Fic: Hear You Say My Name (hard R)

[unamaga]

Title: Hear You Say My Name
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Hooker/Sam
Wordcount: 1,185 words
Notes: Uhm, don't let the hooker frighten you away! She's not really that involved, except for the part where she really is - she's just a tool! She meant nothing to Sam! Written for schneestern during an AIM conversation, beta'd by the same lovely girl because Robin has a niece, zomg. I harts you, Jules. ♥

The hooker is writhing on Sam’s lap, pressing up against him in all the right places. And it's not like it's bad – it's pretty hot actually – it's just...he would have liked to actually have had a choice. Dean's so gonna pay for this one.

Right on cue, his phone starts vibrating in his pocket, sending an unexpected jolt through him. Cursing and apologizing to the girl, he fishes for it and flips open the top.

"The fuck, man," Dean says when Sam's got it up to his ear. "Why are you answering your cell phone? Shouldn't you be having fun?"

Sam practically growls. "I'm gonna kill you. A lot."

"Now, now, that's no way to thank me for getting you laid," Dean chides. He sounds way too smug. "Speaking of, how's it going, Sammy-boy?"

The girl takes that opportunity to turn around in his lap, fiddling with his belt and then jeans until the zip gives way and she can slip her hand past the waistband of his boxers comfortably. Despite himself, Sam makes a choked off noise, trying to muffle the phone against his shirt so Dean doesn't hear.

"Oh," Dean says against his ear, "so that's a 'damn good', then?"

"I - ah...I think you need to hang up now," Sam manages, voice breaking at the end when the girl's nail scrapes deliberately along the underside of his cock, tracing the vein. He hates to think of what kind of material Dean's gonna have on him after this, but he can't make his fingers work to shut the phone, not with that hand firmly picking up a rhythm, twisting around the head.

But instead of hanging up, like Sam thought he would, Dean lets out a low laugh. "I don't think I want to, Sammy."

"W-what?" Sam stutters, alarmed. The hooker pauses and slants a curious look towards the cell. "What - Dean you can't listen. This – dude, this is messed up."

Dean's still laughing, though, and it's not the kind of laugh Sam usually hears from him. "Put the girl on the phone, Sam. No, don't even try – put the girl on."

Reluctantly, Sam hands the cell over to the hooker. He can't hear what Dean says to her, but the sudden glint in her eye has him nervous - Dean always has had a way with women. After a good two minutes, during which the girl is mostly silent, only letting out a few interspersed affirmative noises, she gives the phone back.

"Knew you couldn't be that vanilla," she says, bending so she can bite the buttons of his shirt open.

Sam puts the cell back to his ear, hissing a quiet, "What did you say to her?"

He can hear the distinct sounds of rustling material, and then Dean's voice comes through, pitched down and slightly breathy. "Told her you liked an audience, but you're too shy to admit it."

"Jesus, you were on the phone for two minutes, Dean," Sam says. “And I don’t like –"

He freezes and nearly bites his own tongue off when the hooker - Sam wishes he could remember her name - parts his shirt and immediately digs her teeth into the skin right below his nipple. Dean's still chuckling in his ear, and Sam's mortified to realize it's half of the reason he pushes his hips up, trying to get the girl to wrap her hand around him again.

"She biting you, Sam? You like it a little rough, don’t you?" Dean murmurs, voice oddly intimate. "Tell me what she's doing."

The hooker leaves a path of bruises from his navel over to his left hip, scraping her teeth along the sensitive crease like she knows exactly how much it gets him. She sends a quick look up at him through her sooty, made up lashes as she starts to tug his pants out from under his hips.

Something jolts through him at that, like a burn, and he doesn't even realize he's speaking until he's half-way through. "She's taking my jeans off."

"That's good," Dean says, those rustling noises in the background again. Sam screws his eyes shut tightly and tries not to imagine the reason for them, even as he plants his feet and pushes up to help the girl get his pants and boxers down. "You gonna let her suck you?"

Sam moans and rolls his hips up, catching the girl's cheek with the tip of his cock and leaving a long, wet smear of precome. "Oh, fuck yes."

The hooker presses his hips down forcefully and turns her face towards his cock, licking her lips. Sam's just about to tell her to get the fuck on it with it when she dips her head down and sucks him in all the way to the root, until the pointy end her nose is pressed against his stomach – no condom, no warning.

Sam doesn't even know what kind of noise he makes then, but it has Dean's breath hitching audibly in his ear. With what little voice he has left, Sam manages, "Dean. What're you - Dean."

"What do you think I'm doing, Sam?" Dean answers, sounding just as ragged and hot as Sam feels. The hooker's mouth is wet and powerful around him, experienced, and all Sam can suddenly think about is what Dean would be like, doing the same. It's a messed up thought, even more messed up than the slick sounds he can hear faintly through the phone line, but god if it isn't pushing him closer to coming down the girl's throat anyway.

Boldly – because Sam's never known how to do things half way with Dean – he says, "Tell me."

He can hear the sudden breath Dean sucks in through his teeth, the quickened slide of flesh on flesh. "I'm jerking off, thinkin' about how you must look right now."

A tug to the hooker's hair is all the warning she gets before Sam's bucking against her restraining arm and coming with a choked shout. She swallows it all like the pro she is, pats him on the thigh as she pulls off and licks her lips.

"Th-thank you," Sam breaths out shakily, because it seems like the thing to say. The other end of the phone line is dead, the low thrum of the dial tone in his ear. He tries not to think about it, and succeeds until the girl pecks him on the cheek and saunters out the door like she didn’t just suck his brain out through his dick.

Once she's gone, though, he can't help but think about it. Dean's back at their motel room, probably still splayed out on one of the beds, sticky covers bunched around his ankles, hair dark with sweat.

Sam's jeans nearly trip him when he hops up and quickly fixes himself, putting his shirt back on and ruffling his hair into place. The blue star they're staying at is only a two minute walk away - less, if Sam jogs - and he suddenly wants to know exactly what his brother looks like when he comes.