SPN Fic: Ring a bell and I'll salivate (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Ring a bell and I'll salivate
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Word Count: 2260
Author's Note: Welcome to my first foray into PWP. Just one more line you people have lured me into crossing.
A story written for a prompt by the lovely eboniorchid because she was Numero Uno in my NCAA basketball tournament pool. (Yes. That was six months ago. She's been ridiculously patient.) And thanks beyond measure go to mona1347 for the utterly fantastic beta. The commas!! You have no idea the horror of commas from which she rescued you.
Title from a lyric by The Barenaked Ladies.
Summary: Dean gets horny in the library. What else do you need to know?
***
Dean can barely set foot in a library without getting hard.
Not that libraries are anything to write home about. In fact, they usually smell. Dust and binding glue if they're old, metal shelves and overheated ozone from the Xerox machines if they're new. But there’s no avoiding it today; they’ve got to dig up some leads for this latest gig. So when Dean steps through the door and the scent hits him, he's shifting his stride, digging a hand down into one pocket to free up some room, lips pressed in a thin line.
He likes to fuck around with Sam in libraries and his dick knows it.
Sam pauses in the wood-paneled foyer to get his bearings and Dean crowds up a bit closer than normal behind him.
"Don't even," Sam mutters without so much as looking back. He heads for the reference desk to ask where they store the community archives. "We’ve got a ton of work to do."
Dean trails along behind, grumbling and horny and knowing that in a town this small there’s no way they’ll score electronic records. He looks around, grimacing at the worn, pea-colored carpet and, Jesus, the card catalog drawers. This could… it will take hours.
He slows down, peering in as they pass the cheap, low plastic chairs of the tiny children's section. It reminds him of when Dad would drop him and Sam off at some local library for the day: safe, free childcare in the middle of a hunt in an unfamiliar town. Back then, Dean got expert at the vague handwave and the Oh, our dad's just over there and at blending in with the other kids.
“C’mon,” Sam calls, having obtained directions from the poor man’s Kirsten Dunst behind the desk. “This way.”
He appreciates the perfect view of Sam’s ass that he gets climbing two flights of narrow stairs at the back of the building and thinks about how he’s got a much better use for libraries nowadays. He just has to get Sam on board. Now departing: the Dean Winchester Express.
When they reach the second floor, Dean scans the large room automatically, noting exit behind them and emergency door to the left. The room is silent and still. Dust motes sift through the yellowish light from a bank of high windows, suggesting no one else in this part of the building. But it's a library after all: quiet’s the norm. Better keep an eye out.
Although not strictly necessary, Dean would like a little privacy for what he has in mind.
That doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem as Dean follows Sam deep into the dim stacks, down several god-forsaken aisles in the far corner. His fingers bump carelessly along the prehistoric volumes as he trails along behind.
“Hands off the books.”
Dean leers, even though he knows Sam’s not looking. “You want me rubbing your spine instead, is that it?” He runs a fingertip up and down the nearest title suggestively.
“God. Could that line be any more lame?" Sam objects as he scouts around, the eye-roll loud and clear in his voice. “How you ever got laid is a complete mystery to me.”
“Scintillating wit? Devilish good looks? Cock like a baseball bat? Dude, how could I miss?”
Sam doesn’t play along though, just stops and crouches down to look at the books on one of the lower shelves. Incidentally, waist-high? Is another good angle for him.
After a few long moments and heavy sighs that get no response, Dean decides it’s time to get this show on the road. He stretches extravagantly, arms high and wide, flashing a little patch of belly as his t-shirt rises up and hugs tight across his pecs. Sam glances over and quickly looks away. Really. This is gonna be too easy.
But Sam merely grabs five or six volumes off of the shelf, turns his back and heads to a nearby table. He methodically pulls laptop, spiral notebook and pens from his bag and settles in. He doesn’t even look to see if Dean’s going to join him.
Dean -- and his very stubborn cock -- are undeterred.
