dragonspell: (Back in Black)
dragonspell ([personal profile] dragonspell) wrote2010-11-12 09:14 am

Fic: SPN (Sam/Dean): Stuck In the Mud | NC-17 | 2435 words

Title: Stuck In the Mud
Author: [livejournal.com profile] dragonspell
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: PWP. :)
Summary: The Impala's stuck and the boys are pissed.
Word Count: 2435
A/N: Written for the [livejournal.com profile] spnroundtable prompt-and-fill 'Tis the Season for the prompt "sam/dean or gen; or throw castiel in there; but, the impala is stuck in the mud after those cursed (cursed?) "spring showers." boys pissed and angry and covered in mud. ANNND GO."

Check out more prompts and fills of all kinds at [livejournal.com profile] spnroundtable here.


“I just want you to know, this isn’t my fault.” Sam stops pushing for a minute to try and catch Dean’s eye. He keeps his hands on the back end of the Impala, even though it’s useless to be even trying to push anyway, no matter what Dean says. The Impala is most definitely not going anywhere.

“Shut up and push,” Dean grunts and Sam rolls his eyes. Dean’s in a full-on lean on the other side, shoving against the back driver’s side corner of the Impala, his heels digging into the mud as he slowly sinks into the bog that is supposed to be a road.

With a tone like that… “No,” Sam replies, standing up straight and crossing his arms.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Dean snaps. “I said push, Sam! So fucking push!” Dean’s pissed off. He has every right to be pissed off: he hadn’t wanted to take this road in the first place. Then again, the only reason why he’d wanted to stay on the interstate even though it would have taken them two hours out of their way was because he’d wanted to see the world’s largest pie tin. Sam, though, wasn’t going to take a detour just to see a big hunk of metal mounted on a post. The pie wasn’t even in the tin anymore, so Dean could just indulge his fetishes on his own time.

And, in Sam’s defense, he’d had no way of knowing that, in the spring, apparently the nearby river rises enough to flood out this particular stretch of road. You would think that somebody would have thought to tell them that back at the gas station. “I mean ‘no,’ Dean. We’re not getting anywhere.” Sam left foot sinks past the top of his boot and he sighs as he pulls it out with a wet squelch. This is ridiculous. “Let’s either call a tow truck or walk back to town.”

“We don’t need a damn—” Dean grunts as he shoves extra hard, throwing everything he’s got into it; the Impala rocks forward a few inches. “—tow truck!” He’s not strong enough to hold that pose forever and it doesn’t matter how many push-ups he did this morning. With a harsh gasp, he stops pushing and the Impala rocks right back into the rut that she’s been stuck in for the past half hour. Dean sags against the trunk, panting as he stares at the black paint. His jaw is clenched, a slow tick developing like he’s trying hard not to lose his temper. And failing miserably. “If you’d just push, Sam—”

“I’ve been pushing, Dean!” Sam says, flipping a hand at the mostly stationary car. “We’ve been pushing! For a half hour! And we haven’t gotten anywhere.” They’d rocked the Impala back and forth a few times but that was about it.

“Yeah, well maybe you should push harder!” Dean shouts, slamming his hands down on the Impala’s trunk, finally losing it. Sam’s no better.

“And maybe you should have listened when I said that we should turn back!” Sam shoots back because, yeah, it might have been Sam’s idea to take this road, but it definitely hadn’t been his idea to keep going down it when they realized the whole damn thing was just one big mudpit.

It had been Dean who’d said, “Gone too far, Sammy,” as he’d gunned the Impala like it was going to fly over the small swamp. This is not Sam’s fault.

“Damn it, Sam! I’m not playing this damn game! So why don’t you get your bitch-ass ass over here and start fucking pushing like you fucking mean it!” Dean’s back to shoving at the car, his head down as he focuses on trying to find traction in the mud. “Fucking Princess is afraid that he might break a nail—”

It’s probably a sign that Sam needs to walk away—that he just needs to step back and let Dean blow off some steam and go cool himself down too while he’s at it. But Sam just can’t do that right now. He’s spent a half fricking hour playing in the mud trying to shove out a car that’s not going to budge because Dean’s too proud to call for help. It’s ridiculous and childish and fucking asinine and Sam’s just got no choice but to respond in kind. Or at least that’s the excuse that he decides on when he reaches out and shoves Dean off-balance.

