Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess
Word Count: 1,620
Spoilers: AU for SPN, Spoilers for Stardust (movie version).
Summary: Undergarments are not worn by stars, Sam discovers. There are other things that Sam Winchester learns when stuck up on a cloud with Dean, but that's probably the least racy fact he can share with the general public.
Author’s Notes: Sequel to The Prettiest Star by ignited. Much thanks to Stef for the beta. I am to blame for the random The Princess Bride shoutout.
Clouds, Sam decides, are quite unpleasant. Wet and airy, leaving him damp and adrift in nothing, only reason he's not plummeting to the ground is possibly due to Sam's refusal to look down. Or look at his traveling companion. Even in stained whites, Dean looks clean, suspiciously so, utterly soaked and oh, white cloth goes kinda translucent with the dew, makes him look unearthly but not unsubstantial, all the more beautiful.
Clouds aren't that bad, maybe.
Undergarments are not worn by stars, Sam discovers. This is made obvious when Dean turns around, flashes a smile too bright. Makes Sam want to clean out his mouth until it's just as sparkly-perfect. Dean's glowing at Sam.
Dean's been hanging over the edge, staring down at the ground—the weirdo—and somehow he's kneeling in the wispy wet fog, his pants dipping low on narrow hips, torso trimming down to a ‘V’. Goes to walk/crawl towards Sam, a trail of faint brown exposed, from bellybutton (stars have them too, it seems, easy to mistake a star for a human when their anatomy is the same), the line of hair disappearing under his low-slung waistband.
Yeah, that, right there, that's a lie, it isn't disappearing, because whites in the stormcloud have left nothing to the imagination. It’s just, well, obvious, that’s the word, it's the outline of his—
"Yeah," Dean says shortly, chomps down, keeping his teeth from clattering in the cold (so stars can feel cold, he's such a liar), "I told you I was a big star. Rock star."
Sam goes to tell him stop doing that, he's freaked out by the way his stomach flip-flops at Dean's gross come-ons, but Dean takes advantage of the awkward pause. A star on a cloud, even with a gimpy leg, can balance far better than a wounded human on a cloud (and that's a story for another day). His lips graze the edge of Sam's mouth, moving to push closer and against.
It's odd, not burning, but warm, too warm, Sam gasps against the contact. Lets his mouth open and Dean's tongue pushes in, darts past teeth, pressing, rolling with Sam's tongue. Breaks away, his teeth catch Sam's bottom lip, flick of his tongue against the captured lip, and that...that just does it.
Sam clutches at the damp front of Dean's shirt, twisting it around his sore and burnt fingers, ignores the hard hit of pain, hisses in Dean's mouth instead. Not fair, not fair, Sam's hands are too clumsy, calluses brushing across the smooth planes of Dean's face, the hard angle of cheekbones, then jaw, slipping further to Dean's neck, wonderingly pausing at his pulse, heartbeat too steady.
Dean's hands are different, better, he has finesse. Sam glances down when Dean breaks away when he tries to yank open Sam's shirt, buttons flying everywhere, sinking down into the airy cloud, out of sight, out of mind.
Inanely, maybe a little hysterically (not giggling though, Sam doesn't, well, he's reacting to the cold-and-hot that's setting his nerves on fire, that's all), he blurts out, "Do you manicure them when I'm sleeping?"
"What?" Dean pauses to raise an eyebrow at Sam before going back to unfastening Sam's trousers, which are, more than usual, way too tight.
"Your hands. They're so, uh, not like mine."
Dean puts a hand up to his face, the very picture of studious, that look. Examines his hand for a moment before shrugging, licking his palm, slowly, steals a moan from Sam then a gasp when the wet hand grips Sam's dick, slides down. Down to the base of his dick, pressure sending something hot coiling, deep inside, but it doesn't last, Dean backs up, his hand stroking back up Sam's dick. Dean asks, voice low, rough, "You like it like that?"
"Uhh, I..." Tries to flop his head into something that looks like a nod, mumbles, exhales, voice gone out of him, please don't stop.
"Guess not." Apparently stars can cackle. Evilly.
Sam answers Dean by pulling down those stupid too-low pants, the ones that hug his hips snug without a bad wrinkle in sight. Dean doesn't help it, how he struts around like he owns the place, manages it even with a bad limp, flirting with anything that moves. Dean's even leered at trees; stars are just...just wrong.
It's warm, this, their mouths fused together, stealing touches wherever they damn well please. Shouldn't be, they should be freezing, drowned rats barely surviving a yellow-eyed warlock's twisted plan, but it's right, somehow. Heat that doesn't steam off of their skins, it's deeper than that.
