(no subject)
4/9/07 10:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Lately
Fandom:SpN
Pairing:Oh please....
Rating:3
Summary: This little PWP is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mkitty_03, who wanted slow torturous seduction, but this isn't it. It will be I hope. For all my friends who left me on the shores of the Nile to hang out with those freaky brothers.
This is the working title--if it actually becomes something, I'll give it a real title. Or I'll askluvmax1 for one. *g*
eta:part one
Lately, things were getting hard—difficult!—to deal with. He wasn’t really sure what to think. Except maybe he was kind of sick or something.
His brother was driving him nuts on all kinds of levels, and he couldn’t even say anything—what the fuck could he say—Hey, stop making me think about following you into the bathroom and dropping to my knees in front of you. Stop looking like sex. Stop looking at me!
It was like living with one of those fucking eye paintings—the shit people said when ever they tried to point out how great a shit painting was—look the eyes follow you around the room. So fucking what. His brothers eyes followed *him* around and it wasn’t that terrific a thing. It was like being pinned…all the time.
He never said anything! He just looked! And worse—he was never sure where he was looking—at his face, or. Or his crotch.
What if he wasn’t looking at all?
What if…what if he was thinking the same thing….what if he was yelling in his mind over and over stop looking at me?
Fuck.
Oh God….
“Dean?”
Oh shit—“What?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, go to sleep.” Oh God. Was he thinking that hard? His brother was trying to kill him. And now…pajamas. Pajamas were the issue. He remembered when Sam would leap out of the tub, squeaky clean and dripping wet, and they’d hustle him into his little flannel pj’s, and throw his ass in bed, g’night and be done. Dad would slap him on the back and tell him good job, and he’d drift off to sleep, having done his duty by Sammy, and his dad….
Now. Now. Pajamas. Sam got older, and he didn’t have to run a tub for him or wash behind his ears—hand him the washcloth and growl, clean yer own butt and he’d giggle and dash for the bathroom, scrub and brush all by himself and--
Then that became a punch to the head and a shove into the bathroom—get cleaned you stink. Getting cursed at from behind a locked door, and him giggling and watching Letterman or whatever…waiting for Dad to come back. Done his duty.
That had worked out perfectly for years. Perfect. And then Sammy had to screw it up.
First time he noticed… it was summer, in Pennsylvania. Hot and sticky as hell but the dump they were staying in, miracle of miracles, had a real pool. Small as shit and never cold from all the other bodies in it but wet. Sam was making lunch, still dripping from the pool, smelling like pool, and wearing the bottoms of his PJs even though it was early still.
Cold, he said, when he asked why. He was smearing generic peanut butter over bread, the little plastic knife flipping and bending in his hand, cursing under his breath about dollar store plastic ware and….
Sam’s back was long, and brown from the sun and his shoulder blades slid under his skin like wings trying to break free…he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring. No, he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring and he was stiff. A little. Not a lot.
Yes he was. A lot.
Sam looked at him weird that night, before he went to bed. The bigger bed. The one he shared with Dad. ‘Cause Dean was oldest and got his own bed. Yeah. He was the man.
He knew damn well why he got the single. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, without elbowing his brother. He was pathetically grateful his dad didn’t make a big deal over it. He didn’t think he could take a lecture on puberty and shit.
That’s what the internet was for.
It was weird how well he remembered that particular motel room.
It was long and narrow and the walls were cinderblock and painted pea soup green. And the bathroom door stuck. There was a full bed with a brown corduroy spread covering it against the wall facing the door, and nightstand and a twin bed, with a brown and green striped spread on it. The carpet was green. The curtains were green. There was a tiny fridge and a table with a chair next to it.
Maybe it was supposed to be a desk.
It was seriously ugly and seriously depressing and he spent any rare blessed time he was alone in the bathroom, jerking off. Oh god. For a damn long time the smell of peanut butter and chlorine made him horny as fuck. One time he scooped up peanut butter on his finger and sucked it clean while he jerked off. His knees gave out when he came that time.
Sammy wore the pajama bottoms out.
The next motel, He shared a bed with Sam.
That motel was on the edge of Hades. All day long, he’d sweat. All night long, he’d burn in hell. Sam would lay next to him, rolled away and still as death, heat pouring off him, and the smell of his sweat forcing itself in his nose and. And it was too hot for pajamas Sam said, and wore boxers to bed and he burned.
Sam was tall for his age, he shot up that Summer, got really tall. And so thin, it was painful to look.
He looked a lot that summer, oh god he looked an awful lot.
Come Fall, Dad had an attack of parenting and somewhere in Jersey, he found a little house to rent, and a school to enroll Sam in and he was pretty glad not to move for a while. He put a poster on the wall on his side of the room. They went to Wal-Mart and bought sheets, blankets…house stuff. Clothes.
He slipped a package of pajamas into the cart. For Sam.
The house was a shotgun with faded linoleum in all the rooms…he remembered it felt gritty underfoot, and how cold it was in the morning. The place smelled like wet newspaper all the time…
For a little bit it was home.
