I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

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Fic: the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker (SPN, NC-17, Het/Threesome) (3/3)

the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker
a sex trilogy
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: NC-17 (Very Adult)
Warnings: Extremely Graphic Sex (so not kidding), Language
Spoilers: S2, All Hell Breaks Loose (for part 3)
Pairings: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC, Dean/Sam/OFC
Word Count: 6,800
Summary: The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, watch how they notice, how they’ve been waiting, wanting, needing a touch of something edged in recklessness, promise of ephemeral and nothing more.
Author’s Notes: This is vinylroad’s fault. I should warn again that this contains adult situations, this time of a threesome nature. ignited acted as beta and for that, she deserves a gold medal. Previous parts: Part One (Dean/OFC) and Part Two (Sam/OFC).

Feedback is adored.


The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, ah, it’s changed since the earliest rhyme, for it was a much more risqué story, back in days so forgotten they ought to be called olden. Three maids in a tub. Passive, those women, only to be looked at. Then there were the men happily satisfied by leering at their beauty: the thrill of the reveal but nothing substantial. They could only look, never touch.

No, it’s nothing like that now.

Instead it’s –

A freakin’ honest-to-god butcher (Barreling down the I-95 like a bat out of hell, or really, a woman on a vacation, first one in years, the engine’s running hot and she never bothered retrofitting the seats to deaden the feel of so much horsepower under her command, makes sure to wear a skirt so she can change into panties and pants later, vibration way too much but it’s fine, nothing better than open road and the rising tease of an orgasm to brighten up her day);

An amateur baker (Professional, thank you very much, may never see her outside of the kitchen, but she’s there, delivering artistic renderings meant to disappear bite by bite until there’s nothing but crumbs, that’s the look of success, right there. When she gets home, bypassing sweets for salt, another guilty pleasure, there are limes piled on the counter, a kiss for coming home early, late night hours always expected, but tonight’s a celebration, break out the tequila and Lydia’s ready to go, stripping off clothes and doing body shots like she’s back in college);

And not a candlestick maker, but a candle maker (She comes into work late two days later, had called in sick the day before, wearing a high turtleneck, hastily applied lipstick, foundation blurring her jaw but not obscuring the bruise and the only thing her coworker Christie bothers to say is, finally you got laid...which guy was it? and Elle has to keep herself from blurting out, who said I had to choose? She’s glad she doesn’t blush, checks the latest batch of the new scents that’ll be released by the end of the week, realizes she knows how to fix the most troublesome one: a coffee kind of scent. She’ll add something warm, scent of worn leather and not-quite sandalwood, call it the road so far, distinctly masculine, stealing the scent from the men who came in and stole something of hers).

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, watch how they notice, how they’ve been waiting, wanting, needing a touch of something edged in recklessness, promise of ephemeral and nothing more.

That’s a damn lie, pretty words to cover up the hollow points, to fuse together joints, say this is the beginning and here is the end and thus, the conjunction is the safe middle, round and sloping, petering off at the end, because such things must simply end or else things will simply go round the bend, topsy-turvy, shifting lines of a nursery rhyme.


They're the ones adrift, these transient boys, cast off from the mundane, marked as something else, dangerous and now, an imperative, no questions asked. No negotiations need.

No time left. Ticking down. Year, in the singular, as in, days, not years, and then gone.

Beginning here, this one starts, stops, picks up at different points in time (no middle to a story, there’s just story): always the same thing. The Winchesters on their journey, seeking safe harbors. See how they reach out but for a moment, time enough to touch, to impact something unlike a bruise, it fades before the shadow-dark settles over (under) skin. Keep on moving right along, that’s their song, can’t stop for nothing, least of all, regret, they carry that with the rest of their burdens.

There’s a deal made, a year, and they’ve gotten out of worse, both brothers have had the touch of death on their foreheads (but only one succumbed and now the other one’s set to wind on down), but now there is only this, a pause, breathe, stop and smell the roses.

There’s other scents mixed in too, plenty enough that it’s real easy to get distracted.

Part Three: The Candlestick Maker

Can I get there by candlelight?

Old folklore’s swirling in his mind, twisting around like the schlocky, but admittedly welcoming, tourist traps in the Pocono Mountains. There, and back again, over-caffeinated and two months down already, seeking some way to keep this from being it, ten months and then, Sam can’t say it. Won’t say it, no, he’s got to do this, find the way to break a demon’s deal without one of them winding up dead.

