Fic: Night Out
Title: Night Out
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: BDSM, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Face Fucking, Dom Dean, Sub Sam
Length: 1.5k words
Community: Saturday Night Specials, BroBoneBang2022
Summary: The men on the dance floor part before him. They're all there looking to stoke their fire, but Dean's a simmering volcano ready to blow, even incongruously dressed in his FBI suit. Dean can see the minute Sam notices him. His eyes widen in surprise - and then he grins, licks his lips, and throws his head back unrepentantly. He'll be repentant soon enough, Dean thinks.
Sam would never be caught dead in a place like this - loud and dark, full of pulsating music, strobing lights and leather-clad men dancing far too close to each other. There's a pounding bass beat that reverberates down the spine, and a singer yowling about sex on wheels, and naked men in cages along the walls grinding against the bars while eager hands reach up to grope and fondle and touch. It's the kind of place that has bowls with condoms, packets of lube and wet wipes instead of peanuts on the tables, and benches along the walls filled with writhing bodies. It's not a place people go to think and research in quiet contemplation – it's a place they go to let loose and lose their inhibitions. To fuck and be fucked.
No, Dean thinks as he stalks towards the dance floor, Sam would never go to a club like this.
And even if he did, he definitely wouldn't have dared to strip down to a collar and a pair of jeans so tight they might as well be painted on. And he definitely, definitely wouldn't be letting men feel him up while he danced.
Men that aren't Dean.
Not without permission.
But it's Sam, so of course he would, and has, and is.
The men on the dance floor part before him. They're all there looking to stoke their fire, but Dean's a simmering volcano ready to blow, even incongruously dressed in his FBI suit.
Dean can see the minute Sam notices him. His eyes widen in surprise - and then he grins, licks his lips, and throws his head back unrepentantly.
He'll be repentant soon enough, Dean thinks. Then he stalks up to his brother and winds his hair in his fingers, grasping it tightly and yanking him close.
"Gone out?" he whispers. "Don't wait up?" He doesn't wait for Sam to answer – knows what the answer will be anyway. Sam wouldn't have left the note and his computer on with the club's address pulled up on it otherwise. Instead, he shoves his knee forward, nudging Sam's legs apart until he widens his stride and grinds down, his rapidly hardening cock pressed against Dean's thigh.
It's Sam's one saving grace – all these hard male bodies around, pressing up against him, and he's just now getting hard, because Sam only gets hard for Dean.
"I was only trying to be considerate," Sam smirks.
Dean twists Sam's hair around his fingers until he can touch skin under his knuckles and Sam is no longer smiling.
"Considerate, Sir," he corrects.
Sam's eyes glaze a little and his cock fattens even further. "Sir," he breathes.
Dean twists Sam around, hair still firmly wrapped around his fist, and uses his free hand to twist Sam's arm behind his back. Then he frog-marches him forward until he's pressed up against the edge of the stage, the spotlight giving him an almost angelic glow.
He pushes Sam's chest down against the stage with a hissed, "Stay." Then he stands back and strips off his suit jacket, folding it up carefully next to Sam's head. He leaves the shirt on – just rolls up the sleeves – but the belt and tie both come off. It's a moments work to twist Sam's other arm behind his back and wrap the belt around them, forearm to forearm, securing them in place. The tie goes between Sam's lips, tied behind his head.
Sam quivers under his touch as Dean wraps his hands around Sam's waist and unbuckles his belt, pulling it free. A lot of the floor is still dancing, but they've gathered an audience, fifteen or so men in a nice respectful half-circle around them. The music's changed now, harder and faster, a man and a woman moaning about pure sex, deep sex, hot sex, rough sex. He's sure the DJ has his eye on them because it's perfect for what Dean has in mind.
He folds Sam's belt in two over his fist, securing the buckle safely within his fist, then yanks Sam's jeans down around his ankles, forcing his feet as far apart as the stretchy denim will let them. The fact that Sam's decided to go commando tonight makes it all the sweeter. He doesn't mind showing off his boy's ass. They can look, just not touch.
