Playing House - Sam/Dean NC-17
Title - Playing House
Author - queerly_it_is
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - NC-17
Word Count - 3.8k
Warnings - Underage (Sam is 15/16), Porn-With-Plot, barebacking, slight feminisation, domestic!kink, dirty talk, schmoop, role-playing.
Disclaimer - I own nothing and I make no profit.
Summary - Fill for this anon prompt on kink-meme:
It could have started as a school project, Sam trying to cook or even his own need to feel like they're a normal family. Either way he starts doing domestic things and finds it oddly comforting to play the role of homemaker.
When John is away on hunts and it's just Sam and Dean, he finds it feels almost like a husband and wife. Sam knows its messed up to think like that but he can't help it. More so when Dean's willing to play along with it, calling Sam pet names and treating him as if he really was Dean's wife.
Would love a scene where Dean gets home and immediately bends Sam over the kitchen table and fucks him.
Authors Note - Think I may have gone more schmoopy than the prompt called for, but Sam is playing Dean’s wife here, after all.
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It starts out innocently enough.
Then again, most of the kinky, slightly-freaky stuff they end up doing together does; now that Sam thinks about it.
They’re in Ann Arbor, Michigan; staying in a tiny little family-run motel, which is actually nicer than their usual fare, even if the walls are about as thick as Bible paper. The thing Sam really likes about the place though, is that it has a kitchenette that looks like you can actually cook in it, without worrying about getting e-coli from the fixtures.
The local high school is nothing special, but they’ve got them doing this ‘taste of home’ thing in home-ec that Sam’s found himself actually enjoying a lot more than he would’ve thought. He doesn’t really wanna analyse the sharp ache in his chest every time his teacher starts rambling about people’s family recipes or their favourite home-cooked meals.
He somehow doubts that family recipes involving holy water and Latin; or home-cooked meals of canned beans and cereal straight from the box are what she had in mind.
The look on Dad’s face had been some awkward mixture of surprise, suspicion and enjoyment when Sam’d insisted they skip the diner or the drive-thru because he was gonna cook them a real meal. The suspicion is sorta understandable; he remembers Dean once causing a not-inconsiderable fire using nothing but a toaster, that’d led to a hasty getaway from a very angry (and slightly singed) building manager in Tulsa.
But despite their lack of funds for any kind of gourmet - and no, he hadn’t used that word in front of Dad, and definitely not in front of Dean; he gets called Samantha enough already - ingredients, he figures the beef almost-casserole thing he’d come up with hadn’t been too bad. Judging from the way Dad and Dean had bickered over the last serving, to the point where Sam could’ve sworn Dean’s hand had twitched toward his ankle knife, he‘d say he had knack for it.
It’s more than a little girly, he knows, - Dean’d been sure to point that out repeatedly, right up until Sam’d threatened to stop cooking for him - but there’s something oddly satisfying and somehow peaceful about just standing in the little kitchenette, trying to come up with something half-decent that doesn’t contain the words ‘chicken-fried’ or ‘double cheese’. He’s not wearing an apron, no matter how many times Dean suggests it, and the flush of heat he feels whenever Dean bandies the word ‘wife’ at him is just from the cooktop, he’s sure.
Dad’s been gone for two days now; said something vague about a poltergeist in the next town, told Dean to “watch out for Sammy” like Sam wasn’t standing right freaking there, and then he was gone. Dean had bluffed about his age to get a job tending bar - so unfair, seeing as Sam can’t even bluff that he’s seventeen without blushing or stuttering - probably flirting his way through the entire town, and accepting who-knows how many free drinks before he comes home late and shoves Sam into bed or against a wall or over the counter.
Sam finds he doesn’t mind Dean pushing him around as much as he probably should. He figures he’ll let Dean have his manhandling fix, before he turns the tables when he’s finally the taller one.
Though the word ‘wife’ has started cropping up there, too.
