Fic: SPN (Sam/Dean): Solid Oak | NC-17 | 2042 words
Title: Solid Oak
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Curtain fic
Summary: Sam and Dean have a kitchen table.
Word Count: 2042
A/N: Written for a January 2012 blindfold_spn prompt (Sam/Dean - curtain!fic, bottom!Dean, sex on the table)
They're all domesticated and normal now, Dean thinks-curtains and everything. Blue ones with a little ruffle that look just a little girly. Dean remembers Sam picking the curtains out and teasing him all the way to Dairy Queen where Sam shut him up with an Oreo Blizzard. It had worked until they’d gotten home and Sam had put them up because without any ice cream to distract him, Dean had had nothing else to focus on besides the fact that, yes, those were definitely curtains and, yes, they were on his windows-his and Sam’s windows.
Of all the fucked-up things that happened in Dean’s life, he really hadn’t thought that he’d have a panic attack over goddamned curtains of all things. It really wasn’t the curtains. It was what they meant. It was the fact that now he and Sam had curtains to go with their quaint little house with its pale blue wallpaper and light oak cabinets with a matching dinette set all in the nice little neighborhood and, Jesus fuck, he and Sam had neighbors. There’s even one, a pretty redhead name Kara that stops by every so often just to check up on them because that’s what kind of neighborhood Sam and Dean are living in.
They really weren’t supposed to live this long. Well, technically, they hadn’t. Both Sam and Dean had died so many times that it was kind of ridiculous and sometimes they argued over the numbers of who died the most. They really shouldn’t be here, living in this little house that looks like it should be on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Their luck should have run out ages ago and they both should be deader than a doornail, living out their afterlives in some boring Heaven dreamscape. There’s no fucking reason why they should have made it to this moment.
It’s a goddamned mystery to Dean. He’s literally been to Hell and back and so has Sam but yet here they are, living some peaceful coexistence in this backwater town, semi-retired and only taking the occasional job. Dean’s lost count of how many times they’ve saved the world and absolutely no one in this town has a clue. They think that Sam and Dean are the somewhat eccentric but generally friendly gay couple that just landed in their midst (“Oh, who took whose name? That’s so cute!”). The town would be in an uproar if they had even a hint of what Sam and Dean had been through-let alone the fact that Sam and Dean’s relationship was a little more risqué than just gay. Mrs. Coven down the street would bleach as white as her hair if she knew the truth and crotchety old Terrence, the local homophobe, would die of a heart attack if he found out that not only were Sam and Dean having gay sex but they were having incestuous gay sex.
It’s all just so normal. No one knows the truth or even half of it but no one cares to ask, either. Sam and Dean are part of the neighborhood and that’s that. Dean’s had his fair share of freak-outs about the whole thing-the curtains, the bedsheets, signing the damn mortgage papers-and Sam has too, though always about different things than Dean but mostly, it’s over and done. Dean’s accepted it and moved on. He almost kind of likes it. He mows the lawn on Sundays and makes Sam dinner every Monday through Thursday and casually accepts the invites from the Jorgenson’s just down the road for Saturday barbeques.
He and Sam even go to work during the weekday, regular eight to fours and nine to fives Monday through Friday, and Dean’s surprised that he’s never freaked out about that particular fact. Sam has but Dean hasn’t.
If you ignore the runes carved underneath the wallpaper and the sand-encrusted paint (“Oh, how ever did you get that texture?” Mrs. Coven had asked) and the demon traps carefully drawn on the other side of the floorboards, then it’s practically Rockwellian. Normal. Domesticated.
If Sam could just stop fucking him on the kitchen table out of jealousy every time pretty little redheaded Kara stops by for coffee, they would be one white picket fence away from picture perfect suburbia. When Dean had laid down the cash for the solid oak dinette set, he’s ashamed to say that he hadn’t even considered that he might spend more time on top of it than around it.
