(no subject)
Title: And the Midget Was the Baby Daddy (Sam/Dean)
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17 (explicit sex, dirty talk, mention of water sports and R Kelly's alleged video escapades. This is a really filthy fic, guys.)
Summary: Sam and Dean, trapped in a closet. And then Dean pulls out his gun!
Notes: You know, this started off really nice, with metaphors and Sammy being a kid and then all of the sudden it took a nose-dive. I have no excuses. Thanks to shored for holding my hand and threatening to pee on me. Also, this story might make more sense if you've seen these.
When he was nine years old, Sammy went through a phase where he thought that hiding behind doors and boxes and jumping out and scaring people was the best thing ever. This lasted exactly as long until the first time that John accidentally pulled a gun on him and for years after that, Sam was a little soured on the whole hiding thing.
Dean was good at hiding. Good at waiting. Good at anything that would end with him jumping out and killing something, really. He took to it like a duck to the water, whenever Dad had them practicing stealth. Dean used to turn it into Graveyard even after Dad told him to quit coddling Sam and let him do it on his own. Graveyard was Sam’s absolute favorite game in the world until he figured out that it was all, more or less, a big scam on the part of adults to get their kids to shut the hell up for a bit.
Even after he forgot all about staring down the barrel of a Colt 45, Sam never really got used to hiding out. He was too big, for one thing; even when he was 12 and chubby he was still pretty tall for his age, and once he shot past six feet the idea of crouching in a dusty closet for three solid hours was just about out of the question.
It still is, really.
“I’m trapped in the closet,” Dean sings softly, grinning to himself. “Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet.”
Sam’s shoulders are folded inwards, crammed into the corner of a closet clearly not big enough to hold even one of them comfortably. There’s a spiderweb stretching across the ceiling, which is approximately an inch above his head and he through the thin slats of light coming in through the door, he can see it trembling minutely as its occupant makes its way invisibly across it.
“Dean,” he pants out, “if you don’t stop singing that right now I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“And then I pull out my gun!” Dean chants joyfully, which definitely isn’t an answer. Sam punches him in the arm, or at least does his very best to punch Dean in the arm, space being a little bit limited.
He wonders what Dad would think if Sam called him up and told him that Dean was dead and it was because of R Kelly.
“This is all your fault,” Sam says. And it is. Everything is Dean’s fault. Global warming could be Dean’s fault and he wouldn’t be surprised. Someone could tell him that back in 2000, Dean was down in Florida, fucking with hanging chads and voter lists, and Sam would only shrug.
“Have you ever thought about what actually goes on in R Kelly’s head?” Dean asks thoughtfully. “I mean, seriously, you saw the movie, right? What the fuck is up with that, you know? What kind of diseased brain comes up with that kind of thing?” He’s silent for long enough that Sam almost begins to hope Dean’s fallen asleep, or maybe died, when he adds, “Sheer genius, Sammy.”
“Seriously, man, shut the fuck up,” Sam says. He think he can feel the spider in his hair. Maybe, he thinks, if he headbutted Dean in just the right way, he could mash the spider between them and get spider guts all over Dean’s face.
“But really, what do you think he thinks about?”
“Peeing on twelve year olds,” Sam answers. “Can you get your brain off R Kelly for just a minute and help me figure out how to get us out of here?”
He can just barely see Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “R Kelly pees on twelve year olds?”
“I hate you so much it actually hurts me.”
Dean’s quiet for a long time after that, though he hums vaguely under his breath. Sam’s arm falls asleep and he can definitely feel the spider crawling across his forehead now. He’s going to kill Dean.
“This is all your fault,” he says again.