No route to choose from, desperate straws clutched close to the chest, and here, at an almost barn-like building, they’ve got to see if there’s any shot left, shot in the dark though it may be. They’ve always been shooting blind when it comes to doing this, second-nature, the dark.

Dean’s leaning against the counter, messing with a scrupulously arranged pyramid of tiered candles, dark waxy bottoms seamlessly integrated with light flecked tops, he’s on a mission himself, one that sets Sam’s teeth on edge, it doesn’t fix things. Go past that and Sam sees her now, pinching the bridge of her nose before putting on a fake smile, raising her chin up, and swearing that no, they haven’t changed the formula for the Scent of Home candles. The customer leaves, still grumbling how she at least deserves a discount; her pocketbook knocks over a sculpted wax dragon, elaborate high fantasy style, but Sam catches it and sets it back on the little table.

She, not a girl, somewhere in-between Sam and Dean’s ages respectively, black-haired and too expressive dark eyes that don’t cloak what she’s trying to do by putting on such a neutral face, blank canvas, only makeup she’s bothered is maybe eyeshadow. She keeps on glancing at Dean like she’s not entirely sure if he’s just a very patient madman.

He is, but not in a bad way, technically speaking.

Sam walks over, hears Dean asking something definitely vulgar, there’s a question of dipping and use of the word wick, a euphemism that she’s clearly heard before, raise of a single eyebrow as though astounded that someone still tries to get laid with that kind of opening. Sam’s heard worse from Dean but he’s done some amazing things with no material to speak of at all, Dean’s most infamous being, after too many rounds of whiskey with a group of roadies (with god-knows-what band, Sam never quite caught the name), he’d lumbered over to one of the women who’d been giving him the eye all night and said, Fuck me, you’re hot.

Sam’s pretty sure that was Dean trying to lay it on, offering up one of his sleazy compliments, but she clearly took it for an invitation, one that apparently was best experienced right outside the bar.

Ignore that it’s all the past, one of Dean’s endless conquests, empty and hollow, just a stupid hookup. Deep breath, falling into character, respectable collector, we’re antiquing he joked to Dean as they drove past the Delaware Water Gap. If this candle’s there, then, we might, Sam had cut himself off then, couldn’t say it, like wishes, it’ll evaporate if it’s spoken out loud.

I can save you if we get this in time.

Dean’s blithely ignoring that Sam’s standing to his left, now he’s asking the shopgirl if Elle is a nickname or something. She, still unsure if there’s a potential purchase here, tells him that while it’s Elena on her birth certificate, the only name she’s ever gone by has been the one crookedly attached to her nametag. Taps the plastic with a short fingernail, chipped at the edges, painted coppery-bright.

“You guys looking for some aromatherapy?” Elle’s smoothing down the front of her striped button-down, a move that makes Sam notice (for too long of a moment) that she has it unbuttoned just one too many, catches a flash of her low-cut chocolate bra, dark flush of the round of her nipple almost visible. He darts his eyes up back to her face, safe place to look. Feels flustered, hot burning across his face, idiotic way to feel, there are more important things to consume him, but what’s going through his mind at this moment? This: she so caught him.

Dean says something about how he’s always thought all five senses have to be stimulated for a person’s body to heal thyself, god, that doesn’t even make sense, and she coughs, possibly masking a laugh.

“I’m sorry, we’ve been on the road for a long time,” Sam offers. Apology, sorry my brother has manners worse than most farm animals.

“Okay,” she says, hitting the word in half with a crack of amusement, picking up on something, maybe a shared look between Sam and Dean. They’ve always been too good at hours of conversation in a couple of facial ticks, a change in body stance. “You and your brother—”

“Now that’s cool,” Dean says, keeping his voice just a treble above sleaze. “How’d you figure we were brothers?”

“I’m an only child. Spend so much time wishing for a sister, or a brother, that I noticed how...you know, it’s hard to explain. Just a thing that’s always been obvious.” Drops her eyes to the counter for a moment, like she’s said too much or she’s embarrassed. “So, is there anything you’re looking for in particular?”

“You could say that,” Dean says, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface, causes her to look up at him. Dean makes sure she sees the smile blossom across his face, old trick but it works so well. Leaves Sam standing there, thinking if this was another time, this would be his cue to back off, annoyed at his brother’s shameless mating habits, the way he’s ritualized it unknowingly, turning it into a pursuit with a far more attractive result.