Kara doesn’t know. Otherwise, she might feel guilty that whenever she stops by, she always leaves just as Sam’s coming home from work. It’s not her fault. She just comes over once Dean gets home and then leaves when husband pulls into the driveway next door. Dean doesn’t even think she notices that narrowed eyed look that Sam gives her when she walks out the door, that one that lets Dean know that he’s got about forty-five seconds before Sam’s fucking him on the table again.
It’s not even fair, Dean thinks, when Sam roughly shoves him on to the polished surface and yanks down his jeans. Totally hot with the way Sam gets all growly and forceful but not fair. Dean doesn’t even so much as flirt with Kara because she’s so hopelessly devoted to her husband, she probably wouldn’t even notice if Dean propositioned her for a quick fuck. Dean’s explained this a couple of times to Sam but so far it hasn’t stopped Sam from jamming his cock up Dean’s ass right beside the coffee mug Kara had just been drinking out of.
Somehow, Sam’s always got lube on him so Dean doesn’t even get that much of a headstart and Dean’s seriously starting to wonder if Sam just carries it with him wherever he goes like some kind of kinky boy scout or if he’s hiding it in the kitchen. There’s not much that Dean can do after Sam gives Kara that look besides wait for the door to close and drop trou because Sam will handle the rest.
Dean’s tried to run once or twice, booking it to the bedroom, but Sam’s always caught him before he even makes it to the stairs and drags him right back. Sam’s got a thing for the table that Dean doesn’t quite understand. Whether Dean runs or stays put, Sam will still have him flat on his back on the table, fucking the ever-living daylights out of him until Dean’s eyes cross and he knows that he’ll be feeling this for the next two days. Sam’s never gentle when he’s got Dean on the table. He’s always rough and possessive, with his big hands leaving bruises on Dean’s thighs as he growls and he might as well be branding Dean’s ass with a big old ‘Property of Sam Winchester’ for how subtle he is.
The thing is, Dean wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t. Not even with all the rough, grabby stuff and the reaming Dean’s asshole until Dean thinks he’s not going to be able to sit down for a week. No, because Dean likes that stuff-every once and awhile. It’s just the fact that Sam’s little blue curtains, the ones with the ruffle on the edge cover absolutely nothing.
In other rooms of the house, the curtains hang down over the entire window but in the kitchen, they’re only a wavy valence that leaves the entire center exposed. At the time, Dean hadn’t thought much of it because, oh, somebody watching him putter around the kitchen, big deal. He hadn’t realized that Sam was going to develop a goddamned kink for fucking him right in front of the exposed glass.
And that, Dean thinks, is probably why Sam feels the need to do this here, on this damn table when he’s feeling all jealous and needy. This is Sam’s way of proving to everyone who cares to look that Dean’s his, that after all the shit that they’ve been through, they’re still together and Dean is totally and completely his.
Of course, the fact that the window is facing Kara’s house might have something to do with it, too.
After the token initial struggle and the now ritualistic griping that Sam ignores when he sinks in, hot and hard and there, Dean just mentally shrugs and lets it go. Sam’s pounding him into submission and Dean knows that there’s not much he can do besides go along for the ride.
Just like he’s done all the times before, Dean fists his cock and closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in Sam’s demanding rhythm. After all, from this angle, it’s not like it’s going to be his face that’s going to end up plastered on the internet labeled “Hot Neighborhood Stud” or something more appalling. All they’re going to get of Dean is his hair and the top of his shoulders plus his legs that Sam’s got hanging up in the air.
Sam shakes the sweat out of his eyes, his hair already sticking to his forehead and Dean grins, running a hand over Sam’s face, mopping up the sweat as he pushes Sam’s hair behind his ear. “Yeah, Sammy,” he whispers because it always makes Sam a little bit more desperate, his hips stuttering as he moans high and breathy before bringing himself back down into a growl and heading into the final stretch, bending over Dean and bracing himself on his elbows.
Dean grabs a hold of Sam’s neck to hang on tight because by now, they’ve slicked the table with sweat and Sam’s thrusts are starting to rock Dean forward as Sam’s no longer keeping Dean in place with a tight grip on his thighs. Sam meets Dean’s eyes and screws in extra hard and just like that, Dean’s coming like there’s no tomorrow, bucking up against Sam’s weight and his eyes are rolling back in his head because its always that damn good.
