Day One of Advent

Door opened by Michaelle

It’s Beginning to Sound a Lot Like Christmas


The metal Sam’s holding glints in the candlelight. Power cuts suck. The motel room is freezing and Dean’s wearing nothing but a thin layer of cold sweat and goose bumps.

“We don’t have to do this now,” he tells Sam. “Really. It can wait. It’s not like it’s a tradition of ours. Well, it wouldn’t be, would it?”

His mouth’s too dry to say more, his fingers curling, relaxing, in time with his rapid, shallow breaths. Shit, he’s shaking here.

Sam frowns at him and hangs the ornament, sparkling, pretty, on the tiny tree they’d bought earlier. It was reduced to a few dollars, the last on the lot with dusk falling on Christmas Eve and snow crusting its needles.

“It’s a tree, Dean. It needs decorating.”

And it does, but Sam’s taking his own sweet time about placing each of the six ornaments (battered box, marked down to a dollar) and Dean’s cuffed naked to a chair, a thin sound lodged deep in his rigid, aching cock, giving it a core of solid metal. Weird how that part of him never registered before. He pisses out of it, no more, no less, but the sound’s turned it into a source of pleasure and pain, touching hidden depths with pinpoint accuracy. The sound’s staying there until the star goes on the top of the tree. He’s been writhing, panting, begging for a solid fifteen minutes. Lube streaks on his balls have dried to an itch he can’t scratch and Sam won’t.

Sam’s a goddamn sadist.

Of course, it’s part of why he loves him. And the sounds are an early gift off his wish list, after all. God, will Sam drag this out until midnight, so it’s officially Christmas Day when he removes the sound? He’ll do it excruciatingly slowly, Dean knows, letting it slide back in now and then, fucking the stretched hole with merciless metal, an intent look in his eyes, the same look he has when Dean’s ass is getting a thorough reaming at glacial speed with a thick plug or best of all, Sam’s cock.

Being Sam’s focus makes Dean warm and tingly, even when he’s screaming and cursing his name.

Sam frowns again, all his attention on the goddamn tree, removes the ornament and hooks it on a lower bough. “Does that balance out the one with the dancing elves?”

Dean whimpers.