He strides over, flips the chair nearest Sam around and straddles it, resting on crossed arms with his legs spread wide. Sam doesn’t even blink. Dean picks up one of the pens and leans forward, innocently moving square into Sam’s peripheral vision to take a better look at the open page. Meanwhile, he’s sucking on the pen’s tip, rubbing it along his lower lip, giving it just a bit of tongue.
This is a foolproof approach.
“Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not going to work. Quit it and make yourself useful.” Sam opens one over-sized book with miniscule type and shoves it his way.
Or not.
Dean huffs and takes the pen out of his mouth, tapping it briskly on the desk. He’s not sulking. He just hates when Sam gets all serious and focused and… disregarding like this. It’s one thing if they’re in the middle of a hunt. Then you’ve got to be sharp, on your game. But sitting around neck-deep in research, a guy needs a bit of distraction.
Time to pull out the big guns.
“So.” Dean waits a beat or two, but Sam doesn’t look up. His hair’s grown about as long as he ever lets it get, and Dean wants to reach out and bury his hand in the curls brushing Sam’s collar. Yank his head back and bare his throat and suck a bruise right over the salty, hard beat of pulse and…
“So,” Dean repeats. “You remember that library in Spartanburg?”
Sam grunts a noncommittal response, still not looking.
“You remember how I crawled under the desk and pulled your dick out of your jeans and blew you right there? Slow and wet, me holding your hips down, with those little old ladies and teens on summer break and who the hell knows sitting all around us?”
Sam shifts a little in his seat.
Bingo. Dean leans a bit closer.
“And you bit your pencil in half trying not to shout ‘Hallelujah!’ as you came so hot and thick down my throat?” Dean shakes his head and gives a little chuckle, like he’s reminiscing fondly about Christmases with crazy Uncle Charlie. “Yeah. I remember that.”
“Shut up, jackass,” Sam mumbles as he continues to scan the pages, mouth thinned disapprovingly. “I’m not falling for this. Try and keep your libido in check for one afternoon? Please?”
“Oh, Sammy, my boy. Begging already?”
Sam kicks his ankle under the table, hard, right on the boniest point. Dean presses on.
“What about the time we were researching that poltergeist outside Seattle and we had to break into that old local museum? Remember? God, you had me up against the wall so fast I could barely get my shorts down before you were shoving up into this sweet ass of mine. Just a little spit and then so damn deep.” Dean gives his best appreciative moan. “I swear I was sore for a week after that.”
Slowly standing, making a production of it, Dean turns the chair around so he can plop down, lean back and sprawl. He starts fiddling with the brass tab on his fly, flipping it back and forth with his thumb. Sam’s nostrils flare and he ducks his head, trying to hide behind his bangs, but Dean can see he’s just pretending to read now. Sam's hand trembles slightly until he presses it flat on the page.
Then it’s Dean who has to press down firmly against his aching hard-on just to slow things down a bit. Sam’s the one who’s supposed to be getting riled up here, but watching Sam lose control is about the biggest turn-on there is.
“Do you remember that bathroom in the Detroit Public Library?” Dean pitches his voice so low and husky he’s surprised the porn industry didn’t hire him ages ago. “How you pretended that you didn’t know me? And you let me hit on you for a few minutes next to the urinal before you shoved me into a stall? And then you stuck three fingers way up inside me while you knelt on the dirty goddamn floor and let me fuck your mouth like a ten dollar whore?”
That’s it. Sam glares at him, eyes avid, lips wet. He’s breathing hard and shallow and, man, Dean’s got him now.
Dean’s fingers ghost over his own thighs, his groin, pulling Sam’s eyes down like a magnet. They start drawing tight, slow circles, emphasizing the outline of something in his right front pocket.
Now he’s just murmuring, soft as a caress. “What would you say if I told you I had lube in my pocket? That I brought it with me from the motel this morning and I've been walking around with it for hours? Felt it nestled right in there next to my half-hard dick? Warm from body heat? Been thinking about you fucking me all day long?”