He hadn’t even noticed what Dean was doing at first; too distracted trying not to snap at Dad, or climb all over Dean when they didn’t have the time or the privacy to really enjoy it. Also, in his defence; Dean isn’t usually so covert about anything even remotely connected to his dick, and he’s got enough on his plate keeping things from Dad; his teachers, the few people at school that don’t think he’s some kinda psychotic drifter; without wondering if his brother is plotting some kinda kinky behaviour modification therapy behind his back.
The first time he had picked up on it, Sam was sure his brother was just screwing with him. There’s enough precedent for that he couldn’t list it all even with a thousand years and an unlimited supply of paper. The way Dean had come home smelling like cigarettes and booze and just kissed him; soft and slow, then pulled back before Sam’s heart had restarted and whispered “hey sweetheart” in his ear, before he’d vanished into the bathroom, all in space less than half-a-minute, had Sam almost convinced he’d imagined the whole thing.
Then the next morning, Dean had passed him on the way out the door and kissed him again, this time with a hand on the small of his back and another on the side of his face, pressing them together at chests and lips; quick peck and “see you tonight, hon’” and he was gone again.
Sam’d stood in that spot for ten whole minutes trying to make his brain work again.
It’d crept into the sex not long after that - or maybe it had already and Sam just hadn’t noticed - they’d somehow ended up on the floor, nearly in the middle of the room, between the off-green couch and the table; and Dean had spread himself out above Sam like a canopy of freckled skin, muscle and scar tissue; and just rocked into him slow and gentle, sweet as sugar. Eyes locked the whole time, soft nudges of their foreheads together, brush of noses. It was the most careful Dean had been with him since that very first time; when it’d all been so new and overwhelming.
It wasn’t just fucking; wasn’t anything like how they usually are together, personalities not exactly lending themselves toward what Sam can only call romance or love-making. Sam also totally failed at repressing the pretty explosive response he’d had to that thought.
The one and only time he’d managed to get out a meagre “m’not a girl, Dean.” as his brother pressed a line of soft kisses along his neck, the response had just been “my girl, my Sammy” all gentle, possessive words and heated breath, without even a pause in what his mouth was doing.
That’d pretty much shut him up for a while.
It hasn’t been like that every time since; if it had Sam probably could’ve gotten more accustomed to it, but Dean seems to wait until he knows Sam’s guard is down a little, and then takes him apart with the slightest touch and whispered words of wife, doll, pretty that Sam’d punch him for under other circumstances, but seem to make him go off like a geyser, these days.
It’s not even just the sex, or the kissing; it’s random stuff Sam never expects until it’s happening, and doesn’t register until it’s over; soft touches to his waist as Dean passes by, kisses to the top of his head or even his cheek when he sits down next to him on the lumpy couch, Dean helping him wash up; hips swaying into Sam’s and reaching around him to grab plates and cutlery; sudden scent of leather and aftershave and gun oil washing over him along with the heat of Dean’s body. Even in bed - while Dad’s gone and they actually can share - Dean’s been more eager to squash together, size of tiny motel mattresses aside; pressing up against Sam’s back; arm over his hip and dropping kisses to the back of his neck. It’s a little embarrassing how easily Sam falls asleep like that now.
All in all, Sam is maybe getting a little deep into his whole ‘homemaker’ role-playing thing. And it’s totally Dean’s fault, enjoyment of cooking not withstanding. Trust Dean to take the inch Sam’d given him and run a freaking marathon with it.
Dean isn’t his husband, and Sam isn’t really Dean’s wife. He’s just finding that a little hard to remember sometimes, is all.
He’s standing by the counter, chopping the meagre selection of vegetables he’d managed to get with a too-small stack of bills and his best puppy-eyes aimed at the cashier, which he’s now gonna hafta find some way of disguising if he wants Dean to eat any of. He’s humming under his breath, and keeps rolling his eyes at himself when he realises it’s Metallica or Led Zeppelin he’s humming - swears it’s like learning while you sleep if you nod off in the car when Dean’s driving - when the quiet snick of the door registers at the same time that a line of heat presses up behind him; moulds itself to his body the way only his brother can, every dip and line and curve matched perfectly; and he always stupidly expects the click of a lock when they press together this seamlessly.