“Hard to believe, but we’re looking for a candle,” Sam says.

“Yes, that is hard to believe,” Elle deadpans, taps trimmed fingernails in a staccato rhythm on the counter. Doesn’t match Dean’s tapping one bit and that’s intentional, trying to throw Dean off his game. Sam has to admire that. “Anything specific about it? What’s your poison?”


“Scent.,” she says smoothly, not missing a beat. “Everyone has one. At least coming to a place like this, someone’s looking for scented candles to enhance the home. Unscented tealights are a best seller, but they’re a dime a dozen. Not literally, don’t quote me on that price when you need to be rung up.”

“From what we know, it doesn’t smell like anything.” From what Sam knows, it’s extremely volatile and the fact that it somehow made its way to candle store is one of those freak happenstances that he’s not going to question at this time because it’s a possible way out.

“Other than smoke,” Dean says, switching out of his flirting mode with an ease that clearly discombobulates Elle.

“Scentless candles,” she hmms, a little humming noise in the back of her throat. “I like making them, it’s simple, you know? Exactly what a candle’s supposed to be, meant to burn bright, not make the house smell like rain or nostalgia.”

“There’s a scent called nostalgia?”

One-shouldered shrug, not good, the front of her button-down shifts and okay, Sam’s keeping his eyes up.

“It’s okay. A little too cloying,” she confides in an undertone, leaning forward.

Dean downshifts, back into his gross ways, his eyes flashing bright, eager. “Not everyone’s got the same sense of nostalgia.”

She stares at Dean, this time, it’s entirely new, like he’s blindsided her. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”

“Please,” Sam interrupts, not wanting to see the rest of the mating dance, “If you could show us where you kept the unscented-”

“We sometimes order candles that aren’t made on the premises,” Elle says. “I went through a box of them about two weeks ago, found some really nifty ones bundled up, must have been melted because of heat, bad packaging or maybe they were stored next to a boiler. I still don’t have any idea.”

“This one woulda been burnt black, some red stuff running through.”

“Flecks,” Sam adds. “Flecks of red.”

Quick nod of her head, remembering. “Kinda occult looking. Not the stuff we normally sell. I tried calling the manufacturer but the number was busy.”

“If you’ve got in a stockroom,” Sam begins, already feeling that it’s too good to be true, “we’d love to take it off your hands.”

“Generous.” Rubs the side of her face, near her right temple, must be an old ache. Finally says, “What we don’t sell, we toss. I’m sorry.”

And just like that, something dissolves, blooms out, heavy and syrupy, across his body, limbs. Weight of failure sinking him, but Dean presses on. It’s the full court press in fact, Sam’s seen this move before, doesn’t mean it doesn’t surprise him any less when Dean pushes a strand of flyaway hair off of her cheek. Elle doesn’t seem to be annoyed or confused by him anymore, her eyes all lit up, the dark brown of them glinting bright.

“Thanks for the help,” Dean drawls. “If there’s anything we can do for you...”

Sam would ask Dean if he thinks that this’ll really work for him but it looks like he’s got the right idea. In response to the suggestion left hanging in the air, Elle says, swallowing hard, “You know, I might have some candles at my house. Stuff I didn’t want to throw away. My shift’s up in ten minutes.”

“You’re a freakin’ angel,” Dean says.

Sam kind of doubts that. After all, he’s learned the hard way that there aren’t any angels. But he doesn’t doubt that she’s at least intrigued by them, he notices her looking at them, the both of them, as they mill around the store, waiting for her to close out.

She has a tiny little not cabin in the woods, it probably started off life as a double-wide back in the day, only thing left from that decade is the vinyl siding. It’s been build into the ground, strange little one-story house. A spare bedroom has been retrofitted as a craft corner, extra supplies stocked there in clear plastic bins, wobbly scribbled descriptions on masking tape attached to the lids.

Her acidic tone, strewn carelessly back at the store has evaporated, turns a little hesitant, nervous. Quietly murmurs thanks when Sam compliments her on an afghan throw carefully draped over an ancient rocking chair.

Sam notices how scrupulously clean her house is, where the scents at the store were overpowering, headache-inducing, the only thing he can smell here is clean. There’s a faint touch of citrus in the air, linen-fresh breath of just cleaned laundry, maybe a kind of gentle soapy smell, the kind without any real fragrance. And it’s cold here, an icebox chill that gets remedied when she stands on an end table underneath an overhead air-conditioner, changing the setting to economy and low.