“You need to chill the hell out, Sammy,” Dean replies. He shifts a little bit, which jams his shoulder further into Sam’s chest. The spiders loses its balance and falls onto Sam’s nose. He restrains from flailing around and smacking his head against the wall behind him only by the barest edge of control. Instead he wiggles one hand up and around Dean, folds his arm very carefully at the elbow, and tries to flick the spider onto Dean. Dean doesn’t flinch, but he’s a mutant and it’s his fault that they’re trapped in a motherfucking closet, so who knows, it could’ve landed on him. It could now be working its way towards Dean’s ear, where it will lay millions of spider babies that will eat his brain.
“What are you giggling about, Samantha?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, and cracks his head on the wall behind him.
“Relax,” Dean says. It’s almost a purr. If it’s a purr, Sam will kill him. “Loosen up. Who knows how long we could be in here, right?”
“Months? Years?” Sam mutters. Dean elbows him in the stomach, or shifts again. Sam can’t really tell the difference.
“Hey, Sam. Hey,” Dean says. The light glints off his teeth as he grins up at Sam. “You wanna do it?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam says to no one in particular.
“No, seriously. It’d loosen you up, come on.”
“Dean, I can barely breathe,” Sam says patiently. “You can barely breathe. I know because I can hear you wheezing.”
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says. His voice goes low and scratchy and Sam’s eyes flutter shut instinctively. The hard line of Dean’s hip presses against his cock. He can see Dean palming his own dick through his pants, one shoulder crushed up against the side of the closet. But -
“Wait, Dean, are you hard because R Kelly pees on twelve year olds?”
He can’t move far enough to dodge the back of Dean’s hand, which is just unfair, but Dean’s already laughing. “Yeah, Sammy, the thought of twelve year olds being peed on makes me want to hump your gigantor body. Come on, Sammy. Put your hair in pigtails and let me pee on you. I’m gonna pee all over your face.”
“You’re so fucking gross,” Sam says, but he’s giggling already, pushing against Dean as best as he can. “I hate you,” he says when Dean leans forward and scrapes his teeth along Sam’s throat. Sam sneezes as he tips his head back and the back of his skull thumps against the wall.
“Ow,” he says. Dean snickers against his collarbone. “Shut the hell up, Dean. This is impossible. Seriously. No, man. Quit it.”
“Quitter,” Dean mutters. Sam can feel him fumbling vaguely with the button of Sam’s jeans, two fingers wormed in between them. “They teach you how to quit at Stanford? Don’t be such a dirty vagina.”
“A dirty vagina?” is what Sam means to say, but the words get a little lost when Dean finally pops the button on his jeans and wiggles his wrist around until his hand is more or less inside Sam’s pants. “A di - ahh, fuck,” is what comes out instead when Dean’s fingers wrap around his irritatingly hard cock.
“Shut up or I’m gonna pee on you,” Dean says, which really should be a turn off. Dean stares up at Sam, interested. “Hey, is that turning you on? You really want me to pee on you or something? Man, you’re nasty.”
“Stop talking,” Sam groans, which definitely isn’t an answer.
Dean’s stroking him, nice and easy, the base of his thumb brushing against the sensitive underside of the head of Sam’s cock, which is awesome, but he won’t stop talking, which is, as far as Sam can tell, pretty much the opposite of awesome. “And that’s when I start goin’ crazy,” he sings, “like I was tryin’ to give her a baby. Want me to give you a baby, Samantha?”
Sam kisses Dean to shut him up, gets a hand up under Dean’s chin to force his face upwards and kisses him hard. Dean tastes like dust and blood where he bit his tongue earlier and all in all it’s pretty disgusting. They lean back at the same time, eyeing each other. “Dude, you taste like puke,” Dean says.
“You taste like ass,” Sam retorts.
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “How do you know what ass tastes like? Hey, watch the face. You want me to stop what I’m doing?”
Sam wants to think that one over but Dean’s pretty damn good at this. “Would it make you shut up?” he says at last.
Dean snorts, not even bothering to reply. He stares down at the movement of his hand, swiping his thumb across the head. “Wish I could blow you,” he says. “God, Sammy. Suck you right down my throat and make you come like that.”