For about four seconds, it’s the funniest thing that Sam’s ever seen in his life. Dean squawks as his hands slip free and he doesn’t have anything to catch himself on. He turns himself around just in time but he still ends up on his ass in the middle of the mud. His hands sink into the mud as his jaw drops and it takes him a few beats to understand what just happened.

Sam’s mistake was starting to laugh.

A low growl is Sam’s only warning before mud slaps against his chest, splattering across his shirt. “Oh, it’s on, bitch,” Dean says, hauling himself up onto his knees because once you’re already in the mud, there’s no sense in trying to keep clean.

Unlike the plan to push the Impala out of a sinkhole, Sam’s in complete agreement with Dean on this one. This was his last clean shirt, damn it. He’d been hoping to at least get another day out of it. “Jerk,” Sam snarls and Dean’s already scooping up his next missile but Sam’s got him beat because once you’re already in the mud, there’s no sense in trying to keep clean.

Sam hurls himself at Dean, knocking him back over—no traction in the slick, wet ground—and landing on top of him. Dean’s breath rushes out as Sam drives him into the mud. The mud squelches around them and it’s cold on Sam’s knees but he doesn’t care. He straddles Dean’s hips, holding him down as Dean scrambles, trying to get himself back up. There’s nothing to push off from, though, nothing to grab a hold of, so Dean’s only got one option left: He smacks the mudball that he’d been holding onto Sam’s shoulder, grinding it in and then uses the advantage of Sam’s disgust at the cold dirt to shove Sam and flip him over.

Sam lands on his back, squirming backward but by then, Dean’s on top of him already. The ground’s cold and wet and slick and Sam’s feels like it’s trying to suck him in. Dean’s dropping fistfuls of the gunk on him, too—scooping it up and piling it on top of Sam’s chest. Fighting back, Sam tries to use Dean’s own move against him but, to his dismay, he finds that he can’t find any purchase in Dean’s mud-covered T-shirt—his hands just keep sliding off the rounded curve of Dean’s shoulder. Frustrated, Sam bucks upward, set on dislodging Dean that way.

Dean, though—Dean’s got other plans. He holds his ground and Sam’s only got a split second to realize that Dean’s grinning before Dean pins him and kisses him. Torn between his previous anger and his newfound shock, Sam freezes. His mind’s spinning worse than the Impala’s stuck wheels, trying to comprehend the fact that he’s laying down in the cold wet mud and Dean’s kissing him. He must have missed a step somewhere.

It’s not like he cares, though, because Dean’s kissing him. In a habit that’s been years in the making, Sam stops trying to shove Dean away and starts trying to bring him closer. This isn’t the first time that this has happened, after all, and it’s always good to know when to stop fighting and when to start fucking. Dean’s rocking against Sam’s stomach—getting himself off, the selfish jerk—and Sam grabs a hold of his hips to shove him backward just enough so that Dean’s no longer straddling Sam but instead falling between his legs, the mud making it easy. Each thrust now is bringing his dick in contact with Sam’s and that’s a Hell of a lot better. Sam moans and nips at Dean’s lips while he brings his hands up to cradle Dean’s face, holding him still. Dean works with it, just like he always does.

With a slight tilt of his head, Dean’s licking at the corner of Sam’s mouth, asking for the permission that Sam readily gives. It’s not like Sam’s going to say no. Dean flicks his tongue inside Sam’s mouth, a smooth glide that’s all skill and if Sam’s dick wasn’t throbbing before, it sure is now. Sam gasps into the kiss as he arches upward but he’s still getting no purchase in the mud and every time he tries to buck against Dean, he ends up falling right back down. Frustrating. Luckily, Dean’s on the same page as Sam and he’s using his position to give Sam some much needed friction.

The ground’s still cold beneath Sam’s back and he’s pretty sure that none of this is sanitary—he doesn’t even want to think about the places that he’s going to be scraping mud out of later—but Sam still can’t bring himself to care. His hands trail down the front of Dean’s shirt, smoothing the dirt-smeared fabric against Dean’s chest and belly before he’s tugging at Dean’s belt. “God, yeah,” Dean mutters, breaking the kiss just long enough to check his own hands as they unbuckle Sam’s belt. Sam yanks at the buckle, nearly pulling Dean off-balance before Dean starts helping him, fingers deftly pulling the last few inches of leather free from the loop. Sam’s attention turns to the fly of Dean’s jeans, his hands having an easier time with it. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he’s in, his palm flattening against Dean’s groin and pushing the zipper down as he slides to Dean’s dick. Dean hisses as Sam grabs a hold of him and his own hand is shoving into Sam’s pants—rougher and with less finesse than he usually has. It’s exactly what Sam wants.

