sort of Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening That Would Have Robert Frost Spinning In His Grave.
Author: annalazarus
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam and Dean add to a room's history.
Notes: For girlmostlikely, who loves the boys being schmoopy and dirty. Thanks to monkiedude for her awesome and quick beta.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Making no money.

The snow came on quick, making Sam glad they’d stopped for supplies at the Utah border. They had three bags of water, soda, and meal-type food to tide them over, as long as they found a place to crash soon.

Sam glanced over at Dean, who was white-knuckled and mumbling encouragement to the car. Icy flakes were blowing straight into the windshield. Sam started looking out for the next exit.

They ended up in an off-the-map town with one bed and breakfast run by a round old lady who cheerily told the boys that the building started its life as a whorehouse They got the smallest room and still got gouged because, sweet as she was, the old lady knew they weren’t going anywhere. Dean grumbled about it up three flights of stairs, even though it was on Randle P. McMurphy’s credit card.

The wind rocked the attic room as Dean stuffed towels into the gaps at the windows. Sam wondered why there couldn’t be more hauntings in tropical climates. No one ever seemed to accidentally bulldoze the last resting place of a junior-league Donner party in, say, Florida. Of course, Florida was full of witch doctors, swamp monsters, and scientologists. At least the flesh-eating spirits didn’t try to convert him.

There was a crack outside as a branch gave way to the weight of the snow. “Abominable snowman,” Dean muttered.

“No such thing,” Sam responded without thinking. They used to keep lists: real monsters and fake ones. Sam always wished the ‘fake’ list was longer.

The heat kicked on with a crack even louder than the one outside. “You turn it up?” Sam asked.

“Fuck yeah. For what we’re paying, we deserve it.”

Sam peeled off his sweatshirt, flannel shirt, and long sleeve shirt as it warmed up. He looked around. The room was an indeterminate shade of green, something the paint companies would call “early spring grass” or some such bullshit. The quilt was flowered, and the paintings were of women in yellow dresses and sailboats on sunny seas. Everything oozed brightly colored blandness.

Theoretically, it was a nice change of pace from the alternately dank or antiseptic motel rooms Sam was used to, but there was something just...off. He looked over at Dean, who was watching the blizzard from the window and frowning.

“I kind of hate this room,” Sam said, surprising himself.

Dean laughed shortly. “Me too. It’s, like, the perfect vacation spot for couples who’ve given up on sex.”

Sam looked around again. Yeah, everything here was ordered and cheery in a way that actively discouraged the ugly, noisy, messy freedom of fucking and coming. “Kind of ironic, given its history,” Sam observed.

“Not really,” Dean said. “You gotta figure those girls probably weren’t having such a great time either.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, wondering if enough bad sex could curse a place, and if they could banish it with some burning sage if need be. He glanced at Dean, who was staring out the window again, felt the ember that was always there spark in his gut, and thought maybe there was a better way to cleanse the room’s aura.

Sam dozed off in the middle of his train of thought and woke to something pushing at his face. He reached out and slapped away what turned out to be Dean’s foot.

Dean was dressed in just jeans, flopped out on the bed backwards, his feet on the pillow, one arm behind his head.

“I hate you,” Sam muttered, hiking himself up on his elbows.

“No you don’t,” Dean said, sitting up and slipping his fingers beneath the collar of Sam’s worn undershirt, his short nails tracing along the tendons in Sam’s neck.

Sam closed his eyes, let Dean touch him, take his shirt off, brush their lips together. “You’re not subtle, you know,” Sam murmured into the kiss.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean replied, quirking his mouth to the side and shoving his hand into Sam’s pants.

Sam leaned forward and gripped Dean’s head with both hands, kissed him deeply, pressing and shifting against Dean’s face until he’d tasted every bit of his brother’s mouth, licked from one corner of his lips to the other. “Lean back,” he whispered, hand ghosting over Dean’s crotch.

Dean, the contrary bastard, leaned forward instead, buried his face in Sam’s neck and breathed hard and hot against the spot on Sam’s neck that made Sam shudder like he was naked out in the snow. He could feel the sweat on Dean's skin and the blood below it. Sam closed his eyes and felt himself falling into the place where Dean’s pleasure became his pleasure, where the only sweat and skin and blood that mattered were Dean’s.

Sam shoved Dean down so that his head rested at the bottom of the bed again. Sam slid and curled himself until his face was level with Dean's zipper and tore at Dean's jeans, sucking and licking at Dean’s belly as his fingers fumbled. He didn’t even bother to try to get Dean’s jeans off, just shoved his face down into the opened fly and licked desperately at Dean’s hardening cock.

Sam heard Dean gasp. God, Dean’s dick. He wanted it, always, but especially like it was now, not yet fully hard, when Sam could lick and suck it all into his mouth, feel the blood flow and the thin skin stretch, feel the head push harder and harder against the back of his throat. Oh god. God yes. This was perfect. Sam pulled back to yank at Dean's pants and flick his tongue along Dean’s dick and reconsidered. Almost perfect.

