vanilla coke
tags: incest, smut, older brother!dean, car sex, fingering (f rec), lowkey just a hint of watersports, but it was kinda accidental and there’s literally nothing happening, reader just has to pee while getting fingered, all characters are of age
wc: 2k
divider by @uzmacchiato // pics from pinterest
-you are responsible for your own media consumption. read the tags and don’t engage with this content unless you are 18 or older. I do not condone any of these actions in real life—this is a work of fiction-
“Put your feet on the dashboard, and you’re walking ‘til Montana,” Dean barks.
Your feet hover in the air, caught in mid-motion. Not sure why you even tried to disgrace Dean’s precious car with your trainers, you roll your eyes and make a show of slumping back into the seat with the soles of your shoes on the floor.
Your tailbone hurts, you’re bored out of your mind, and you could really go for some snacks right now, but the road just keeps passing by.
“I’m dying in here, De,” you complain as you readjust your position in the seat once more. Your older brother glances at you, his jaw set tight. Clearly, he doesn’t have the patience for one of your tantrums right now, and you get it, you really do. The last case was rough—Dean had spent almost three weeks chasing down a trickster and almost went grey with frustration.
“You can pick the next song if you want,” he offers, but you can practically see his teeth grind at the mere thought. When you don’t answer, his eyes snap to yours, although he’s driving way faster than the speed limit. “Dammit, cheer up, buttercup. Why are you giving me that face?” he asks.
“I don’t wanna pick the next song, I wanna… God, I dunno, I wanna get some fresh air,” you reply.
“Crack the window then.”
“No, like, real air.”
Dean chuckles. “That stuff outside ain’t real air?”
You groan and run your hands through your hair. One of your rings gets caught and tugs at one of the strands, which only makes you angrier. “I don’t wanna be cooped up in this stupid car anymore, and I’m… I’m fucking hungry and tired and really fucking bored.”
Dean whistles. “Jeez,” he mutters, “Anything else? You missin’ a million in your bank account, too?”
You scoff, then stare out of the window to make a point. Dean doesn’t react; he simply keeps driving and turns the music up a bit. As Metallica blasts in your ears, you audibly release the air from your lungs. While you’re frowning, Dean makes a decision. He pulls off the interstate at the next exit, still about a hundred miles from the small town in Montana you’re headed to, and searches for the next gas station.
When he parks the Impala at one of the fuel dispensers, he shuts off the car and reaches out. His fingers come to rest on your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“You go inside and pick out whatever snacks you want, ‘kay?” he says, “I’ll fill her up and join you then. Don’t talk to strangers.”
“De,” you groan, “I’m not five.”
“You want snacks or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
For a few moments, you pout ungracefully before you nod and declare, “I won’t talk to strangers.”
“Good girl.”
You roll your eyes but can’t ignore the way your tummy flutters when he says those two words. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and Dean’s smirk grows to match. You undo your seatbelt, then jump out of the car with renewed spirits. The smell of gasoline fills your nose instantly, making you a little lightheaded after all that time in the stuffy car.
After taking a minute to stretch your legs while Dean watches from the pump like a guard dog, you enter the shop. Inside, the AC is running on full, the cold air chasing goosebumps up your arms. A clerk sits at the cash register, roughly your age—or maybe more Dean’s. Apparently, you’re the first thing that sparks his interest all day because he stares at you without shame. which you ignore, because you’re way too focused on the variety of sweets and candy.
By the time Dean comes in to pay for the gas, your arms are filled with four kinds of chocolate bars, two bags of gummy bears, and a Vanilla Coke. Additionally, you’re eyeing one of the pizza slices on display at the front. Your brother huffs with amusement as he sees you and steals one of the chocolate bars from you.
“I said whatever you want, not however much,” he mumbles.
“Kinda figured the amount is up to me, too, ‘because this is whatever I want,” you reply snarkily, then walk up to the cashier. Dean follows not far behind.
“Hi,” you greet the man, then drop the snacks at the register. The clerk scans everything, but you’re no longer the objects of his gaze—instead, he stares at Dean nervously, almost like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Hey, squirt, grab me some of ‘em jerkies,” your brother says, nudging you with his shoulder. His eyes don’t meet yours as he talks to you—they’re focused on the young man behind the register. You wrinkle your nose at the nickname and glare at your older brother.
“Get ‘em yourself.”
Dean has to take a deep breath to reel in his annoyance before he leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m payin’, so you’re gonna drop the damn attitude and get the jerkies.”
The cashier watches the stare down between Dean and you with a mix of anticipation and surprise, but then you raise your hands in defeat and walk back to the snack aisle. Arguing with Dean was almost always fruitless, and you’d rather be able to walk tomorrow than have your way right now.
When you return with the dried meat, Dean pays for the food and the gas, then ushers you back into the car much faster than you’d like.
“I have to pee,” you whine, but your brother just slams the passenger door shut and rounds the car. He slips into the driver’s seat, then shakes his head.
“Hold it. We’re not stayin’ here. That creep probably has a camera installed in the bathrooms.”
“’Cause he looked at me? You’re fucking paranoid.”