“Ok,” Sam pants. “You can keep talking. I don’t mind.”
Dean’s laugh tickles his ear as he leans close. “I’d use my hand, too. Suck you until I can get my hand all nice and wet, use that too, rub it all over your balls. Maybe finger you a bit. I wouldn’t fuck you, though. Not until I’ve already made you come so hard I can turn you over and just ... push right in. Would do it hard, either. I’d go so slow you’d try and get me to stop.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Sam says breathlessly. His head twists. He can barely breathe. He can’t even tell if it’s the closet or Dean’s hand on his cock.
“Yeah, you would,” Dean says. “You’d be all sensitive and prissy and tell me to hurry up. You’d get into it, though.”
“Arrogant, much?” Sam groans.
“Nah, I just know you. You’d get into it when I was fucking you good and deep. Nice and slow. You know. Wouldn’t even give you a reacharound, either. You’d come on my cock.”
And that does it for Sam, his whole body tightening up and giving way all at once. When he can see again, he opens his eyes to see Dean contemplating the mess on his hand and shirt. He glances up and meets Sam’s eyes. “Pornstar.”
Sam’s loose enough that together, they get him turned around, face and chest against the wall, Dean’s fingers snagging in Sam’s belt loops to yank his jeans down. His cock slides along Sam’s crack, not bothering with nice and slow, slick with the sweat on Sam’s skin. Sam braces himself against the wall, puts his head down and takes it.
It doesn’t take long. Dean comes with a groan so noisy that Sam wants to ask who exactly the pornstar is, here. He lets his head drop down between Sam’s shoulder blades. Sam can feel Dean’s breath on the back of his neck. Dean’s still wheezing, just a little bit. He shifts a little bit before he speaks.
“I’m not gonna pee on you, though. That’s just gross.”
And really, Sam doesn’t want to laugh. In fact, he’d give just about anything not to. “It’s still all your fault,” he says, laughing.
“It’s like you’re speaking some sort of foreign language, man,” Dean tells him. There are splinters digging into Sam’s palms but he feels too damn good to move. “I can’t understand anything you say. It all sorta sounds like weeble weeble wobble I’m a dirty vagina.”
“I’d punch you in the face,” Sam says, “but we’re still stuck in this closet and, as I said before, there’s not really room for it. And this is gonna get really gross and itchy if all of this shit dries on us.”
“Oh, right,” Dean says, as if it’s escaped his notice, them being trapped in a closet. He uses Sam as a leverage to push himself straight, leans towards the door and says, very clearly, “The midget was the baby daddy.”
Open sesame. They spill out of the closet as the door swings open, landing hard. “Oof,” Dean says. “Get off me, dude.”
Sam rolls to the side, gasping. The sun streams bright and painful into the room, and he covers his eyes instinctively. As soon as he can draw enough breath, he shouts, “You knew all along how to get us out of there?”
Dean gets to his feet, dusting himself off. He looks down at Sam, his lip curling. “What the hell did you think I was doing? You think I actually like R Kelly?” He frowns down at his shirt. “Thought for sure it’d be something about the gun.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I did. And now I want you to think long and hard about what that implies about your taste in music.”
Dean rolls his eyes and brings his hand up to his face, as if he’s making shadow puppets. “Weeble weeble dirty vagina,” he quacks. “Weeble weeble whiny bitch.”
“I’m going to put sugar in your gas tank,” Sam tells him.
“Man, that doesn’t work. The Mythbusters disproved it and anyway, you wouldn’t do it. Come on, man. Let’s get back to the hotel and I’ll do everything I said I was going to. You know.”
“This is still all your fault,” Sam says, but he follows Dean out to the car, singing “Oh my goodness I’m about to climax,” under his breath, hoping that Dean won’t hear.