“Hey, baby.” Said not with heat or intent, but in a casual ‘honey-I’m-home’ sorta way, which shouldn’t have a bigger impact coming from Dean but somehow does. Maybe he’s just getting desensitised to the stream of complete filth Dean typically spills during sex.
Or maybe his weird housewife-kink is a little stronger than he’d thought.
Yeah, totally Dean’s fault.
“What’s for dinner?” Arms coming around Sam’s middle, hands meeting and clasping above his belt, slow, gentle rock from side-to-side and shit that really shouldn’t be so incredibly distracting.
“Nothing, if you keep pestering the cook.” Just gets him a chuckle breathed into the hollow behind his ear as Dean nuzzles into his neck. Sam didn’t realise that Dean even knew what nuzzling was; typically no middle-ground between sucking kisses and biting bruises whenever they start anything.
Seriously, this soft-and-gentle thing should not hit him like this.
“N’aww poor darlin’. Wouldn’t wanna divert you from the housework, huh?” Too-casual words accompanied by a subtle churn of hips against Sam’s ass.
“Not if you want something other than stale chips for dinner, no.” Words a little too breathless, but still in the right order and complete with punctuation, far as Sam can tell. Another soft laugh, more rumbling in pitch this time, as well as a much less subtle grind against him.
“You know how gorgeous you look like this? My perfect little wife.” Shiver at that word again, as Dean’s hands separate and move to his hips, pulling him back into him. Sam’s eyes fall shut totally against his will, blood rushing noticeably southwards, twitch of his cock filling in his jeans.
It started out innocent, it really did.
It isn’t anymore, though.
“D-Dean. I’m. I’m trying t-” Crack in his voice that he’s just gonna blame on puberty.
“Shh, s’okay sweetheart, just wanna take care’a you.” Said harmlessly enough, but with another push against Sam that lets him feel just how much Dean wants to take of him.
He’s going for real words; with letters and even spaces in-between, but all that comes out is a cracked and embarrassingly high whimper as he gets dragged back into Dean’s body again; jut of his brother‘s more-than-half-hard dick slotting between his cheeks where his jeans are old and thin - used to be Dean‘s actually, which shouldn‘t make that hotter. Add it to the list. - His head falls back like his neck is made of rubber, lands on Dean’s shoulder where his brother is still those couple inches taller than him.
“That’s it baby boy, so good for me. My sexy little wife.” Last word emphasised with a gravely drop in his voice, punctuated with another dirty grind of hips.
There’s that whimper again.
“C’mere angel.” Soft-warm and coaxing and so fucking disarming that Sam’s legs follow the order without any input from his brain. He manages not to stumble as Dean leads him by the hips to the flat, beat-up wooden table that’s just large enough for the three of them to sit down at.
He somehow doubts its sitting Dean has in mind, right now.
Dean runs his hands all the way from Sam’s waist to the sides of his face, nails catch-dragging along his neck and making him moan. He cups Sam’s cheeks like he’s holding him up with just that touch - pretty freaking true at the moment - and kisses him so soft and deep and hot that Sam’s knees go like cooked pasta, Dean stepping in and bolstering him up when they wobble dangerously.
He literally cannot feel anything that isn’t the parts of him pressed to Dean, he can’t think, can’t get any air. Whole world contained in the press of lips, slide of tongues, the deep-rough noises Dean is making into his mouth that feel as though they vibrate down his throat and all the way to his toes.
Dean breaks the kiss, pulls back only the tiny amount needed to run his mouth along Sam’s jaw, gentle nips and licks and scrapes with his teeth.
“Wanna be in you, baby. See you so pretty, and open, and mine. My Sammy. My wife.” Growl creeping into the words as he drops his hands to Sam’s shoulders and pulls him into another kiss, this one wetter and filthier and no less intense.
Words. Sam used to have those, once. Honest.
Dean turns him gently around, and Sam presses his palms flat to the table that’s now in front of him, pathetically grateful for something holding him up. Soon as he’s settled into place, he feels Dean press up behind him again, hands going to his belt buckle from behind, hips still shudder-skipping over his ass.