With a back yard on the edge of northing, Dad taught him and Sam how to shoot. He taught them basic moves in self defense but mostly taught them how to protect themselves against the things a gun wouldn’t stop. Sam figured being a freshman in a strange town was pretty much the same as tackling a demon.
He explained to him the plastic knives were no go for school.
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. You won’t stick out because you’re new.” Sam looked hopeful until he said, “You’ll stick out because you’re freakishly tall and ugly.”
They grappled around on the mostly sand of the backyard of that little gray house. Rolled around and around and landed in a pile of arms and legs and. He was hard enough to throb and he was tight against Sam’s back. Butt. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding, under his locked wrists he felt his ribs heaving, and he pried his hands apart and let Sam stand up.
Sam kicked him and walked into the house.
…it wasn’t an unfriendly kick.
When he came in the house Sam was making lunch, he made him a peanut butter sandwich too, without a word slid the plate across the table at him.
Even made him a glass of Boost.
He managed to choke down the sandwich without getting hard. Harder.
They sort of didn’t wrestle again…like, wrestled but not…like that.
He dreamed it though. All night long, dreamed of Sam moving against him, his cock pressed hard against his back, and rubbing, and rubbing…sometimes he’d wake up and hear an echo of a groan. He’d be pulsing in his shorts and for a moment feel—great until the guilt kicked his ass.
Pervert.
****
TBC
Fandom:SpN
Pairing:Oh please....
Rating:3
Summary: This little PWP is for
mkitty_03, who wanted slow torturous seduction, but this isn't it. It will be I hope. For all my friends who left me on the shores of the Nile to hang out with those freaky brothers.This is the working title--if it actually becomes something, I'll give it a real title. Or I'll ask
luvmax1 for one. *g*eta:part one
Lately, things were getting hard—difficult!—to deal with. He wasn’t really sure what to think. Except maybe he was kind of sick or something.
His brother was driving him nuts on all kinds of levels, and he couldn’t even say anything—what the fuck could he say—Hey, stop making me think about following you into the bathroom and dropping to my knees in front of you. Stop looking like sex. Stop looking at me!
It was like living with one of those fucking eye paintings—the shit people said when ever they tried to point out how great a shit painting was—look the eyes follow you around the room. So fucking what. His brothers eyes followed *him* around and it wasn’t that terrific a thing. It was like being pinned…all the time.
He never said anything! He just looked! And worse—he was never sure where he was looking—at his face, or. Or his crotch.
What if he wasn’t looking at all?
What if…what if he was thinking the same thing….what if he was yelling in his mind over and over stop looking at me?
Fuck.
Oh God….
“Dean?”
Oh shit—“What?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, go to sleep.” Oh God. Was he thinking that hard? His brother was trying to kill him. And now…pajamas. Pajamas were the issue. He remembered when Sam would leap out of the tub, squeaky clean and dripping wet, and they’d hustle him into his little flannel pj’s, and throw his ass in bed, g’night and be done. Dad would slap him on the back and tell him good job, and he’d drift off to sleep, having done his duty by Sammy, and his dad….
Now. Now. Pajamas. Sam got older, and he didn’t have to run a tub for him or wash behind his ears—hand him the washcloth and growl, clean yer own butt and he’d giggle and dash for the bathroom, scrub and brush all by himself and--
Then that became a punch to the head and a shove into the bathroom—get cleaned you stink. Getting cursed at from behind a locked door, and him giggling and watching Letterman or whatever…waiting for Dad to come back. Done his duty.
That had worked out perfectly for years. Perfect. And then Sammy had to screw it up.
First time he noticed… it was summer, in Pennsylvania. Hot and sticky as hell but the dump they were staying in, miracle of miracles, had a real pool. Small as shit and never cold from all the other bodies in it but wet. Sam was making lunch, still dripping from the pool, smelling like pool, and wearing the bottoms of his PJs even though it was early still.
Cold, he said, when he asked why. He was smearing generic peanut butter over bread, the little plastic knife flipping and bending in his hand, cursing under his breath about dollar store plastic ware and….
Sam’s back was long, and brown from the sun and his shoulder blades slid under his skin like wings trying to break free…he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring. No, he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring and he was stiff. A little. Not a lot.
Yes he was. A lot.
Sam looked at him weird that night, before he went to bed. The bigger bed. The one he shared with Dad. ‘Cause Dean was oldest and got his own bed. Yeah. He was the man.
He knew damn well why he got the single. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, without elbowing his brother. He was pathetically grateful his dad didn’t make a big deal over it. He didn’t think he could take a lecture on puberty and shit.
That’s what the internet was for.
It was weird how well he remembered that particular motel room.
It was long and narrow and the walls were cinderblock and painted pea soup green. And the bathroom door stuck. There was a full bed with a brown corduroy spread covering it against the wall facing the door, and nightstand and a twin bed, with a brown and green striped spread on it. The carpet was green. The curtains were green. There was a tiny fridge and a table with a chair next to it.
Maybe it was supposed to be a desk.
It was seriously ugly and seriously depressing and he spent any rare blessed time he was alone in the bathroom, jerking off. Oh god. For a damn long time the smell of peanut butter and chlorine made him horny as fuck. One time he scooped up peanut butter on his finger and sucked it clean while he jerked off. His knees gave out when he came that time.