Then, faster than Dean’s ever seen him move -- and that’s saying a lot, really -- Sam’s up, chair shooting backward, its legs squealing on the terrazzo floor. He lunges, wrenching Dean’s arm up behind his back then slamming him face-down against the cool wood of the library table.
“This what you were looking for?” Sam snarls and gives an extra little shove. His grip on Dean’s forearm is bruising and the angle of Sam’s hold has him trapped. Well, he could get away if he wanted to, but why the hell would he want to when he’s finally goaded Sam into muscling him around?
“Goddamn it.” Sam claws at Dean’s belt, jerking him back so that his chest stays flat against the table but his hips are clear, ass in the air. “Goddamn it, Dean. Nothing else is going to shut you up, is it?”
“Nope.” It’s meant to be smug, but it comes out a little choked as Sam works his pants open and ghosts his palm past Dean's rigid cock and down to his balls, fingertips rolling them gently through his boxers. The grip on his arm is still just short of brutal, but the other hand’s touch is feather-light and teasing, stroking soft and ticklish up under his shirt, over his ribs and back down again, easing the boxers over his ass and releasing his cock to spring up against his shirt tail.
Dean shudders, goosebumps breaking out along the trail of Sam’s hand. He writhes, thrusting his hips down and then back to try to get more pressure, some, anywhere.
Sam leans down to grope in the pocket of Dean’s jeans now pooled around his ankles, hunting for the lube, and buries his face in the small of Dean’s back. Dean reacts unconsciously, knees bending and thighs spreading wider.
This time it’s barely a whisper. “Goddamn.”
Dean hears the snap of the seal on the lube and feels Sam slip slick fingers inside him, twisting and stretching. Sam releases his hold on Dean in order to undo his own fly, knowing his fingers in Dean’s ass are more than enough restraint to keep him still. And Dean can’t even think, much less move, because after a few quick jabs, Sam’s hitting that spot over and over again. The spot that has Dean rising up on his toes and grinding his own face into the table top.
Sam rucks up both their shirts to get more skin touching skin. He blankets Dean for a moment, worrying the nape of his neck with jagged, lingering bites. His fingers are barely out before he’s driving his dick in, filling Dean up with one long, smooth thrust.
For a brief moment they’re both completely still, panting and muscles trembling, balanced at that perfect crest of a wave.
Then Sam pulls out and rams back in, fucking him in earnest, setting a vicious pace that rocks the table as Dean braces himself with both hands. Sam lets out a sound that’s half-laugh and half-sob. “Why can’t I… Christ… Why… can’t I keep my hands off you? Can’t stop... You… You fucking jerk.”
“Sam - Oh, God.“
Dean arches back, groaning, and feels Sam fumble for his dick, sliding along it with still-slick fingers. Then Sam tightens his grip and Dean is pumping into his hot fist in tandem with Sam’s thrusts. He wants to last longer, to move like this forever, but Sam wraps his free arm around Dean's chest, pulling him abruptly up and back, changing the angle just so.
“Now, Dean. Now! You feel… Fuck! I swear, come now.” Dean throws his head back against Sam’s shoulder as the wave crashes over him and he cries out, coating Sam’s hand white and warm and musky.
Dean's trembling, slumped forward, as Sam gives two or three more shallow, rapid rolls of his hips, whining through his teeth as his fingers scrabble on Dean’s skin. He plants his feet to keep Sam from plowing him through the table on his last violent thrust.
It takes a minute or two for Dean to summon the energy to push him off and into his chair where Sam sprawls, boneless and with a little grin on his face as he lazily tucks himself back into his jeans. Dean totters over to his own chair and collapses, feeling fucking delightful.
Sam flops one hand onto the table, grabs a pen and lobs it blindly at Dean, bouncing it off his shoulder. “Think you’ll remember this one, asshole?”
Dean answers on a sigh. “I’ll add it to the list.”
***
OMG look at the incredible companion art that trolleys made for the story:
Please, please, go here and tell her how astonishingly talented she is!!!