“So pretty, baby. Gonna feel you, see my gorgeous wife all stuffed full.” Words muttered into the nape of his neck, feel of his hair ruffling with Dean’s breath as the clink of his belt opening narrows his focus down to his now painfully-hard dick. His jeans and underwear get yanked down past his knees in one smooth movement; cock springing up hard and slapping against his shirt-covered belly. Then he feels the rapidly-fading trail of warm breath as Dean follows them down the line of his back, ‘till he’s kneeling behind Sam on the carpet; strong, callused hands gripping and spreading him wide.
“Wanna eat you out, sugar. Feel that little pussy open up for me.” Said almost too deep and low for Sam to hear, hot breath making him shiver where he’s being exposed to the air, and then the impossibly hot, wet feeling of Dean’s tongue pressing right against him there makes him twitch like he’s been electrocuted.
“F-Fuck Dean.” Not much in the way of speech, but it’s better than the desperate, hungry noises Dean is making against his skin right now. Low groan sent right into his body as Dean licks him open, tongue like wet lava sweeping around the rim of him, curling up inside, and fuck Dean is way too good at this.
There’s a little cold patch below his navel where his dick keeps twitching and leaking precome onto his shirt, and it’s an odd contrast to the heat spreading from Dean’s mouth through the rest of his body. Dean pulls back a little, tongue running around the edge of his hole, feeling of warm-wet running down his cleft to his balls.
“So fuckin’ wet baby. All slick and shiny like a girl.” Harshly groaned words accompanied by the squeeze-release of Dean’s big hands spreading his ass. The sound Sam lets out at that doesn’t even sound human, much less like his actual voice; all crackly and splintered. Dean flows up like water onto his feet, presses against him - no jeans, no underwear, and Sam hadn’t even noticed him stripping down - all hot, smooth skin, hard muscle and stiff dick, where Sam is still knees and elbows and too-big feet.
“Not even gonna stretch you darlin’, just get you wet and slippery enough I can slide right in.” He’s drawing out the ‘s’ noises on purpose, Sam thinks; breath pouring into his ear and making whatever muscles weren’t already trembling go twitchy beneath his skin.
Dean’s hands press down on his on the tabletop; palms big and warm right over Sam’s. His fingers are a little shorter, but thicker and more capable-looking; all scars and rough knuckles; fighter’s hands. His brother’s fingers slot between his and Sam is a little mesmerised by the way his hands just fit to Dean’s, missing piece he hadn’t noticed ‘till right then.
Then he feels the fat, rounded head of his brother’s dick pressing at him, separating him, and all thoughts of hands and everything else go flying out the window.
Dean’s low grunt almost covers his shuddery moan as he gets slowly filled up, cock sliding in past muscle and through lube and spit; body relentlessly fucked open as Dean shallowly thrusts and grinds into him.
“Always so fuckin’ tight Sammy. Tighter than a girl. Best fucking thing ever all wrapped around my dick.” All said as he’s pushing in, slight burn where they haven’t done this in a few days, hands’ gripping Sam’s tight on the table. He’s totally boxed in; pinned by his brother’s hands and body and cock, and he fucking loves this.
He can feel himself opening for it as Dean pushes in; hips finally flush to Sam’s ass after what feels like days. He pushes back into it when the burn subsides, lets Dean know he’s ready, feels the coarse noise Dean releases into the curve of his neck when Sam squeezes around him the way he knows his brother likes.
“So good, baby boy. Way you take it.” Shallow little thrust that pushes the air out of Sam’s lungs in a shredded gasp.
He leans over a little more, but with Dean’s hands planted firmly on his, and the edge of the table only a few inches from some pretty sensitive areas, they just end up pitched forward slightly, still mostly vertical as Dean fits himself to Sam’s back and grinds them together.
Dean can’t thrust into him very hard like this, but he doesn’t really need to; the way his dick is rubbing over that awesome little spot inside Sam with every shift of his hips, combined with the feel of his body pressed all along him, and the breathy way he’s talking into Sam’s ear making his toes curl inside holey socks - also Dean’s - he’s pretty sure he’s gonna blow embarrassingly soon anyway.