They hadn’t closed the door properly, which Dean makes a good show of doing now. Closes the paint-chipped wooden door, futzing for a moment when it doesn’t want to close up against the ancient outer screen door.

“It sticks,” she says, indifferently. Elle goes over to her bookshelf, jammed in a corner, looking through long boxes advertising the Pocono Candle Factory in faded pink.

Sam offers to help but she waves him away, jokes she keeps a hidden supply of her favorite tearjerker movies in some of the boxes. Not possible, the boxes are too narrow, but he respects her privacy. For the moment.

Instead he sits down on the surprisingly comfortable couch; he’d expected it to betray its flea-market origins by being lumpy.

“You came to the Pocono Candle Factory for a candle that smelled like smoke and was burnt black. Burnt black. That’s so Goth. If I’d know that when I tried to figure out why the black coloring looked all weird, I would have said to my boss that we should sell it during October. A little Halloween sale, ghostly candles for All Hallow’s Eve!” Rambling, she continues, hesitating when she looks in one box, shutting the lid too quickly, “We sell Witch’s Brew fudge or Witch's Brew Eye of Newt fudge, which is just chocolate fudge made with rum or rum raisins. Stick fake cobwebs on the ceilings and set up little speakers in corners and play the Spooky Sounds tape nonstop. Almost as annoying as all the stuff we have to do for Christmas.”

She’s down to the last box, asks before opening it, “So really, what do you guys need this for? You’re not like, weird Satanists or something. God, I should’ve asked that before I’ve invited you into my house.”

Laughs at that, short and halted, not used to filling up the space. Doesn’t believe her own words, yeah, how silly would that be, Satanists. She’s not immersed in their world and Sam forces a laugh as well, how crazy would that be, he agrees, Satanists.

Sam has a purpose, no, it’s a mission for lack of a better world. Has to call a specific demon to his bidding, say the words and he can unmake an unbreakable deal. He’s consumed by it, has to find the answer. Almost wants to pick a fight with Dean, because Sam can’t (won’t) accept that there’s no way. They’re running out of options, doesn’t matter if Dean says it’s still early or worse, that they need to live each day like it’s the last. Every day that passes means it’s one less day for that last day. End of the line.

Sam thinks, just at the moment when she’s frowning, saying how she’s sorry but she doesn’t have it, of a man who accepted his fate. How he knew he’d reaped what he’d sown in the crossroads dirt: burying infertile bones, metal, and the image of himself. How he’d been calm, even though he had used hoodoo as a stay of execution, gave him a measly bit of time to do the last thing he had left: paint spreading across a blank canvas.

Realizes that it’s too much, that no will remember the old man. He’ll be forgotten, maybe have his paintings discovered one day, but that doesn’t matter when the end result is hell.

Sam sees that Dean’s faking again, saying that’s okay, thanking her for all her help, sincere, so much sincerity that Sam’s fists curl up. Automatic now, this reaction, forcing back his words. Down his throat, lower then, it starts burning inside. Relaxes his hands and lets go.

“I wish I could help,” Elle tells them, meaning it. It’s her turn to touch, a hand on Dean’s shoulder, brief like she wants to offer a hug but isn’t a touchy-feely person by nature.

Sam says something lame, gets up to start going but she offers them a few beers and there’s no way Dean’s going to say no to that. When she angles her head to get his answer, Sam can’t help but smile back and he isn’t even pretending, for a split-second, tries to see what it’s like with his worries lifted and almost succeeds before it swoops back down. Nearly suffocates him but Dean’s the one that eases it off, hand gesture of have you checked out the ass and then mouthing hot damn.

“Yeah, I’d like a beer,” Sam stammers at Dean tossing a double thumbs up, how classy, quickly putting his hands down when Elle turns around.

“Good. I mean, uh, yeah,” Elle says, eyes narrowing as she tries to pick up something off of Sam and Dean, maybe the totally guilty expressions on their faces. She squeezes past Dean, pulling out the beers from the bottom of the fridge, has to bend over to reach one that rolled all the way back. Her underwear, lime green lace (and not much else), doesn’t match her bra one bit.


Light a fuse, start off at the tip of it, flicker flame blue burning bright.

Yeah, it’s fucking exactly like that. Only it sinkers deeper, deep to the center, this molten mess tossing everything into confusion.

Or some shit like that. Dean ain’t the poetic one.

