Supernatural Drabbles: Storm, Nylon, Chrome

[kat_lair]

It was fledge’s birthday a (long) while back and as usual I offered drabbles. She gave me some pretty damn evil prompts. There was a distinctive tinge of hysteria in my laughter, but hey, it was a challenge. A sensual challenge. *nodnod*

Hopefully this comes close to what you wanted...

Prompts under cuts.

 

Supernatural – implied Dean/Sam – PG

Storm
(prompt: wings)

The feathers are charcoal grey. The wind cards through them, exposing black spots like eyes, dotted along the edges. 

They weigh the world, battle-spun and fierce, and Dean screams, lit from the inside and burning bright. He’s on his knees, wings spread out like sails above him, dark against the darker sky.

Sam can’t touch him. They are separated by a hairsbreadth, breaths mingling, the white ghost of might-have-beens curling between their mouths. Freedom is always the first casualty of war, Dean learned it young.

Sam is not the enemy, but they aren’t exactly fighting on the same side either.

Supernatural – Dean/Sam – R

Nylon
(prompts: tights, touching, can be funny but must be sensual)

“One word, I swear to god.”

Sam is prepared to fight laughter but not the arousal that spikes through him, and Dean ends up slammed against the bathroom door. Sam smears the hooker-red lipstick with his thumb, the other hand sliding under Dean’s dress, pushing it out of the way. 

They’ll need a new plan. Sam’s not letting Dean out looking like this; cheap and available.

He runs his fingers along the inside of Dean’s thighs, ragged nails catching on the thin nylon, digging deep into the soft flesh underneath. 

Dean gasps, lips parting in pain.

Sam presses down harder.

Supernatural – Dean/Impala, Dean/Sam – NC-17

Chrome
(prompts: Dean/Impala, sex involving the car, Sam’s POV)

 

The metal is hot after hours of driving in August heat and Dean hisses, part pain, part pleasure. The sound twists into something dark and dangerous inside Sam, making his grip tighten around the back of Dean’s neck.

“Do it,” he says, and Dean’s hips jerk sharply, nails scrabbling for purchase. 

Sam watches the curve of his brother’s spine, bowing rhythmically at every long drag of his cock over the hood of the Impala, precome painting wet stripes into the dust.

When Sam pushes two fingers inside Dean, both he and the car rock forward, groaning under the midday sun.