--------------------
shored: you know dean will be giving him shit about this for weeks
hansbekhart: oh, absolutely
shored: including but not limited to the form of notebook paper taped on his back saying "I like to be peed on"
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17 (explicit sex, dirty talk, mention of water sports and R Kelly's alleged video escapades. This is a really filthy fic, guys.)
Summary: Sam and Dean, trapped in a closet. And then Dean pulls out his gun!
Notes: You know, this started off really nice, with metaphors and Sammy being a kid and then all of the sudden it took a nose-dive. I have no excuses. Thanks to shored for holding my hand and threatening to pee on me. Also, this story might make more sense if you've seen these.
When he was nine years old, Sammy went through a phase where he thought that hiding behind doors and boxes and jumping out and scaring people was the best thing ever. This lasted exactly as long until the first time that John accidentally pulled a gun on him and for years after that, Sam was a little soured on the whole hiding thing.
Dean was good at hiding. Good at waiting. Good at anything that would end with him jumping out and killing something, really. He took to it like a duck to the water, whenever Dad had them practicing stealth. Dean used to turn it into Graveyard even after Dad told him to quit coddling Sam and let him do it on his own. Graveyard was Sam’s absolute favorite game in the world until he figured out that it was all, more or less, a big scam on the part of adults to get their kids to shut the hell up for a bit.
Even after he forgot all about staring down the barrel of a Colt 45, Sam never really got used to hiding out. He was too big, for one thing; even when he was 12 and chubby he was still pretty tall for his age, and once he shot past six feet the idea of crouching in a dusty closet for three solid hours was just about out of the question.
It still is, really.
“I’m trapped in the closet,” Dean sings softly, grinning to himself. “Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet.”
Sam’s shoulders are folded inwards, crammed into the corner of a closet clearly not big enough to hold even one of them comfortably. There’s a spiderweb stretching across the ceiling, which is approximately an inch above his head and he through the thin slats of light coming in through the door, he can see it trembling minutely as its occupant makes its way invisibly across it.
“Dean,” he pants out, “if you don’t stop singing that right now I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“And then I pull out my gun!” Dean chants joyfully, which definitely isn’t an answer. Sam punches him in the arm, or at least does his very best to punch Dean in the arm, space being a little bit limited.
He wonders what Dad would think if Sam called him up and told him that Dean was dead and it was because of R Kelly.
“This is all your fault,” Sam says. And it is. Everything is Dean’s fault. Global warming could be Dean’s fault and he wouldn’t be surprised. Someone could tell him that back in 2000, Dean was down in Florida, fucking with hanging chads and voter lists, and Sam would only shrug.
“Have you ever thought about what actually goes on in R Kelly’s head?” Dean asks thoughtfully. “I mean, seriously, you saw the movie, right? What the fuck is up with that, you know? What kind of diseased brain comes up with that kind of thing?” He’s silent for long enough that Sam almost begins to hope Dean’s fallen asleep, or maybe died, when he adds, “Sheer genius, Sammy.”
“Seriously, man, shut the fuck up,” Sam says. He think he can feel the spider in his hair. Maybe, he thinks, if he headbutted Dean in just the right way, he could mash the spider between them and get spider guts all over Dean’s face.
“But really, what do you think he thinks about?”
“Peeing on twelve year olds,” Sam answers. “Can you get your brain off R Kelly for just a minute and help me figure out how to get us out of here?”
He can just barely see Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “R Kelly pees on twelve year olds?”
“I hate you so much it actually hurts me.”
Dean’s quiet for a long time after that, though he hums vaguely under his breath. Sam’s arm falls asleep and he can definitely feel the spider crawling across his forehead now. He’s going to kill Dean.
“This is all your fault,” he says again.
“You need to chill the hell out, Sammy,” Dean replies. He shifts a little bit, which jams his shoulder further into Sam’s chest. The spiders loses its balance and falls onto Sam’s nose. He restrains from flailing around and smacking his head against the wall behind him only by the barest edge of control. Instead he wiggles one hand up and around Dean, folds his arm very carefully at the elbow, and tries to flick the spider onto Dean. Dean doesn’t flinch, but he’s a mutant and it’s his fault that they’re trapped in a motherfucking closet, so who knows, it could’ve landed on him. It could now be working its way towards Dean’s ear, where it will lay millions of spider babies that will eat his brain.