He tightens almost painfully around Sam’s dick as Sam fucks him through it and in no time at all, Sam shuddering and whining as he comes, pumping his spunk into Dean’s ass because neither one of them likes using a condom anymore.
“Christ, Sam,” Dean says when it’s all said and done, his voice weak and shaky. Sam nuzzles against Dean’s neck, licking at the sweat and leaving tiny little marks that everyone’s going to be smirking at tomorrow. Jackass.
They stay like that for a little while, Dean petting Sam’s sweaty hair, until Sam sighs and finally pulls himself out, making Dean wince and squirm. A trail of come leaks out and Dean doesn’t bother to bitch this time about the fact that he and Sam eat at this table, thank you very much because Sam will just ignore it and Dean’s feeling worn-out and hazy. He just slides his ass back off the table, grateful for the fact that he and Sam had laid down the cash for the sturdy, solid oak set instead of cheaping out like they’d originally been planning. He settles unsteadily on his feet and moves from side to side, screwing up his face as he feels Sam’s come start to leak down his thigh. It’s an odd feeling, like maybe he needs to go to the bathroom and take care of something.
Sam smiles at him and brushes a hand through his hair before hauling him in for a kiss. It’s sweet and gentle and the complete opposite of the hard, nasty fucking they just did on their idyllic little table and the incongruence makes Dean smirk. Sam gives him another little peck and murmurs that he’s ready for a nap and Dean nods, letting Sam lead him towards the stairs.
He spares one last look at the kitchen, it’s smooth, polished surfaces gleaming in the late afternoon sun and it hardly seems real. Sam’s wiped up the come and the sweat and the room’s gone back to looking like it’s in a glossy print magazine. No one would ever suspect what had happened, what would happen again. It’s quaint and domesticated and safe. Somehow, this is their life.
Dean has no idea how they made it. But he’s happy they did.
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Curtain fic
Summary: Sam and Dean have a kitchen table.
Word Count: 2042
A/N: Written for a January 2012 blindfold_spn prompt (Sam/Dean - curtain!fic, bottom!Dean, sex on the table)
They're all domesticated and normal now, Dean thinks-curtains and everything. Blue ones with a little ruffle that look just a little girly. Dean remembers Sam picking the curtains out and teasing him all the way to Dairy Queen where Sam shut him up with an Oreo Blizzard. It had worked until they’d gotten home and Sam had put them up because without any ice cream to distract him, Dean had had nothing else to focus on besides the fact that, yes, those were definitely curtains and, yes, they were on his windows-his and Sam’s windows.
Of all the fucked-up things that happened in Dean’s life, he really hadn’t thought that he’d have a panic attack over goddamned curtains of all things. It really wasn’t the curtains. It was what they meant. It was the fact that now he and Sam had curtains to go with their quaint little house with its pale blue wallpaper and light oak cabinets with a matching dinette set all in the nice little neighborhood and, Jesus fuck, he and Sam had neighbors. There’s even one, a pretty redhead name Kara that stops by every so often just to check up on them because that’s what kind of neighborhood Sam and Dean are living in.
They really weren’t supposed to live this long. Well, technically, they hadn’t. Both Sam and Dean had died so many times that it was kind of ridiculous and sometimes they argued over the numbers of who died the most. They really shouldn’t be here, living in this little house that looks like it should be on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Their luck should have run out ages ago and they both should be deader than a doornail, living out their afterlives in some boring Heaven dreamscape. There’s no fucking reason why they should have made it to this moment.