He checks Sam's face, to make sure he's still calm, anticipatory, in the zone. And then he brings the belt down on Sam's ass. Sam jerks, sending his cock swinging, and then he relaxes back down onto the stage, like some little knot of tension in him has finally relaxed.
A cheer goes up from the audience.
And Dean gives Sam what he needs. Each of the first ten cries wrings a cry out of Sam. The next five send him moaning and arching back against the strap. The final five, he's flying high on endorphins, just taking each blow with a dreamy moan – exactly where Dean wanted him to be.
Which means it's Dean's turn now.
He almost tosses Sam's belt aside, but thinks better at the last minute. Instead, he threads it under Sam's collar and down around his bound wrists, buckling it into place – loose enough for safety, but tight enough that Sam can tighten the collar just enough to get the pressure on his throat that he enjoys if he wants it.
He thinks about fucking Sam; the audience would love it. But Dean's ultimately selfish; he's fine rolling a rubber over Sam's cock to keep him from making a mess, but he doesn't want to bother with one himself. With a hand on Sam's wrists and another on his hips, he tugs him off of the stage and removes his tie gag as he switches their positions – Dean's back to the stage, Sam's back to the audience, pants pooled around his ankles to give the club a great view of his bright-red ass.
Then he kisses Sam on the forehead and presses down on his shoulders.
Sam folds instantly, legs collapsing shakily into the kneeling position that Dean taught him so many years ago.
Dean knots the tie through the ring in the front of Sam's collar and reels him in, unzipping his pants to pull out his own rock-hard cock.
"Suck."
Everything about Sam is jumbo – height, cock, and mouth, a fact that Dean loves, especially at times like these when he just leans forward and swallows Dean down to the root. It's a gift, Sam's mouth, silky and wet and perfect for thrusting into. He doesn't know if it's raw talent or four years of practice at Stanford that taught Sam how to overcome his gag reflex, and frankly, he doesn't want to know. He's happy to assume it's the former and just reap the benefits of it.
Sam works him like a pro, swallowing him down entirely, then pulling off almost to the tip and flicking his tongue along the underside of the head. Dean keeps the tie in his hand but leaves it loose; they both prefer it when Dean grabs Sam's hair and yanks it to control the pace. The next time his brother's head brushes Dean's pubes, he does just that, fisting his hair and holding him in place. Sam takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat, magically finding another inch he can press in even further. He can see Sam discreetly lifting his arms behind him, tightening the belt.
Dean sets up a brutal pace then, fucking Sam's face with no concern for his breathing until Sam's wrists drop back down. Then he pulls out and holds, waiting for the infinitesimal nod that tells him it's all still green, before starting right back up again. It doesn't take him long to feel that pleasure welling up inside of him. He's not here to entertain the masses any longer than it takes him to get his rocks off.
He pulls back right before he comes, keeping his cock close to Sam so his fluids cover his cheeks, chin, lips, so everyone knows whose boy he is.
Mine.
He hauls Sam to his feet and wraps his hand around Sam's condom-covered cock. A few strips of his hands is all it takes. He leans in and whispers, "Come for me," and Sam groans and lets go. Someplace in the back of his mind, he can hear the applause from their watchers. But right now, his world is just him and Sam.
Just the way it should be.
Dean holds Sam until he's stable, his earlier smirk entirely gone in favor of a soft, lax grin. Then he zips himself away and pulls Sam's pants up, leaving them unbuttoned so his soft cock is on display – he'll throw the condom away once they find a place to sit – and grabs his jacket. A tug on the necktie-leash on Sam's collar gets him to follow as Dean leads him over to a table that's unoccupied, nodding to a waitress as he goes to meet him there.
"Don't think we're not talking about you coming here on your own," Dean says. The dopey, relaxed look on Sam's face tells Dean he might as well save the rest of the lecture for later, once Sam's come back down to earth.
Just in time, Dean thinks, for round two.