‘Sides, when there’s naked woman up close and personal, there’s no freakin’ way you’re gonna be all delicate about fucking.

Mouth opens wide in a gasp, her legs draping over Sam’s as Elle sits on Sammy’s cock, rising, swerving circles of her hips. Dean glides a finger down, touching near her clit (tease), then lower, to where his brother’s dick’s is pushing in. Yeah, not all of Sammy, not a good position they’re in, can’t take all of him.

But Dean wanted to watch.

“Gonna taste you there,” he murmurs, licking her open mouth, curling, flick at her front teeth. Finds a little crooked bicuspid she hides by not-smiling.

“There?” She’s got her hand wrapped around his, faint calluses on her fingertips, slender fingers, better suited for an arty chick, not someone with half-complete renovation projects strewn around the kitchen/living room of her little house. Pushes until he’s fingering her entrance, Sam’s dick nearly twitches under Dean’s almost-touch.

“Right there. Gonna eat you all up.” Two fingers now, alongside her clit as he continues playing with her, fine, he’s a fucking tease. Dean doesn’t care at all, not when he’s listening to all the indecent noises coming out of her and Sammy. Fingers swooping back down catch Sam on an upstroke. Then, breaking his concentration, Dean just looks at Sam, heavy silence in between. Panting, lurch of himself, it all becomes too clear. He says it without letting his thoughts get in the way, “It’s okay.”

Only way to say that he’s okay, is to do this: leans over, Sam’s breath is hot on his face, confides, “It’s gonna be okay, Sam. You gonna fuck her or what?”

Deep groan, Elle’s shoulder bumps against Dean’s chest and then she grabs his head, yanks him back into her field of vision, asks, “What the hell do you think he’s doing to me?”

Dean answers real simple, flicking at her hardened nipples, “Stalling.”

Always been stalling, stalling since Elle offered beers in apology, frosty-cold, the best way to have them, golden tan Yuenglings. Sam had done that thing where he just waits until hell freezes over (yeah, that’s not fucking likely), leaning up against the couch, nearly sitting back down on the sidearm, rubbing his hands down the front of his thighs like he’s all sweaty-palmed.

And for once, Dean wasn’t gonna let it slide. Couldn’t take it because his chick radar ain’t broken. Could tell that even with Elle’s one pass at him that she was a Sam-sexual; one of those chicks that went for the sensitive routine and the puppy dog eyes wrapped up in a gigantor promise of being actually swept up into broad arms and shit, why the hell did he have to overhear that god knows how many months ago, he can’t force himself to block out that crap.

Nothing would’ve happened if it’d been up to Sam.

Dean still can’t explain it, just one of those quickfire flashes, something like stomping on an invisible accelerator and everything just swung into high gear.

Fine, Dean has an inkling of when it all went right, like a match lighting, one of the few pleasures in the world, twisted but true. Bless her for wearing that shirt, ‘cause once that little button went flying, that’s what let Sam’s freak flag fly.

Show a man some tits and that’s all he needs until he needs more.

And fuck, Sam had fumbled when he got her bra off as Dean had his tongue nicely sucked, tasting beer and something chocolate-sweet in her mouth. That’s something to file for later, can’t have it all be hell man, that was awesome and back-slapping.

Sam must see the glint in his eye, nostalgia hitting him, ‘cause he holds Elle still and says, “Dean, what are you planning?”

“Dude,” Dean says, disengaging from sucking on Elle’s neck, still rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, “it’s a threesome, what do you think?”

“Shit,” Elle says, wiggling around on Sam, impatient to move, “You best remember some manners.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Dean says, licking his lips. “I’m a giver.”

Dean’s not picky, he loves it all, but maybe he loves pussy best. Likes that Elle doesn’t shave it all off, told her as much when he yanked down her panties. Almost tore ‘em off until she helped him, managed to blindly pull them down her runner’s legs, muscles cording under her dark skin while she was occupied in the fine art of face-sucking Sam until Sam could only make blithering noises in the back of his throat.

Here’s something Dean never knew about his brother: Sam likes drawing a chick’s bottom lip in his mouth, biting and sucking, and fuck, it’s just too much to watch that. Has to squeeze his cock, glancing briefly around the room to settle on a battered copy of This Old House, nothing sexy about framing a house.

“You want us both crammed up inside? In your sweet pussy and round little ass.”