Sammy wore the pajama bottoms out.
The next motel, He shared a bed with Sam.
That motel was on the edge of Hades. All day long, he’d sweat. All night long, he’d burn in hell. Sam would lay next to him, rolled away and still as death, heat pouring off him, and the smell of his sweat forcing itself in his nose and. And it was too hot for pajamas Sam said, and wore boxers to bed and he burned.
Sam was tall for his age, he shot up that Summer, got really tall. And so thin, it was painful to look.
He looked a lot that summer, oh god he looked an awful lot.
Come Fall, Dad had an attack of parenting and somewhere in Jersey, he found a little house to rent, and a school to enroll Sam in and he was pretty glad not to move for a while. He put a poster on the wall on his side of the room. They went to Wal-Mart and bought sheets, blankets…house stuff. Clothes.
He slipped a package of pajamas into the cart. For Sam.
The house was a shotgun with faded linoleum in all the rooms…he remembered it felt gritty underfoot, and how cold it was in the morning. The place smelled like wet newspaper all the time…
For a little bit it was home.
With a back yard on the edge of northing, Dad taught him and Sam how to shoot. He taught them basic moves in self defense but mostly taught them how to protect themselves against the things a gun wouldn’t stop. Sam figured being a freshman in a strange town was pretty much the same as tackling a demon.
He explained to him the plastic knives were no go for school.
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. You won’t stick out because you’re new.” Sam looked hopeful until he said, “You’ll stick out because you’re freakishly tall and ugly.”
They grappled around on the mostly sand of the backyard of that little gray house. Rolled around and around and landed in a pile of arms and legs and. He was hard enough to throb and he was tight against Sam’s back. Butt. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding, under his locked wrists he felt his ribs heaving, and he pried his hands apart and let Sam stand up.
Sam kicked him and walked into the house.
…it wasn’t an unfriendly kick.
When he came in the house Sam was making lunch, he made him a peanut butter sandwich too, without a word slid the plate across the table at him.
Even made him a glass of Boost.
He managed to choke down the sandwich without getting hard. Harder.
They sort of didn’t wrestle again…like, wrestled but not…like that.
He dreamed it though. All night long, dreamed of Sam moving against him, his cock pressed hard against his back, and rubbing, and rubbing…sometimes he’d wake up and hear an echo of a groan. He’d be pulsing in his shorts and for a moment feel—great until the guilt kicked his ass.
Pervert.
****
TBC
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
4/10/07 02:37 am (UTC)Jesus.
Oh, Dean.
(no subject)
4/10/07 02:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 02:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 03:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 02:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 03:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 02:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 03:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 02:59 am (UTC)Dad had an attack of parenting
This sums up John's approach *completely*, IMHO.
Do you needa beta? Cuz this could use a little cleaning up, most for formatting & capitalization.
BTW, what's "Boost"?
(no subject)
4/10/07 03:09 am (UTC)And yes! I need a beta! I kind of went off all over the place on this, the style changes halfway through, I think.
Omg--what's Boost? Tak-a-Boost? Drink-A-Toast? You never saw it at the Acme? Giiiirl...tsk! It's so South Jersey!
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4/10/07 03:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 03:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 03:31 am (UTC)LOL
Roxy! You're not allowed to be all fun and sarcastic with disclamers.
*wipes keyboard*
(no subject)
4/10/07 03:38 am (UTC)*snorflesnorfle*
(no subject)
4/10/07 05:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 10:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 04:28 pm (UTC)Seriously, i just....love. The shotgun house, the gritty floor, the pajama bottoms and the bendy plastic knife, Sam's long back and Dean watching, watching, watching...
Freakin' lovely!
(no subject)
4/10/07 10:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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4/10/07 04:52 pm (UTC)And hey, no pressure or anything for a title, right?
(no subject)
4/10/07 10:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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4/10/07 09:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 10:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 09:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/10/07 10:24 pm (UTC)Now I'M going to have that reaction to peanut butter. Except I have girly parts instead.
LOL!!
(no subject)
4/10/07 11:08 pm (UTC)Nnnnng. Lord sweet Papi Johnson with an erection. Sweet Jesus! Please to be continuing this now.
I love the voice and flow of this piece.
(no subject)
4/11/07 02:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/11/07 02:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/11/07 12:10 am (UTC)I'm loving it. Please, sir, can I have s'more?
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4/11/07 02:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
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4/11/07 04:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/11/07 03:18 pm (UTC)Yummm
4/11/07 03:00 pm (UTC)Re: Yummm
4/11/07 03:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/12/07 02:13 am (UTC)You have to post more soon!
(no subject)
4/12/07 05:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/12/07 02:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/12/07 03:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/12/07 04:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/27/07 07:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/27/07 10:51 am (UTC)Attack of parenting? Brilliant line in itself, and for the memories it stirs up - especially because I have a total love of stories that feature memories of "the talk" (whether it happens or not).
Anyway, so the story fits me just right, and I couldn't help but be reminded of one of my own mother's 'attacks of parenting', she tried to give me "the talk" - I was about 40 days shy of my eighteenth birthday.