~fin~
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: BDSM, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Face Fucking, Dom Dean, Sub Sam
Length: 1.5k words
Community: Saturday Night Specials, BroBoneBang2022
Summary: The men on the dance floor part before him. They're all there looking to stoke their fire, but Dean's a simmering volcano ready to blow, even incongruously dressed in his FBI suit. Dean can see the minute Sam notices him. His eyes widen in surprise - and then he grins, licks his lips, and throws his head back unrepentantly. He'll be repentant soon enough, Dean thinks.
Sam would never be caught dead in a place like this - loud and dark, full of pulsating music, strobing lights and leather-clad men dancing far too close to each other. There's a pounding bass beat that reverberates down the spine, and a singer yowling about sex on wheels, and naked men in cages along the walls grinding against the bars while eager hands reach up to grope and fondle and touch. It's the kind of place that has bowls with condoms, packets of lube and wet wipes instead of peanuts on the tables, and benches along the walls filled with writhing bodies. It's not a place people go to think and research in quiet contemplation – it's a place they go to let loose and lose their inhibitions. To fuck and be fucked.
No, Dean thinks as he stalks towards the dance floor, Sam would never go to a club like this.
And even if he did, he definitely wouldn't have dared to strip down to a collar and a pair of jeans so tight they might as well be painted on. And he definitely, definitely wouldn't be letting men feel him up while he danced.
Men that aren't Dean.
Not without permission.
But it's Sam, so of course he would, and has, and is.
The men on the dance floor part before him. They're all there looking to stoke their fire, but Dean's a simmering volcano ready to blow, even incongruously dressed in his FBI suit.
Dean can see the minute Sam notices him. His eyes widen in surprise - and then he grins, licks his lips, and throws his head back unrepentantly.
He'll be repentant soon enough, Dean thinks. Then he stalks up to his brother and winds his hair in his fingers, grasping it tightly and yanking him close.
"Gone out?" he whispers. "Don't wait up?" He doesn't wait for Sam to answer – knows what the answer will be anyway. Sam wouldn't have left the note and his computer on with the club's address pulled up on it otherwise. Instead, he shoves his knee forward, nudging Sam's legs apart until he widens his stride and grinds down, his rapidly hardening cock pressed against Dean's thigh.
It's Sam's one saving grace – all these hard male bodies around, pressing up against him, and he's just now getting hard, because Sam only gets hard for Dean.
"I was only trying to be considerate," Sam smirks.
Dean twists Sam's hair around his fingers until he can touch skin under his knuckles and Sam is no longer smiling.
"Considerate, Sir," he corrects.
Sam's eyes glaze a little and his cock fattens even further. "Sir," he breathes.
Dean twists Sam around, hair still firmly wrapped around his fist, and uses his free hand to twist Sam's arm behind his back. Then he frog-marches him forward until he's pressed up against the edge of the stage, the spotlight giving him an almost angelic glow.
He pushes Sam's chest down against the stage with a hissed, "Stay." Then he stands back and strips off his suit jacket, folding it up carefully next to Sam's head. He leaves the shirt on – just rolls up the sleeves – but the belt and tie both come off. It's a moments work to twist Sam's other arm behind his back and wrap the belt around them, forearm to forearm, securing them in place. The tie goes between Sam's lips, tied behind his head.
Sam quivers under his touch as Dean wraps his hands around Sam's waist and unbuckles his belt, pulling it free. A lot of the floor is still dancing, but they've gathered an audience, fifteen or so men in a nice respectful half-circle around them. The music's changed now, harder and faster, a man and a woman moaning about pure sex, deep sex, hot sex, rough sex. He's sure the DJ has his eye on them because it's perfect for what Dean has in mind.
He folds Sam's belt in two over his fist, securing the buckle safely within his fist, then yanks Sam's jeans down around his ankles, forcing his feet as far apart as the stretchy denim will let them. The fact that Sam's decided to go commando tonight makes it all the sweeter. He doesn't mind showing off his boy's ass. They can look, just not touch.