It’s a goddamned mystery to Dean. He’s literally been to Hell and back and so has Sam but yet here they are, living some peaceful coexistence in this backwater town, semi-retired and only taking the occasional job. Dean’s lost count of how many times they’ve saved the world and absolutely no one in this town has a clue. They think that Sam and Dean are the somewhat eccentric but generally friendly gay couple that just landed in their midst (“Oh, who took whose name? That’s so cute!”). The town would be in an uproar if they had even a hint of what Sam and Dean had been through-let alone the fact that Sam and Dean’s relationship was a little more risqué than just gay. Mrs. Coven down the street would bleach as white as her hair if she knew the truth and crotchety old Terrence, the local homophobe, would die of a heart attack if he found out that not only were Sam and Dean having gay sex but they were having incestuous gay sex.
It’s all just so normal. No one knows the truth or even half of it but no one cares to ask, either. Sam and Dean are part of the neighborhood and that’s that. Dean’s had his fair share of freak-outs about the whole thing-the curtains, the bedsheets, signing the damn mortgage papers-and Sam has too, though always about different things than Dean but mostly, it’s over and done. Dean’s accepted it and moved on. He almost kind of likes it. He mows the lawn on Sundays and makes Sam dinner every Monday through Thursday and casually accepts the invites from the Jorgenson’s just down the road for Saturday barbeques.
He and Sam even go to work during the weekday, regular eight to fours and nine to fives Monday through Friday, and Dean’s surprised that he’s never freaked out about that particular fact. Sam has but Dean hasn’t.
If you ignore the runes carved underneath the wallpaper and the sand-encrusted paint (“Oh, how ever did you get that texture?” Mrs. Coven had asked) and the demon traps carefully drawn on the other side of the floorboards, then it’s practically Rockwellian. Normal. Domesticated.
If Sam could just stop fucking him on the kitchen table out of jealousy every time pretty little redheaded Kara stops by for coffee, they would be one white picket fence away from picture perfect suburbia. When Dean had laid down the cash for the solid oak dinette set, he’s ashamed to say that he hadn’t even considered that he might spend more time on top of it than around it.
Kara doesn’t know. Otherwise, she might feel guilty that whenever she stops by, she always leaves just as Sam’s coming home from work. It’s not her fault. She just comes over once Dean gets home and then leaves when husband pulls into the driveway next door. Dean doesn’t even think she notices that narrowed eyed look that Sam gives her when she walks out the door, that one that lets Dean know that he’s got about forty-five seconds before Sam’s fucking him on the table again.
It’s not even fair, Dean thinks, when Sam roughly shoves him on to the polished surface and yanks down his jeans. Totally hot with the way Sam gets all growly and forceful but not fair. Dean doesn’t even so much as flirt with Kara because she’s so hopelessly devoted to her husband, she probably wouldn’t even notice if Dean propositioned her for a quick fuck. Dean’s explained this a couple of times to Sam but so far it hasn’t stopped Sam from jamming his cock up Dean’s ass right beside the coffee mug Kara had just been drinking out of.
Somehow, Sam’s always got lube on him so Dean doesn’t even get that much of a headstart and Dean’s seriously starting to wonder if Sam just carries it with him wherever he goes like some kind of kinky boy scout or if he’s hiding it in the kitchen. There’s not much that Dean can do after Sam gives Kara that look besides wait for the door to close and drop trou because Sam will handle the rest.
Dean’s tried to run once or twice, booking it to the bedroom, but Sam’s always caught him before he even makes it to the stairs and drags him right back. Sam’s got a thing for the table that Dean doesn’t quite understand. Whether Dean runs or stays put, Sam will still have him flat on his back on the table, fucking the ever-living daylights out of him until Dean’s eyes cross and he knows that he’ll be feeling this for the next two days. Sam’s never gentle when he’s got Dean on the table. He’s always rough and possessive, with his big hands leaving bruises on Dean’s thighs as he growls and he might as well be branding Dean’s ass with a big old ‘Property of Sam Winchester’ for how subtle he is.
The thing is, Dean wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t. Not even with all the rough, grabby stuff and the reaming Dean’s asshole until Dean thinks he’s not going to be able to sit down for a week. No, because Dean likes that stuff-every once and awhile. It’s just the fact that Sam’s little blue curtains, the ones with the ruffle on the edge cover absolutely nothing.