“What are you giggling about, Samantha?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, and cracks his head on the wall behind him.
“Relax,” Dean says. It’s almost a purr. If it’s a purr, Sam will kill him. “Loosen up. Who knows how long we could be in here, right?”
“Months? Years?” Sam mutters. Dean elbows him in the stomach, or shifts again. Sam can’t really tell the difference.
“Hey, Sam. Hey,” Dean says. The light glints off his teeth as he grins up at Sam. “You wanna do it?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam says to no one in particular.
“No, seriously. It’d loosen you up, come on.”
“Dean, I can barely breathe,” Sam says patiently. “You can barely breathe. I know because I can hear you wheezing.”
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says. His voice goes low and scratchy and Sam’s eyes flutter shut instinctively. The hard line of Dean’s hip presses against his cock. He can see Dean palming his own dick through his pants, one shoulder crushed up against the side of the closet. But -
“Wait, Dean, are you hard because R Kelly pees on twelve year olds?”
He can’t move far enough to dodge the back of Dean’s hand, which is just unfair, but Dean’s already laughing. “Yeah, Sammy, the thought of twelve year olds being peed on makes me want to hump your gigantor body. Come on, Sammy. Put your hair in pigtails and let me pee on you. I’m gonna pee all over your face.”
“You’re so fucking gross,” Sam says, but he’s giggling already, pushing against Dean as best as he can. “I hate you,” he says when Dean leans forward and scrapes his teeth along Sam’s throat. Sam sneezes as he tips his head back and the back of his skull thumps against the wall.
“Ow,” he says. Dean snickers against his collarbone. “Shut the hell up, Dean. This is impossible. Seriously. No, man. Quit it.”
“Quitter,” Dean mutters. Sam can feel him fumbling vaguely with the button of Sam’s jeans, two fingers wormed in between them. “They teach you how to quit at Stanford? Don’t be such a dirty vagina.”
“A dirty vagina?” is what Sam means to say, but the words get a little lost when Dean finally pops the button on his jeans and wiggles his wrist around until his hand is more or less inside Sam’s pants. “A di - ahh, fuck,” is what comes out instead when Dean’s fingers wrap around his irritatingly hard cock.
“Shut up or I’m gonna pee on you,” Dean says, which really should be a turn off. Dean stares up at Sam, interested. “Hey, is that turning you on? You really want me to pee on you or something? Man, you’re nasty.”
“Stop talking,” Sam groans, which definitely isn’t an answer.
Dean’s stroking him, nice and easy, the base of his thumb brushing against the sensitive underside of the head of Sam’s cock, which is awesome, but he won’t stop talking, which is, as far as Sam can tell, pretty much the opposite of awesome. “And that’s when I start goin’ crazy,” he sings, “like I was tryin’ to give her a baby. Want me to give you a baby, Samantha?”
Sam kisses Dean to shut him up, gets a hand up under Dean’s chin to force his face upwards and kisses him hard. Dean tastes like dust and blood where he bit his tongue earlier and all in all it’s pretty disgusting. They lean back at the same time, eyeing each other. “Dude, you taste like puke,” Dean says.
“You taste like ass,” Sam retorts.
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “How do you know what ass tastes like? Hey, watch the face. You want me to stop what I’m doing?”
Sam wants to think that one over but Dean’s pretty damn good at this. “Would it make you shut up?” he says at last.
Dean snorts, not even bothering to reply. He stares down at the movement of his hand, swiping his thumb across the head. “Wish I could blow you,” he says. “God, Sammy. Suck you right down my throat and make you come like that.”
“Ok,” Sam pants. “You can keep talking. I don’t mind.”