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Word Count: 2260
Author's Note: Welcome to my first foray into PWP. Just one more line you people have lured me into crossing.
A story written for a prompt by the lovely eboniorchid because she was Numero Uno in my NCAA basketball tournament pool. (Yes. That was six months ago. She's been ridiculously patient.) And thanks beyond measure go to mona1347 for the utterly fantastic beta. The commas!! You have no idea the horror of commas from which she rescued you.
Title from a lyric by The Barenaked Ladies.
Summary: Dean gets horny in the library. What else do you need to know?
***
Dean can barely set foot in a library without getting hard.
Not that libraries are anything to write home about. In fact, they usually smell. Dust and binding glue if they're old, metal shelves and overheated ozone from the Xerox machines if they're new. But there’s no avoiding it today; they’ve got to dig up some leads for this latest gig. So when Dean steps through the door and the scent hits him, he's shifting his stride, digging a hand down into one pocket to free up some room, lips pressed in a thin line.
He likes to fuck around with Sam in libraries and his dick knows it.
Sam pauses in the wood-paneled foyer to get his bearings and Dean crowds up a bit closer than normal behind him.
"Don't even," Sam mutters without so much as looking back. He heads for the reference desk to ask where they store the community archives. "We’ve got a ton of work to do."
Dean trails along behind, grumbling and horny and knowing that in a town this small there’s no way they’ll score electronic records. He looks around, grimacing at the worn, pea-colored carpet and, Jesus, the card catalog drawers. This could… it will take hours.
He slows down, peering in as they pass the cheap, low plastic chairs of the tiny children's section. It reminds him of when Dad would drop him and Sam off at some local library for the day: safe, free childcare in the middle of a hunt in an unfamiliar town. Back then, Dean got expert at the vague handwave and the Oh, our dad's just over there and at blending in with the other kids.
“C’mon,” Sam calls, having obtained directions from the poor man’s Kirsten Dunst behind the desk. “This way.”
He appreciates the perfect view of Sam’s ass that he gets climbing two flights of narrow stairs at the back of the building and thinks about how he’s got a much better use for libraries nowadays. He just has to get Sam on board. Now departing: the Dean Winchester Express.
When they reach the second floor, Dean scans the large room automatically, noting exit behind them and emergency door to the left. The room is silent and still. Dust motes sift through the yellowish light from a bank of high windows, suggesting no one else in this part of the building. But it's a library after all: quiet’s the norm. Better keep an eye out.
Although not strictly necessary, Dean would like a little privacy for what he has in mind.
That doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem as Dean follows Sam deep into the dim stacks, down several god-forsaken aisles in the far corner. His fingers bump carelessly along the prehistoric volumes as he trails along behind.
“Hands off the books.”
Dean leers, even though he knows Sam’s not looking. “You want me rubbing your spine instead, is that it?” He runs a fingertip up and down the nearest title suggestively.
“God. Could that line be any more lame?" Sam objects as he scouts around, the eye-roll loud and clear in his voice. “How you ever got laid is a complete mystery to me.”
“Scintillating wit? Devilish good looks? Cock like a baseball bat? Dude, how could I miss?”
Sam doesn’t play along though, just stops and crouches down to look at the books on one of the lower shelves. Incidentally, waist-high? Is another good angle for him.
After a few long moments and heavy sighs that get no response, Dean decides it’s time to get this show on the road. He stretches extravagantly, arms high and wide, flashing a little patch of belly as his t-shirt rises up and hugs tight across his pecs. Sam glances over and quickly looks away. Really. This is gonna be too easy.
But Sam merely grabs five or six volumes off of the shelf, turns his back and heads to a nearby table. He methodically pulls laptop, spiral notebook and pens from his bag and settles in. He doesn’t even look to see if Dean’s going to join him.
Dean -- and his very stubborn cock -- are undeterred.