Another gasp and moan, still, she’s fucking persistent as she squirms down. Sam slides in deeper, draws out an ungodly noise. “Don’t think my ass is that little.”

“Nice round ass,” Dean continues. “You want Sammy to smack you? Been a bad girl, letting us come up in here—”

“Not here yet,” Sam corrects, pushes back Elle’s dark hair, sucks on her neck, right where Dean had been. Graze of his teeth against the shining bronze-dark of her and gets a holy fuck in response.

Almost shocked by Sam’s joke, Dean chokes out, promising, “Sam’s gonna fill you up.”

“Fuck,” she hisses, teeth clenched tight, “and you want to watch it? Doing all the big talking while Sam does all the work?”

“Sweetheart, I want all of it, but first I wanna see you come. Can you do that for me or you need some help?”

“Aaaaah,” she breathes when he strokes her nipples, hard flicking motion, then pinches them between his thumb and forefinger, sees how she grinds down harder on Sam, off-balance, Sam has to steady her hips.

Dean starts kissing up her neck, and he can feel the grooves of where Sam bit down before, little indentations all crooked. “Yeah girl, Sam's gonna fill you till you're fit to burst.”

Sam's muscles are all tense, trying to keep from just pile-driving into her, no, gotta have finesse, hold back, keep that snap of tension, coiling him up something fierce. Sliding smooth but it's effort, fucking, more work than Dean bothers with, he likes the chaos, the shift and change of things, might wanna draw it out all he can but hell, there's only so much a man can take.

Sam can take a lot and Elle, god bless, can't, pushing back on Sam's dick, making him react, hard breath sucked in, Sam shutting his eyes, trying to still himself. But see, he's still moving, even with his hands on her hips, he ain't about to stop for the whole wide world.

Dean, even with the need for an orgasm that leaves him a sputtering mess, has the sharper perspective on things, like how at this point she's dripping with want. And he knows how she's hot not-sweet down there, the salty tang to her musk and shit, maybe it's selfish, but he's gonna do this and ain't no one gonna stop him.

'Sides, if he manages to get it done, he might get freakin' thanked.

The trick of it is just the doing of it and Dean doesn’t mind taking the fucking chance, stilling them just for a sec, gritting out, “I need...”

Fuck, he needs more than he oughtta say, so he digs his fingers in, near-bruising ‘round Elle’s hips, stilling her.

“What?” Her eyelids fluttering open, Sam too, behind her, looks confused by the turn of events.

“Change of plans. You ain’t allowed to come.”

“I don’t think you can—”

“Stand up.”


“Do it,” he says, curls his fingers in her hair, fails at giving her a chaste kiss, encouraging, “please.”

Now he's got her where he wants her, standing up, sees a little birthmark peeking out of curls, right on that sweet spot where the sticky wet of her pussy, dark flushing sweet pink, meets the caramel dark of her thigh. Sweat slicking her skin, bet she tastes even better now, brighter almost but it's all nasty-good that way.

He's on his knees before she knows what's what and he noses his way in, almost gets light-headed with the scent of her. In the distance, he can hear Sam groaning, the slight wet slap as Sam starts working his dick, probably tossed the condom in a wastebasket ‘cause Sam’s a real goddamn gentleman.

Fucking hell no, if they're gonna do this at all, he ain't gonna let Sam get away with coming all over himself. Kiss-sucks his way back up Elle's body, all curves and soft.

Dean finds she's ticklish 'round the belly-button, half innie-outie, that she's less salty at the skin between her breasts, then lets his teeth scrape just at the tip of her nipple, does it slow to make her shudder hard, suck in a breath she doesn't realize she'd forgotten to breathe.

Good, he can get back down there and finish eating her out till she forgets her fucking name.

Fingering her, almost about to get in there, has to push her leg up, nearly topples her over but Sam's backing her up, ahead of the game. But that's Sammy, he's the forward-thinker. Dean, though, he likes reacting, okay?

Whatever Sam's got planned, it must be freaking good, ‘cause he spreads Elle so she's standing spread apart a little more. Dean can dip his fingers up and in, and Sam's almost fucking holding her up, man, he better know what he's doing.

Dean slowly pulls his fingers out, intending to make his way back further, touch that other tight place, but Sam's fingers curl into the top of Dean's hair, stopping him. Dean breaks away from licking Elle, looking up the tanned expanse of her stomach, the roundness of her tits. Sees Sam looking down, hair hiding his eyes, but not the dark look in 'em.