In other rooms of the house, the curtains hang down over the entire window but in the kitchen, they’re only a wavy valence that leaves the entire center exposed. At the time, Dean hadn’t thought much of it because, oh, somebody watching him putter around the kitchen, big deal. He hadn’t realized that Sam was going to develop a goddamned kink for fucking him right in front of the exposed glass.
And that, Dean thinks, is probably why Sam feels the need to do this here, on this damn table when he’s feeling all jealous and needy. This is Sam’s way of proving to everyone who cares to look that Dean’s his, that after all the shit that they’ve been through, they’re still together and Dean is totally and completely his.
Of course, the fact that the window is facing Kara’s house might have something to do with it, too.
After the token initial struggle and the now ritualistic griping that Sam ignores when he sinks in, hot and hard and there, Dean just mentally shrugs and lets it go. Sam’s pounding him into submission and Dean knows that there’s not much he can do besides go along for the ride.
Just like he’s done all the times before, Dean fists his cock and closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in Sam’s demanding rhythm. After all, from this angle, it’s not like it’s going to be his face that’s going to end up plastered on the internet labeled “Hot Neighborhood Stud” or something more appalling. All they’re going to get of Dean is his hair and the top of his shoulders plus his legs that Sam’s got hanging up in the air.
Sam shakes the sweat out of his eyes, his hair already sticking to his forehead and Dean grins, running a hand over Sam’s face, mopping up the sweat as he pushes Sam’s hair behind his ear. “Yeah, Sammy,” he whispers because it always makes Sam a little bit more desperate, his hips stuttering as he moans high and breathy before bringing himself back down into a growl and heading into the final stretch, bending over Dean and bracing himself on his elbows.
Dean grabs a hold of Sam’s neck to hang on tight because by now, they’ve slicked the table with sweat and Sam’s thrusts are starting to rock Dean forward as Sam’s no longer keeping Dean in place with a tight grip on his thighs. Sam meets Dean’s eyes and screws in extra hard and just like that, Dean’s coming like there’s no tomorrow, bucking up against Sam’s weight and his eyes are rolling back in his head because its always that damn good.
He tightens almost painfully around Sam’s dick as Sam fucks him through it and in no time at all, Sam shuddering and whining as he comes, pumping his spunk into Dean’s ass because neither one of them likes using a condom anymore.
“Christ, Sam,” Dean says when it’s all said and done, his voice weak and shaky. Sam nuzzles against Dean’s neck, licking at the sweat and leaving tiny little marks that everyone’s going to be smirking at tomorrow. Jackass.
They stay like that for a little while, Dean petting Sam’s sweaty hair, until Sam sighs and finally pulls himself out, making Dean wince and squirm. A trail of come leaks out and Dean doesn’t bother to bitch this time about the fact that he and Sam eat at this table, thank you very much because Sam will just ignore it and Dean’s feeling worn-out and hazy. He just slides his ass back off the table, grateful for the fact that he and Sam had laid down the cash for the sturdy, solid oak set instead of cheaping out like they’d originally been planning. He settles unsteadily on his feet and moves from side to side, screwing up his face as he feels Sam’s come start to leak down his thigh. It’s an odd feeling, like maybe he needs to go to the bathroom and take care of something.
Sam smiles at him and brushes a hand through his hair before hauling him in for a kiss. It’s sweet and gentle and the complete opposite of the hard, nasty fucking they just did on their idyllic little table and the incongruence makes Dean smirk. Sam gives him another little peck and murmurs that he’s ready for a nap and Dean nods, letting Sam lead him towards the stairs.
He spares one last look at the kitchen, it’s smooth, polished surfaces gleaming in the late afternoon sun and it hardly seems real. Sam’s wiped up the come and the sweat and the room’s gone back to looking like it’s in a glossy print magazine. No one would ever suspect what had happened, what would happen again. It’s quaint and domesticated and safe. Somehow, this is their life.
Dean has no idea how they made it. But he’s happy they did.