He checks Sam's face, to make sure he's still calm, anticipatory, in the zone. And then he brings the belt down on Sam's ass. Sam jerks, sending his cock swinging, and then he relaxes back down onto the stage, like some little knot of tension in him has finally relaxed.
A cheer goes up from the audience.
And Dean gives Sam what he needs. Each of the first ten cries wrings a cry out of Sam. The next five send him moaning and arching back against the strap. The final five, he's flying high on endorphins, just taking each blow with a dreamy moan – exactly where Dean wanted him to be.
Which means it's Dean's turn now.
He almost tosses Sam's belt aside, but thinks better at the last minute. Instead, he threads it under Sam's collar and down around his bound wrists, buckling it into place – loose enough for safety, but tight enough that Sam can tighten the collar just enough to get the pressure on his throat that he enjoys if he wants it.
He thinks about fucking Sam; the audience would love it. But Dean's ultimately selfish; he's fine rolling a rubber over Sam's cock to keep him from making a mess, but he doesn't want to bother with one himself. With a hand on Sam's wrists and another on his hips, he tugs him off of the stage and removes his tie gag as he switches their positions – Dean's back to the stage, Sam's back to the audience, pants pooled around his ankles to give the club a great view of his bright-red ass.
Then he kisses Sam on the forehead and presses down on his shoulders.
Sam folds instantly, legs collapsing shakily into the kneeling position that Dean taught him so many years ago.
Dean knots the tie through the ring in the front of Sam's collar and reels him in, unzipping his pants to pull out his own rock-hard cock.
"Suck."
Everything about Sam is jumbo – height, cock, and mouth, a fact that Dean loves, especially at times like these when he just leans forward and swallows Dean down to the root. It's a gift, Sam's mouth, silky and wet and perfect for thrusting into. He doesn't know if it's raw talent or four years of practice at Stanford that taught Sam how to overcome his gag reflex, and frankly, he doesn't want to know. He's happy to assume it's the former and just reap the benefits of it.
Sam works him like a pro, swallowing him down entirely, then pulling off almost to the tip and flicking his tongue along the underside of the head. Dean keeps the tie in his hand but leaves it loose; they both prefer it when Dean grabs Sam's hair and yanks it to control the pace. The next time his brother's head brushes Dean's pubes, he does just that, fisting his hair and holding him in place. Sam takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat, magically finding another inch he can press in even further. He can see Sam discreetly lifting his arms behind him, tightening the belt.
Dean sets up a brutal pace then, fucking Sam's face with no concern for his breathing until Sam's wrists drop back down. Then he pulls out and holds, waiting for the infinitesimal nod that tells him it's all still green, before starting right back up again. It doesn't take him long to feel that pleasure welling up inside of him. He's not here to entertain the masses any longer than it takes him to get his rocks off.
He pulls back right before he comes, keeping his cock close to Sam so his fluids cover his cheeks, chin, lips, so everyone knows whose boy he is.
Mine.
He hauls Sam to his feet and wraps his hand around Sam's condom-covered cock. A few strips of his hands is all it takes. He leans in and whispers, "Come for me," and Sam groans and lets go. Someplace in the back of his mind, he can hear the applause from their watchers. But right now, his world is just him and Sam.
Just the way it should be.
Dean holds Sam until he's stable, his earlier smirk entirely gone in favor of a soft, lax grin. Then he zips himself away and pulls Sam's pants up, leaving them unbuttoned so his soft cock is on display – he'll throw the condom away once they find a place to sit – and grabs his jacket. A tug on the necktie-leash on Sam's collar gets him to follow as Dean leads him over to a table that's unoccupied, nodding to a waitress as he goes to meet him there.
"Don't think we're not talking about you coming here on your own," Dean says. The dopey, relaxed look on Sam's face tells Dean he might as well save the rest of the lecture for later, once Sam's come back down to earth.
Just in time, Dean thinks, for round two.
~fin~