He strides over, flips the chair nearest Sam around and straddles it, resting on crossed arms with his legs spread wide. Sam doesn’t even blink. Dean picks up one of the pens and leans forward, innocently moving square into Sam’s peripheral vision to take a better look at the open page. Meanwhile, he’s sucking on the pen’s tip, rubbing it along his lower lip, giving it just a bit of tongue.
This is a foolproof approach.
“Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not going to work. Quit it and make yourself useful.” Sam opens one over-sized book with miniscule type and shoves it his way.
Or not.
Dean huffs and takes the pen out of his mouth, tapping it briskly on the desk. He’s not sulking. He just hates when Sam gets all serious and focused and… disregarding like this. It’s one thing if they’re in the middle of a hunt. Then you’ve got to be sharp, on your game. But sitting around neck-deep in research, a guy needs a bit of distraction.
Time to pull out the big guns.
“So.” Dean waits a beat or two, but Sam doesn’t look up. His hair’s grown about as long as he ever lets it get, and Dean wants to reach out and bury his hand in the curls brushing Sam’s collar. Yank his head back and bare his throat and suck a bruise right over the salty, hard beat of pulse and…
“So,” Dean repeats. “You remember that library in Spartanburg?”
Sam grunts a noncommittal response, still not looking.
“You remember how I crawled under the desk and pulled your dick out of your jeans and blew you right there? Slow and wet, me holding your hips down, with those little old ladies and teens on summer break and who the hell knows sitting all around us?”
Sam shifts a little in his seat.
Bingo. Dean leans a bit closer.
“And you bit your pencil in half trying not to shout ‘Hallelujah!’ as you came so hot and thick down my throat?” Dean shakes his head and gives a little chuckle, like he’s reminiscing fondly about Christmases with crazy Uncle Charlie. “Yeah. I remember that.”
“Shut up, jackass,” Sam mumbles as he continues to scan the pages, mouth thinned disapprovingly. “I’m not falling for this. Try and keep your libido in check for one afternoon? Please?”
“Oh, Sammy, my boy. Begging already?”
Sam kicks his ankle under the table, hard, right on the boniest point. Dean presses on.
“What about the time we were researching that poltergeist outside Seattle and we had to break into that old local museum? Remember? God, you had me up against the wall so fast I could barely get my shorts down before you were shoving up into this sweet ass of mine. Just a little spit and then so damn deep.” Dean gives his best appreciative moan. “I swear I was sore for a week after that.”
Slowly standing, making a production of it, Dean turns the chair around so he can plop down, lean back and sprawl. He starts fiddling with the brass tab on his fly, flipping it back and forth with his thumb. Sam’s nostrils flare and he ducks his head, trying to hide behind his bangs, but Dean can see he’s just pretending to read now. Sam's hand trembles slightly until he presses it flat on the page.
Then it’s Dean who has to press down firmly against his aching hard-on just to slow things down a bit. Sam’s the one who’s supposed to be getting riled up here, but watching Sam lose control is about the biggest turn-on there is.
“Do you remember that bathroom in the Detroit Public Library?” Dean pitches his voice so low and husky he’s surprised the porn industry didn’t hire him ages ago. “How you pretended that you didn’t know me? And you let me hit on you for a few minutes next to the urinal before you shoved me into a stall? And then you stuck three fingers way up inside me while you knelt on the dirty goddamn floor and let me fuck your mouth like a ten dollar whore?”
That’s it. Sam glares at him, eyes avid, lips wet. He’s breathing hard and shallow and, man, Dean’s got him now.
Dean’s fingers ghost over his own thighs, his groin, pulling Sam’s eyes down like a magnet. They start drawing tight, slow circles, emphasizing the outline of something in his right front pocket.
Now he’s just murmuring, soft as a caress. “What would you say if I told you I had lube in my pocket? That I brought it with me from the motel this morning and I've been walking around with it for hours? Felt it nestled right in there next to my half-hard dick? Warm from body heat? Been thinking about you fucking me all day long?”