“Just eat your chocolate and shut up, squirt.”
“What if I get a bladder infection?”
“Shut it.”
You spend the next five minutes in silence, a big frown plastered across your face. The deeply displeased sighs you add for dramatic effect go ignored—Dean’s eyes are glued to the road. He spares you a single, annoyed glance when you let yourself sink deeper into the car seat, your arms crossed in front of your chest.
“You seriously gonna pout ‘bout this now?” he murmurs gruffly.
“Well, I gotta pee. And I’m fucking bored. So, yeah, I’m gonna pout, asshole,” you reply.
Dean snickers quietly. “You’re goddamn impossible,” he mutters, then reaches over to you. His warm palm lands on your thigh, just below the hem of your shorts.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you groan, attempting to swat his hand away, but he keeps it right where he put it.
“Gonna lighten up your mood, sweetheart,” he answers dryly, “And you’re gonna say ‘thank you’ and drop the goddamn attitude—and stop fucking swearing.”
The words of protest get stuck in your throat when his hand wanders from your thigh to the crotch of your shorts. He brushes over your centre, cupping you through the cotton. The light pressure has your breath hitching. Still, you’re not giving up that easily.
“De, I mean it,” you say through clenched teeth, “I don’t fucking want th—”
A rough slap on your thigh makes you shut up. Your skin prickles with pain and shame alike as you yelp softly. Dean still keeps his eyes on the road, but his brows are furrowed now. You see the anger rising in him, the one he’s trying to control so hard, but you really are making it fucking impossible today.
“What did I just say?” he hisses, “Watch your goddamn mouth.”
His free hand goes back to rubbing you through the cotton of your shorts, aiming for your clothed slit. The small moan that slips from your lips as soft waves of pleasure begin to flood your body doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Mhm, yeah,” Dean muses, “I fucking thought so. Big-mouthed ‘til your big brother gets his hands on you—then you turn into a mess, hm? Think you got it all figured out, but my baby sis still needs me.”
You catch yourself chasing the pressure of his fingers, rocking your hips forward to meet him. You’re still mad as hell at him, but the pad of his pointer finger catches right on your clit and steals your breath, making it impossible for you to think clearly. Dean smiles smugly and angles his wrist so that he can move further upwards.
You still have to pee, the mental image of the gas station restroom passing by.
“De, fu—I… don’t…”
His hand disappears underneath the waistband of your shorts, then slips past the barrier of your panties. He finds you drenched, your cunt hot and slick. Dean tsks softly.
“You’re pretty worked up, squirt,” he mumbles, “Don’t tell me you’re all pissy just ‘cause you’re pent up. Have I been neglecting you, peanut?”
His middle finger massages your throbbing clit, just slow, measured circles that make you want more.
“Dean, please… I need you to…”
“Uh-uh, answer me or I’m stoppin’. Have I been neglecting you? Don’t I take good care of you?”
You’d roll your eyes at him if they weren’t rolling back for him when he inserts two fingers into your wet heat, the squelching sounds echoing sinfully through the Impala. He knows your body better than anyone else and doesn’t actually need you to say the words—he just likes to hear you beg.
“You do,” you cry out softly. The words barely make it out of your mouth as he curls his fingers along your ceiling, rubbing that special gummy spot no one else has ever touched. Dean smiles, his eyes still glued to the street. You have no idea how he manages to multitask like this—fingering you on the open road without crashing into anyone—but he does it.
The heat in your lower tummy builds, travelling along the base of your spine. Your brother listens for the gasps, the shaky inhales, and the way your moans change as you get closer. He thrusts his fingers deeper into you, curling and rubbing and pressing along the expanse of your velvety walls.
“Fuckin’ drenched for me, squirt,” he murmurs, “Time to let go, baby. You’re gonna cum, and then you’ll take a nap, ok?”
With your lip caught between your teeth, you nod, but that’s not enough for Dean.
“Hey, say it. Say you’re gonna be good and take a nap. No more attitude.”
“No- no more attitude,” you gasp, nodding for emphasis, “’m gonna be good, and—oh, f—ngh… take a nap.”
Dean chuckles softly, then shakes his head. “Alright,” he mutters, “Good enough for me, I guess.”
He scissors his fingers apart, filling you out more and more as he moves them in and out. You’re dripping into the gusset of your panties and his hand, slick gushing as you get closer to the edge. Stars explode behind your eyes, your breath hitches—and then you’re falling apart on his fingers.
“That’s it, peanut,” Dean praises, fucking you through the aftershocks until your thighs quiver. The corners of his mouth twitch with pure satisfaction as you slump back into your seat, chest heaving and eyes half lidded. “That was a good one, hm?” he murmurs. You only manage a single nod, and Dean laughs.
“Alright, nap time starts now,” your brother declares. He pulls his hand out of your panties and licks his fingers clean, a devilish smile accompanying the lewd gesture.
You’re much closer to Montana now, but Dean doesn't tell you. If you don’t sleep now, he’ll have to repeat the entire process and potentially endure a little bit more of your bad mood, so he'll gladly drive a little longer if that means you stay settled.
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