Ellle says helpfully, "I think you better come up here."

"You're gonna miss me," Dean says, chuckling, and she agrees without saying a goddamn word. Bites his bottom lip when they're face-to-face, holding his face like a sweetheart's embrace, fingertips rubbing against the slight rough of his five o'clock shadow.

"Hi there," she says when she breaks away. Sam flicks the hair off to the side, nibbling at the edge of her neck, biting gently on an earlobe. Turns out she likes that a whole fucking lot, moaning as Sam worries that little bit of skin between his teeth, Sam's careful to work around the little silver stud she's wearing.

Doesn’t matter what the plan is, Dean’s still got things to do, things that need to be done to her, stroking fingers down her stomach, covering up her pussy with his hand, can’t help but thrust up against her stomach and fuck, a condom might be a good freakin’ idea.

Dean stares pointedly at Sam then a quick glance to Dean's jeans, hey, he's a regular goddamn boy scout, always prepared. 'Cause this? You don't ignore common freaking sense, ain't no way he's gonna be a walking Patient Zero ever, okay? Also, there’s no fucking way he’s moving when Elle’s wrapping her hand around his dick, one hard pump and he’s almost on the balls of his feet. Twines his fingers through hers, tugging her forward by the hands, Sam’s backed off, doing right by him, searching for the condom.

"You have any idea what you're doing?" Sam asks that as Dean and Elle stumble in the right direction towards the bedroom. It’s amazing that he doesn’t smack into the door jamb when they twist around, Elle leading the way backwards.

Dean answers, shares a goofy kind of smile with Elle, "Not a goddamn clue."

"You're a terrible liar," Elle says, squeaks actually, ass hitting the bed as soon as the back of her legs touch the high mattress. Things bounce on her and ain't that a nice thing to see? She bounces again, then, falls back, kicking her legs up on the bed, wiggles her toes at the edge of the mattress.

Thinks of just sinking, into her, so deep, leave Sam to whatever the fuck his perverted mind can come up with, but Dean's got a plan.

Just came up with it this split-second.

"Turn around."

She bites her tongue, barely, with the edge of her teeth when she smiles, an eyebrow rises. Elle leans back up to tongue-fuck him, rudely 'cause he didn't say anything about her not touching him. Dean lets her go for a while, fisting his cock, fingernails skittering against his skin, dance of pain keeping him from coming.

“You wanna turn around ‘cause Sam’s gonna make you see freakin’ stars.”

At that, with a look around over to Sam, Elle pauses, lets go of Dean and he can’t help but groan at that. But there are other things to do, better things. He turns around himself, sees Sam, damn near swallowing up the doorway as he just stands there, waiting.

“Think you can live up to the hype?” Elle asks as she knees on the bed.

Dean, well, he’s gonna back off and see what his little brother can do.

Man, the smile he flashes her, not playing fair at all, all sweet and young, like his worries are melting off but Dean knows better. Sam offers, like he’s humble, “We’ll see about that.” Then says to Dean, “Get your own condom, man.”

Tears off the condom package with his teeth, heading toward Elle and she’s more than eager to roll it on, actually ignoring Dean.

Ignoring him. “Dude,” Dean protests, “So not cool.”

Takes less than a frantic minute of searching through his jeans to find the condom, but it’s an important minute to miss. By the time he gets back, Sam’s fucking Elle from behind, she’s pushing back like getting off depends on it (it does), and Dean’s got some lost time to make up.

So he starts running off his mouth.

“Sammy here, you gotta see the stuff he watches,” Dean starts, rounding the bed, staying at the corner where Elle can see him, just out of the corner of her eye, doesn’t need to turn around. “He’s probably running through math problems to keep from coming in ya.”

“The things he watches,” Dean repeats, slowly kneels on the bed, mattress rocking ‘cause Sam is working it, muscle flexing with effort. Dean’s rolling the condom on his cock, a wonder he can manage to fucking walk at this point, he’s been hard for too long, needs to let loose, ain’t gonna until he’s got Elle screaming.

No, not screaming, she’s not a screamer, he bets she gasps when she comes and it’s after, when she’s struggling to form words, those are the best noises she makes.

Inches over towards Elle, cups her chin, she stares at him eyes wide open. “Get off your hands,” he tells her and she shakes her head but he says, “Aww, c’mon, I’ll help you.” And he does, Sam just needs to angle a little differently, loops his arm around Elle’s waist, and Elle thoughtfully drapes her arms around Dean.