Then, faster than Dean’s ever seen him move -- and that’s saying a lot, really -- Sam’s up, chair shooting backward, its legs squealing on the terrazzo floor. He lunges, wrenching Dean’s arm up behind his back then slamming him face-down against the cool wood of the library table.
“This what you were looking for?” Sam snarls and gives an extra little shove. His grip on Dean’s forearm is bruising and the angle of Sam’s hold has him trapped. Well, he could get away if he wanted to, but why the hell would he want to when he’s finally goaded Sam into muscling him around?
“Goddamn it.” Sam claws at Dean’s belt, jerking him back so that his chest stays flat against the table but his hips are clear, ass in the air. “Goddamn it, Dean. Nothing else is going to shut you up, is it?”
“Nope.” It’s meant to be smug, but it comes out a little choked as Sam works his pants open and ghosts his palm past Dean's rigid cock and down to his balls, fingertips rolling them gently through his boxers. The grip on his arm is still just short of brutal, but the other hand’s touch is feather-light and teasing, stroking soft and ticklish up under his shirt, over his ribs and back down again, easing the boxers over his ass and releasing his cock to spring up against his shirt tail.
Dean shudders, goosebumps breaking out along the trail of Sam’s hand. He writhes, thrusting his hips down and then back to try to get more pressure, some, anywhere.
Sam leans down to grope in the pocket of Dean’s jeans now pooled around his ankles, hunting for the lube, and buries his face in the small of Dean’s back. Dean reacts unconsciously, knees bending and thighs spreading wider.
This time it’s barely a whisper. “Goddamn.”
Dean hears the snap of the seal on the lube and feels Sam slip slick fingers inside him, twisting and stretching. Sam releases his hold on Dean in order to undo his own fly, knowing his fingers in Dean’s ass are more than enough restraint to keep him still. And Dean can’t even think, much less move, because after a few quick jabs, Sam’s hitting that spot over and over again. The spot that has Dean rising up on his toes and grinding his own face into the table top.
Sam rucks up both their shirts to get more skin touching skin. He blankets Dean for a moment, worrying the nape of his neck with jagged, lingering bites. His fingers are barely out before he’s driving his dick in, filling Dean up with one long, smooth thrust.
For a brief moment they’re both completely still, panting and muscles trembling, balanced at that perfect crest of a wave.
Then Sam pulls out and rams back in, fucking him in earnest, setting a vicious pace that rocks the table as Dean braces himself with both hands. Sam lets out a sound that’s half-laugh and half-sob. “Why can’t I… Christ… Why… can’t I keep my hands off you? Can’t stop... You… You fucking jerk.”
“Sam - Oh, God.“
Dean arches back, groaning, and feels Sam fumble for his dick, sliding along it with still-slick fingers. Then Sam tightens his grip and Dean is pumping into his hot fist in tandem with Sam’s thrusts. He wants to last longer, to move like this forever, but Sam wraps his free arm around Dean's chest, pulling him abruptly up and back, changing the angle just so.
“Now, Dean. Now! You feel… Fuck! I swear, come now.” Dean throws his head back against Sam’s shoulder as the wave crashes over him and he cries out, coating Sam’s hand white and warm and musky.
Dean's trembling, slumped forward, as Sam gives two or three more shallow, rapid rolls of his hips, whining through his teeth as his fingers scrabble on Dean’s skin. He plants his feet to keep Sam from plowing him through the table on his last violent thrust.
It takes a minute or two for Dean to summon the energy to push him off and into his chair where Sam sprawls, boneless and with a little grin on his face as he lazily tucks himself back into his jeans. Dean totters over to his own chair and collapses, feeling fucking delightful.
Sam flops one hand onto the table, grabs a pen and lobs it blindly at Dean, bouncing it off his shoulder. “Think you’ll remember this one, asshole?”
Dean answers on a sigh. “I’ll add it to the list.”
***
OMG look at the incredible companion art that trolleys made for the story:
Please, please, go here and tell her how astonishingly talented she is!!!