He looked up, saw Dean flat on his back, flushed all over and panting hard. The sight made Sam’s dick press even harder against his zipper, making him gasp. “A little help here,” Sam said raggedly.

“Huh?” Dean responded, eyes glassy and lips spit-licked glossy.

“Jesus, Dean, please tell me you haven’t forgotten how this works,” Sam groaned.

“Oh,” Dean breathed, rolling up onto his hip and reaching for Sam’s jeans. “Yeah. Got it. Just. Go back to what you were doing, okay? Now. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Sam said as they shifted and curved their backs until they were both lined up cock-to-mouth. Sam waited though, watched Dean get Sam's pants open and pushed down, saw Dean’s eyelashes flutter as he licked Sam’s cock. Then Sam dropped his shoulder back down, curled his fingers around Dean’s hard thigh, pressed a palm to Dean’s stomach.

Sam felt the muscles under his hands twitch and jump as he licked roughly along the base of Dean’s cock. He tried not to jerk his hips at the groan Dean let out when his lips closed over Sam’s dick. Sam wanted to...he had to... He whimpered deep in his throat. Oh god, how could Dean possibly curl his tongue and suck like that at the same time?

It was too much to try and get Dean off while Dean was giving Sam the best blowjob in the history of civilization, so Sam just shoved Dean’s thigh up and buried his face in the hot crease there, sweat and spit making his every move slick and slippery. He moaned as Dean’s hands rolled his balls, lipped and sucked convulsively at Dean’s balls in return.

Dean began rolling his tongue over the head of Sam’s dick. Sam, pleasure-flooded from toes to tongue, panted raggedly and slid one of his hands down along between Dean’s leg and Sam’s face, slicking his fingers and reaching further around to rub and tease until Dean pulled off and said roughly, “Jesus, Sammy. Come on. Either do it or don’t.”

“Same to you.” Sam’s growl became a gasp as he felt Dean’s hottight mouth enthusiastically screwing down onto his cock. He shoved the heels of his hands against Dean’s ass, spread him open and pressed his tongue to Dean’s hole, felt the pulse of blood and knew he had to get deeper, closer.

He could distantly hear Dean moaning extravagantly around his cock, felt the vibrations of those moans all the way down to his balls. His body curled and pulled in. Sam fought it as long as he could, concentrated on tongue-fucking Dean. He pulled back when he thought he might shake apart, keening as orgasm ripped through him.

Sam let his head roll back onto the bed, took a deep breath, and rubbed a hand over his sweat-and-spit-soaked face. He watched cross-eyed as Dean reached down to curl his fingers around his own cock. Sam grabbed Dean’s wrist with a slippery hand, pulled himself up and licked Dean’s fingers, flickering his tongue against Dean’s cock as Dean’s hand slackened.

Sam, desperate to hear his brother fall apart, dragged his lips over and around Dean’s length before swallowing him, once again feeling the blood beneath his lips pulse in time with Sam’s own.

“Oh god,” Dean groaned. “You cocksucking slut. Goddamn, oh, yeah, just like that.”

Sam slithered his hand back again, shoved and curled a finger into Dean, and that was it. Dean cried out sharply, howled a fierce chorus of nothing, and came hot and sticky onto Sam’s lips and tongue.

Sam turned and wiped his mouth on the bedspread, laughing exhaustedly.

"What's so funny?" Dean asked, voice wrecked.

"That's probably as much action as this room's seen in a century," Sam replied, wondering how long it would take him to remember how to untwist himself.

Dean leaned over and pulled at Sam's arms, turned him until Sam was reasonably close to the head of the bed. He untangled the bedspread, pulled it over himself and Sam, then lay down next to Sam. "Probably the first free action it's ever seen," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Sam said, trying for indignant but yawning halfway through. "I'm totally expecting a tip."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, okay. I'll give you a tip: You might not want to sleep on that pillow. It's the one I had my feet on."

Sam flattened his lips and sighed loudly through his nose. He squirmed over until his head rested on Dean's pillow. "I'll just sleep here then," he muttered, reaching up to bury his fingers in Dean's hair.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, his palm kneading at Sam's hip. Dean may have added something else, but Sam was already sound asleep.






This story was completely inspired by this comment from Ginger on monkiedude's journal:

And see, I think Dean, while he's blowing Sam, would start stroking and massaging his balls. Which would totally drive Sam CRAZY. So he'd slip a finger into his mouth, get it all slick, then start teasing Dean with it, stroking the taut skin behind his balls. Rubbing tiny circles against his asshole, thrusting in, just a little, just enough to make Dean shudder and cry out, muffled around Sam's thick cock.

OH YES. That's how it would go my friends.

Yup. After I regained consciousness, I began writing. :-)