“Gonna be the death of me,” she gasps when Dean kisses the side of her mouth, missing on purpose.

“Nah. Sam won’t let you fall. Can you feel,” Dean asks as he pushes her flush against Sam's chest, “how his heart's gonna burst? Kid loves Latina porn, bet this is killing him, riding out the fantasy. Hotter when it's real, and shit you're just creaming for him, ain't ya?”

Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam sputters. “You caught me once—oh god—”

Elle’s got her eyes squeezed shut and this is it, gotta go for it when it’s fit to burst, leaves her hanging, ducking his head down, his cock rubbing against the sheets. Doesn’t matter, it’s a hard angle to manage, not meant for forever, but fuck him, he’ll take it, got the clock winding down on him anyways. Shift, Dean turns around on the mattress, and angles his head up, mouth opening, tongue flicking out, tasting her. No, not just her, it’s her and Sam, even though his dick’s covered up, he’s still tasting SamandElle, the heady taste of ‘em. Sam slowing down and Dean can’t help, flicking his tongue nearly at the head of Sam’s dick, hears a noise dragged deep out of Sam.

Now, he wants to feel it, has to, not a comfortable position, but he just fucking goes for it, flicks his tongue over her clit, she’s been aching for it for so long that she can’t help it, reacts right against his mouth. Elle comes with a short hard exhale of breath, and then, weakly mumbles, "ay, cabrón," under her breath.

But there’s no rest for the wicked, not at all before Dean can move, Sam starts pumping erratically and man, this is really not what Dean expected but it’s one hell of a view, can see everything working from underneath. And hell, Sam comes into Elle hard, nearly topples her off, which could lead to one crazy way to die, so he scoots out quick. Elle still thuds headfirst onto his chest, not hard enough to knock the wind of out of him, thank Christ.

“Oh God—hell—oh, fuck, yeah,” Elle moans, as she frees herself from Sam. There’s a wet sucking noise, clench of nothing but air once the head of Sam's dick is freed. She can barely sit up, but she does it anyway, sways for a second. Slick with sweat and whatever else, she flips her hair off her shoulders and asks, “So, Dean, there anything I can do to you?”

“Hell, I ain’t particular,” Dean almost sing-songs. “I gotta taste ya right where I promised.”

“Mmm, you did,” she purrs, moving back against Sam’s fingers going down her back, trailing down her spine.

But Dean’s got simple needs, she must know that, hitches a leg over him and rubs her wet pussy over him, guides him up into the heat of her, little involuntarily flutter as he settles deep.

The thing is, it’s been too much and while he’d like to give her the best show, she’s already winding down herself, blissed out and riding that last wave, slowing down to let it last. She lies back down on him, breasts squashed up against his chest. Dean turns to look at Sam and realizes that he’s gonna come right where Sam’s been and fuck, he has to roll her over.

Spreads her thighs wide and Sam’s nearly pinned underneath, but it’s Dean’s turn to let loose, sure he's shallow at first to stave it off, but it don’t help. Empties inside her something fierce and even though they’re face to face, fuck, he’s staring right at Elle, but he’s hearing Sam, somehow, even with the rush of blood to his head, the roar of something else in ears.

Eventually he has to back off, claiming the remaing couple of feet left on the mattress, off to the side of them, as his own spot. Wrangles with his condom, Elle pointing out her plastic garbage bin next to the dresser. He shoots, he scores but he’s way too fucking tired to even pretend to do a fist pump.

Instead he curls up against Elle, who’s turned over and she and Sam are doing some sort of pecking-kissing-cuddling thing that is way too much, so he works a hand in-between, strokes at her curls.

“Really not up for round two yet,” she says, voice a little hoarse.

“S’okay,” Dean mumbles against her ear. He doesn’t lay off, nah, instead gets her to focus on him.

It’s an honest distraction after all, ‘cause Sam’s mouthing at Dean when Elle turns back to Dean, she has the candle and huh, now that’s just the cherry on top of the sex.

Sam makes with the bald excuse of having to visit the little boy's room and Elle really doesn’t care ‘cause she’s rubbing up against Dean’s hand, and after all, what’s a little honest stealing between...whatever the hell they are.

Yeah, he’s not gonna waste anymore fucking time, moves to head back down for more, ‘cause you gotta take what you can get.

Tags: dean/ofc, fic, sam/ofc, spn fic, wincest
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