Dean’s laugh tickles his ear as he leans close. “I’d use my hand, too. Suck you until I can get my hand all nice and wet, use that too, rub it all over your balls. Maybe finger you a bit. I wouldn’t fuck you, though. Not until I’ve already made you come so hard I can turn you over and just ... push right in. Would do it hard, either. I’d go so slow you’d try and get me to stop.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Sam says breathlessly. His head twists. He can barely breathe. He can’t even tell if it’s the closet or Dean’s hand on his cock.
“Yeah, you would,” Dean says. “You’d be all sensitive and prissy and tell me to hurry up. You’d get into it, though.”
“Arrogant, much?” Sam groans.
“Nah, I just know you. You’d get into it when I was fucking you good and deep. Nice and slow. You know. Wouldn’t even give you a reacharound, either. You’d come on my cock.”
And that does it for Sam, his whole body tightening up and giving way all at once. When he can see again, he opens his eyes to see Dean contemplating the mess on his hand and shirt. He glances up and meets Sam’s eyes. “Pornstar.”
Sam’s loose enough that together, they get him turned around, face and chest against the wall, Dean’s fingers snagging in Sam’s belt loops to yank his jeans down. His cock slides along Sam’s crack, not bothering with nice and slow, slick with the sweat on Sam’s skin. Sam braces himself against the wall, puts his head down and takes it.
It doesn’t take long. Dean comes with a groan so noisy that Sam wants to ask who exactly the pornstar is, here. He lets his head drop down between Sam’s shoulder blades. Sam can feel Dean’s breath on the back of his neck. Dean’s still wheezing, just a little bit. He shifts a little bit before he speaks.
“I’m not gonna pee on you, though. That’s just gross.”
And really, Sam doesn’t want to laugh. In fact, he’d give just about anything not to. “It’s still all your fault,” he says, laughing.
“It’s like you’re speaking some sort of foreign language, man,” Dean tells him. There are splinters digging into Sam’s palms but he feels too damn good to move. “I can’t understand anything you say. It all sorta sounds like weeble weeble wobble I’m a dirty vagina.”
“I’d punch you in the face,” Sam says, “but we’re still stuck in this closet and, as I said before, there’s not really room for it. And this is gonna get really gross and itchy if all of this shit dries on us.”
“Oh, right,” Dean says, as if it’s escaped his notice, them being trapped in a closet. He uses Sam as a leverage to push himself straight, leans towards the door and says, very clearly, “The midget was the baby daddy.”
Open sesame. They spill out of the closet as the door swings open, landing hard. “Oof,” Dean says. “Get off me, dude.”
Sam rolls to the side, gasping. The sun streams bright and painful into the room, and he covers his eyes instinctively. As soon as he can draw enough breath, he shouts, “You knew all along how to get us out of there?”
Dean gets to his feet, dusting himself off. He looks down at Sam, his lip curling. “What the hell did you think I was doing? You think I actually like R Kelly?” He frowns down at his shirt. “Thought for sure it’d be something about the gun.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I did. And now I want you to think long and hard about what that implies about your taste in music.”
Dean rolls his eyes and brings his hand up to his face, as if he’s making shadow puppets. “Weeble weeble dirty vagina,” he quacks. “Weeble weeble whiny bitch.”
“I’m going to put sugar in your gas tank,” Sam tells him.
“Man, that doesn’t work. The Mythbusters disproved it and anyway, you wouldn’t do it. Come on, man. Let’s get back to the hotel and I’ll do everything I said I was going to. You know.”
“This is still all your fault,” Sam says, but he follows Dean out to the car, singing “Oh my goodness I’m about to climax,” under his breath, hoping that Dean won’t hear.
--------------------
shored: you know dean will be giving him shit about this for weeks
hansbekhart: oh, absolutely
shored: including but not limited to the form of notebook paper taped on his back saying "I like to be peed on"