Prompt: Wincest. Sex in the Impala. Something along the lines of Blowjobs and Sandwiches (which I believe was the first SPN fic I ever read -- I owe it all to you!) (Note from me: HAH! That's hilarious. What an entry to the fandom.)
Sam’s too fucking tall, that’s what Dean thinks. Just too goddamn tall, all elbows and knees, and he wants to call the whole thing off and just suck Sam’s dick if he’s that het up, when Sam leans all the way down and across Dean’s whole body and puts his mouth right behind Dean’s ear and bites down. Dean can feel the tip of Sam’s dick sliding across his skin, knuckles underneath where Sam’s holding himself steady. He’s so fucking hot, his whole body covering Dean’s. It feels like the first time he’s been warm in a week. The heater’s been out in the car and that’s all they’ve had to sleep in, waking up frost-bitten and sluggish each morning. Dean can feel the ice on the window against his cheek and Sam all over him and just -
“Fuck, Sam, get on with it,” he grits out, and gasps when Sam’s teeth close around the back of his neck, right along the knobs of his spine and Dean drops his head instinctively, hating himself a little for it, like he’s rolling over and showing his belly to Sammy and he kinda is.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sam growls, his breath hot on Dean’s skin.
“Come on, Sam, come on, don’t make me fucking beg for it,” Dean says. He can’t twist his head too far - can’t move at all, really, pushed up and held down in the back seat, the leather squeaking under his knees, his hand braced between his forehead and the window so he doesn’t crack open his own head when Sam finally fucks into him. He’s chanting it under his breath, come on come on come on, his shoulder starting to ache from supporting all his weight, his other hand wrapped around his dick, fingers shaking. Sam told him not touch himself, said don’t you do it Dean when he yanked Dean’s jeans down around his thighs and Dean’s not gonna do it but he’s so fucking hard it hurts, his hips jerking forward and his whole body pushing back against Sam. He can’t see anything, the window fogged up from his breath, his hand smearing through all that condensation. Beads of water rolling over his fingers. Belly up and open and aching for it.
Prompt: Gordon/Dean, any scenerio in which you can make that work (Note from me: this was tricky. Gordon is also tricky.)
There’s not a lot that surprises Gordon Walker. He’s seen a lot in his life, a lot of darkness, a lot of evil, and you either fight through it or you let that evil drown you. So he wasn’t all that surprised to see that Dean Winchester latch on to him like a dying man. He knew how close the kid was to his dad and even if he hadn’t, he’d be able to see it in Dean’s eyes, in the way he moved. Gordon knew that sort of hurt. Saw it loosen with every shot and story, creep out from under that wall he thinks is protecting little Sammy.
He was surprised when Dean grabbed him not five steps from the steps of that bar and steered him towards that narrow alley, pushed Gordon up against that wall and then just looked at him, waiting for Gordon to fight it, to ask why or what. He wasn’t surprised because he hadn’t thought about what Dean was offering; he isn’t blind, lord knows. He had been reading Dean differently, maybe - thought he'd been getting Daddy vibes the whole night, but that sure isn't what he's getting now.
Gordon's first thought had been funny business, some sort of move like that one they'd laid on him outside the last bar, that'd been a pretty good one. He can admit that he didn't see that one coming, so he's tense against that wall, Dean pinning his wrists down at his sides, loose enough that Gordon could break out of 'em if he wanted to. Loose enough that it's on purpose.
Dean doesn't make a move to stop him when he breaks the hold, just drops his hands back and keeps staring, waiting. He's close enough that Gordon can feel him breathing, all that heat just pouring off the boy, that same want he's been seeing all night. It's discipline that Gordon's seeing. What he heard about that dad of theirs, he wouldn't have expected any less.
Dean flinches when Gordon brings his hand up. Not exactly the reaction Gordon's expecting, not from the man who's still got that fang's blood on his face, high up on the hairline and just under his jaw, that soft spot he must've missed, cleaning himself up in Gordon's rear view mirror. It flakes away under Gordon's fingers and that's when Dean does what Gordon's been waiting for - makes a sound that Gordon didn't think a human could make, and drops to his knees onto the cement, right there on the wet cement with the bar's double doors not five feet away.
He presses his mouth to the front of Gordon's jeans, eyes closed, Gordon's hand hovering over his head. His fingers stroke over Dean's cheek, curl around the boy's skull. Dean rolls his head in Gordon's hand, pushing into it like a cat. He lets Gordon hold him there as Gordon undoes his belt, pulls the zipper down.
“Good boy,” Gordon tells him. “Good boy.”
Dean cocks an eyebrow up at him, the first smile Gordon’s seen on his face that didn’t look like it hurt. He’s glad to see it – pain like that, there’s no telling what Dean’s doing to get through it. He saw it in the bar, saw it in the way Dean handled that fang. Saw that fear on little Sammy’s face. He sees it in Dean’s face now, staring up at Gordon, that mouth wrapped around Gordon’s cock. Still smiling when Gordon tells him to suck harder, take it deeper, happy to take the orders. He’d been reading Dean right after all. Not much of a surprise, there. Gordon’s a people person, always has been.