Pulls Dean to him, crashes back, back into the cloud, the stupid fluffy white cloud of murky doom, hard to see Dean here, but he can seek him out. Uses mouth and fingers, keeps him close and Dean's content to lie on top, moving, um, moving around a lot. Sam feels Dean's dick pressing against Sam's thigh, shifts again, and, can’t help it, Sam gasps, "Oh fuck."
"Yeah. That's the idea," Dean manages. Grabs Sam's hand, stills it, then soundly smacks, open-palmed, Sam's hand on Dean's backside, waits for it. This time, it’s Sam, all on his own, smacking down hard, yeah, that works. "Your hands ain't bad."
Sam pushes against the curve, dipping low, down the cleft of Dean's ass, testing, asks, "Not bad?"
Shudders, Dean bites at Sam's jaw. "Fine, better than not bad."
Goes quiet then, little noises sneaking out of them, wet and sucking, needy groans.
Dicks rubbing, slipping, too much wet not enough friction, something's gotta give.
And Dean, Sam can see him now, the light pouring out of him, eyes gone too bright, hot green like the first hit of sunrise over a meadow. Stupid thought, that, when they're not doing anything innocent by far, Dean's doing something wonderful to Sam's balls, this pressure keeps on building, sweet lie of a promise that it simply won't end. Just when Dean starts kissing his way down Sam's chest, tongue flicking around Sam's bellybutton, quick, too quick to get a laugh out of Sam, secret ticklish spot, his mouth so close to Sam's dick, his breath against the head, mouth opens and—
They hear someone calling off, in the distance, "Live ones!"
"Oh fuck it," Dean says, impatient. Licks his lips and mumbles, "Trust me."
"Trus-TUH?" Screams out that last part, can't help it, Dean's mouth is wrapped around his cock before Sam can even think, sudden wet heat and then, sucking down, down, Dean's nose bumps down as he swallows Sam whole, doesn't gag at the effort.
Smoothly sucks backwards, upwards, tongue doing something interesting to the head of Sam's dick, intermittent hard and soft touches, all warm, too warm, too much, too fast. Noisy, messy, don’t blame Sam, he can’t help it, body tightening, the pressure much too much.
Comes, red-faced and embarrassed, feels like he's failed something, lack of control, sputtering out, "But Jess...Jesus, Dean."
Something wet and whitish trickles out of the corner of Dean's mouth before he wipes it away, uses the back of his hand, sticky mess staying there. Grips Sam's right hand, slack, in his own, little squeeze, almost like he’s comforting Sam, but that’s not this star’s modus operandi. Guides Sam to his own dick.
"Fast and hard. You can do this." Adds: "Virgin."
"I'm not a—"
"Dude, you haven't screwed around with other guys. Don't even. And even if you...oh, that's, yeah, like that." Dean pants, mouth open, Sam has to bend up and catch a quick kiss, messy, corner of Dean's mouth. Tries to get a better handle, uh, not just figuratively there, on Dean, lets go for a moment, gives Dean the ability to string together a whole sentence, mumbling against Sam’s chest, words intermittent with licks, sucking noises. "Like I said, you might have rolled around in the hay with some farmer's girl, but, fuck, you never had this—"
"What's this?" Sam’s voice goes dark, low, wrapping his fingers a bit more, getting the friction that he couldn't get before. No answer, so Sam asks again, "What's this?"
"Me," Dean sputters, eyes closing, skin gone golden-touched light, hazy almost. "You never had me."
"I got you now," Sam says, amazed, Dean comes, groaning, fuck yeah, you do.
They did, in that warm afterglow, forget how they had been spotted (which is thanks to Dean’s tendency to act as a nite-light, when ahem, his emotions have gotten ahead of him). The great sky-vessel, captioned by the Dread Pirate Robert (no relation to the Dread Pirate Roberts, after all, the Dread Pirate Robert had an entirely different surname: Singer, which he dropped once his nightclub singing career ended), on its hunt for that precious resource, lightning, strung up Sam and Dean in the netting.
After some leering at the boy (who now, by all accounts appears more like a man, even standing to his full height, which is a significant measurement) and the star (who, at this point, is extremely annoyed that he is declared a high-end piece of ass and a willing whore, only needs a dress and a wig, readies his fists for a brawl, reveling in the mere idea of knocking some heads together), they find themselves down in the captain’s quarters.
Bobbi Singer. Before he let his beard grow in, he was the greatest cabaret performer in the Faerie world but an unfortunate accident with a mute piano player, a talking leopard, and a giant reanimated feather-fan had given him no place to turn to but piracy.
But that story, which involves Sam’s turn as a dashing, suspiciously tall nephew of the Dread Pirate Robert and Dean forced to masquerade as a drag queen who wears far too much eyeliner, that’s a tale for another day.