Sam rolls his hips—he can manage that much at least—encouraging Dean and Dean doesn’t disappoint, stroking Sam just the way he knows Sam likes. It’s a rough pull, fingers sliding up the underside, with a twist near the end, thumb gliding over the head, and repeat and Sam’s eyes are fluttering already. “Fuck…” he whispers and returns the favor. Dean usually likes it a little slower than Sam—smoother, easier, nicer—but today his impatience is showing because he’s not letting Sam find that easy rhythm. He’s bucking hard into Sam’s grip, demanding more with each snap of his hips, and Sam’s good with that. He gives Dean what he wants, listening to Dean’s low groans and his breathy growls.

Dean’s mouth is attacking Sam’s throat, all hard nips and soft, apologizing licks, and it’s got Sam starting to shudder. Pleasure’s skittering up and down his spine and he doesn’t have it in him to hold out. He comes with a whine, legs kicking in the mud as his muscles tighten. Dean keeps right on going, mercilessly drawing out Sam’s orgasm until Sam’s twitching with the aftershocks and it’s damn near getting painful.

Sam pushes Dean’s hand away, hips pressing backward in the mud in an attempt to escape and Dean exhales harshly as Sam refocuses on getting Dean off as well. Dean’s still sucking at Sam’s throat and Sam knows that he’s going to have one Hell of a hickey if Dean keeps it up.

The closer Dean gets, the rougher he’s getting—his hips moving faster, his teeth sinking in a little bit more—and he bites down hard when he comes. He jerks in Sam’s hand and moans as he splatters on to Sam’s shirt (it’s a good thing it was already dirty). When he’s done, he collapses on top of Sam, using Sam as a buffer between himself and the ground. His tongue lazily licks at what Sam knows is an obvious bruise on his neck and if Sam wasn’t so worn out and feeling sated, he might just punch Dean for that. Now he’s going to have to spend the next three days explaining himself.

Maybe he’ll give Dean one. In a little while.

Now that the heat’s cooling down, though, and his mind is coming back online, he’s all too aware of the fact that he’s on his back in the dirt and the cold; he’s filthy and fucking freezing. Sam sighs and drops his head back against the ground (there was already mud in his hair; why bother trying to keep it clean?).

“Well, that was awesome,” Dean says happily, nuzzling absently at Sam’s jaw and Sam knows that Dean’s probably forgotten where they are. It’s not his fault. Sex makes him stupid.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees dryly (it might have been a good orgasm but they have to face reality some time), “except for the part where we have to go back into town looking like this.”

Reality slams back into Dean with an “Oh, fuck…”

“Should have just called a tow truck,” Sam says, because he just can’t stop himself from taking advantage of another opportunity to tell Dean ‘I told you so.’

Dean snorts and pushes himself up, hands bracing on Sam’s chest. “Shut up and zip your pants up,” he says. “I don’t think Farmer Brown’s going to be too understanding if you wave your dick at him.” He uses Sam as leverage to push himself onto his feet, quickly tucking himself back in and zipping up his jeans. Sam frowns at him for a minute before sitting up because, somewhere in the distance, he can hear a slowly growing hum.

Sam manages to get himself zipped up again before the tractor reaches them and, luckily, Farmer Brown is understanding. She has them pulled out of the mud in about ten minutes—with only one laughing comment about the fact that there is nearly more mud on them then under the Impala’s wheels. She, thankfully, doesn’t ask how they’d gotten that way.

The clerk at the closest motel does, though. Dean grins and Sam rolls his eyes. Sam calls first shower and doesn’t bother to wait around to hear whatever story Dean decides to tell the clerk but he knows that Dean probably doesn’t get too elaborate because two minutes after Sam shucks his clothes and steps under the warm spray of water, Dean’s joining him.

“It’s all your fault,” Dean says and Sam can’t argue with that.


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