“Love you like this, my pretty, pretty wife. Love you so much.” The noise Sam makes at that, kittenish and broken, makes Dean press forward harder, cock sliding over his sweet spot, hot-hard feeling of his brother inside him, pressing kisses behind his ear.
“Wanna keep you like this, Sammy; so sweet and fucked open. All mine.” Rhythm picking up, hips sliding further back before pushing forward again; perfection in the drag of flesh inside him, slight burn and intense stretch of it. Dean’s hands spasmodically gripping at Sam’s fingers with every push.
“Dean. God, please.” He really wants to get a hand on his dick, he’s so freaking hard and leaking precome everywhere, but Dean’s hands are keeping his held flat to the table. Heat spiralling up his spine and back down again; pressure building behind his balls that he can’t relieve. Fuck, he needs to come.
“Nuh uh, sweetheart. Gonna make you come on just my cock. Fuck you ‘till you spill all over the table.” Shit he probably will as well, the way Dean’s working him over; hot lurch in his gut with every pet name rumbled into the shell of his ear. Dean’s pulling his hips back far as he can now, fucking into Sam harder, faster, shoving them both forward with the impact. Filthy-wet sounds of slapping flesh loud in the quiet room, grunts of warm air in his ear between dirty words, and Christ he‘s gonna lose it.
“So close, aren’t you baby?” Press of hips and smirk in his voice, tongue dipping into Sam’s ear a little. “Lemme feel it, baby, c’mon. Way you squeeze around me when you come.” Every push of his brother’s dick aimed just right.
Then he notices the way the fingers of Dean’s left hand are stroking over his; strong, calloused digits caressing his ring finger near the base, like he’s. Fuck, like he’s twirling a wedding ring.
That thought hits him like a Mack truck to the chest; air shoving out of him, stomach muscles fluttering, clench of his insides around Dean’s cock as he comes; white streaks shooting up the table, onto his shirt, running down his dick to his balls and the taught skin behind as he twitches and jerks without a hand on him. Sparks behind his eyelids as he fights to get air into his lungs, inescapable sensation of touchless orgasm burning through him, pinned and unable to do anything but just feel it.
He feels Dean harden and swell impossibly further inside him, before he gets a long, low note in his ear and the warm-wet feeling of his brother’s come spilling into him.
“Fuck, there ya go honey, cream you up so good.” One last hard grind of Dean’s pelvis against his ass, jizz pushing out around the cock in him, running down the back of his thighs and making him shiver.
Dean plants wet kisses down his neck, to the collar of the shirt he hadn’t bothered to take off him, mouth hot and soft as it moves back up to his jaw. “So perfect. My gorgeous boy.” Feeling of a hickey being sucked into the hollow behind his ear.
He’s not sure how long they just stand there, both panting and damp with sweat, until Dean slips out of him with a soft noise of discomfort and loss from both of them. He doesn’t move away though; bodies pressed together, fingers still playing with Sam’s.
“Gonna get you a ring Sammy; make sure people can see you belong t’me. Mine.” Nip of teeth to the tendons in his neck making him jerk a little, spent cock giving a pathetic jump against his thigh.
“Toppy bastard.” No ire in the words at all as they come out breathless and shuddering with the hitching of his chest. Another shiver runs through him with the dirty-low laugh Dean looses against his skin.
“Only with you, dear.” Back to jokey-casual even though they’re both mostly naked and messy with sweat and come. Dean’s hands pull his off the table, and he nearly stumbles over with how boneless he feels, ‘till Dean tips him back into his chest, wraps both their arms around his middle. He lets his head fall onto Dean’s shoulder again, strong scent and cocoon of warmth from his brother’s sex-flushed skin all around him. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t be in such a hurry to outgrow this.
He could stay like this forever, feels like. Heart slowing; breath deep and even now, feel of Dean’s chest rising and falling in time with his, but he needs to move, clean himself and the table up.
He’s still got a dinner to fix, after all.
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