fic: can't erase that secret smile (SPN; girl!Sam/Dean; adult)
can't erase that secret smile
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; adult; 2,180 words
It's no panties Thursday.
alittlefaith and I used to talk about this all the time, back when she was still enabling girl!Sam. At one point this was going to be part of a long casefile-ish thing, set sometime in season 2. That will likely never happen, so you just get the porny parts. Apparently, today was write porn at work day.
~*~
can't erase that secret smile
"This is such bullshit," Sam says, her mouth curled in that snarl that makes Dean want to kiss her and spank her at the same time, but he doesn't let himself get distracted by either of those thoughts, because he is going to win a damn argument with her for once. Just as soon as he stops thinking about spanking her and remembers what it is they're arguing about.
His phone rings, saving him from saying something embarrassing.
"Don't answer that," Sam says. "We're having a conversation here."
Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Believe me, we're not done with this," before he hits talk and barks a "Yeah?" into the phone.
"How close are you to Charleston?"
Dean doesn't even have to do the math in his head anymore. "About eighteen hours away. Why?" It's Bobby, he mouths to Sam before he sits down at the table and grabs his journal and pen. He points at the laptop and waves a hand at Sam. Her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn't do what he wants her to. Of course. He's probably going to get an earful when he hangs up.
He nearly drops the phone when Sam settles herself into his lap, her mouth latching onto his earlobe and sucking. His dick twitches to life as she licks her way down his jaw and bites at his lower lip. He glares at her and she giggles.
"You got a girl there or something?"
"No, no," Dean says. "No girl." Sam huffs and bites down hard on his collarbone. Dean stifles a whimper and closes his eyes, trying to regain control. "It's some stupid show on TV," he says, a little more high-pitched than he'd like. Sam runs her nails up under his shirt, making him squirm.
Bobby grunts. "Something's going on out there," he says. He sounds really far away. "Could be a black dog."
"Maulings?" Dean's voice is hoarse with shock and need, and he hopes Bobby doesn't pick up on it.
"Yeah. Four dead so far. Paper's talking about mountain lions or something, but I got a feeling in my gut..."
"Okay." Sam slithers down from his lap and kneels between his thighs. She rucks up his t-shirt so she can press kisses to his belly, which tightens in response. "Listen, Bobby--" Dean breaks off when Sam's unbuttons his jeans with a flick of her long fingers, the pink tip of her tongue visible between her saliva-slick lips. It's her concentration face, and heat washes through his veins whenever it's directed at him. This time is no different, despite Bobby nattering away in his ear.
Sam curls her hand around his dick and draws him out of his boxers. Dean chokes out a gasp and forgets what he was going to say. He dredges his brain and comes up with Charleston. Black dogs. People being mauled. Right. "Why don't you email me the information?"
"Okay." Over the sound of blood pounding in his ears, Dean can hear the clickety-clack of Bobby's typing. "How you kids doing?"
"Good, good," Dean says, one hand tightening on the phone, the other in Sam's silky hair. She shivers lightly and gives him a mischievous grin before she leans forward and swirls her tongue around the head of his cock.
"Glad to hear it. Heard from Calvin Pritchard the other day, says he's got some extra parts for the Chevy. Couldn't hurt to have 'em on hand for back up." He sounds like he's settling in for a long, gossipy chat, and Dean has to bite back a groan.
"Uh huh," is all he can manage. Sam hums around him, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. He plants his feet and pushes up into the wet heat of her mouth. She pulls back, shaking her head and wagging a finger at him.
Behave, she mouths at him, like he's the troublemaker here.
He concedes with a grunt, and she leans in again, lips wrapping around him and sliding down, taking as much of him in as she can. He's mesmerized by the sight, at least until she reaches a hand between their bodies and starts stroking his balls. That sends another bolt of heat through him, his whole body tensing up, getting ready.
Bobby's still talking, but Dean can't understand a word he's saying. "I have to call you back," he says, hanging up before Bobby can say another word. He tosses the phone on the table and twines his hand through Sam's hair, thrusting up into her mouth as he comes, white hot pleasure licking down his spine like lightning.
She swallows what she can and leans back, satisfied smirk on her face, strands of come glistening on her lips, chin, and throat. He pulls her up into his lap so he can lick her face clean, suck the taste of himself off her tongue.
He doesn't remember what they were arguing about until they're halfway to Charleston. He doesn't even remember they're supposed to be going to Charleston until they're twenty minutes on the road and she starts quizzing him about the case.
"I don't know, Sam. Like I could hear a word Bobby said while you were sucking me off."
Sam's answering smile is smug and possessive. Heat flares again in Dean's belly. They pull over ninety minutes later for an early lunch and a quickie in the backseat.
*
Mrs. Radcliffe is their best witness on this case. Three of the four attacks occurred on or near her property. Even though it's the middle of summer in Charleston, all the windows in her house are shut tight, and only a barely oscillating ceiling fan pushes hot, humid air sluggishly around the room. She sits across from them at the long dining room table draped with two tablecloths. One is a leafy green color that almost matches Sam's skirt; there's a white lacy one over top that, and Dean can't figure out why the tablecloth is covered with a tablecloth. He thinks it might drive him crazy if they don't get out of here soon. Sam looks over and gives him this secret smile, like she knows something he doesn't, and that might drive him crazy, too.
Mrs. Radcliffe gets lost in a long and likely irrelevant story about how her husband hired the local handyman to clean the gutters two days before he died, and Dean is having a hard time keeping his eyes open when Sam's hand slips into his lap, palming his dick through his suit pants. He sits up straight and keeps his eyes on his notebook, though he stopped taking notes ten minutes ago.
Two can play at that game. He takes a long sip of sugary-sweet--and since the ice has started to melt, watery--iced tea, and tries not to smile as he rubs the condensation between his fingers.
He reaches down and slips his left hand beneath the two tablecloths to land on Sam's bare leg. It's her turn to straighten up, wary. She licks her lips and gives him a sideways glance, eyebrows raised in challenge.
He slides his hand up the smooth, warm skin of her thigh, but where he's expecting the soft familiarity of cotton, he finds the slick heat of her cunt, bare under her skirt. He shoots another glance in her direction, startled, and has to bite back a laugh when she grins, bright and mischievous and obviously pleased with herself. And with him.
He strokes her slowly, teasing her folds open so he can dip his fingers inside. She sucks in a surprised breath and squirms. She's ridiculously wet, which makes him stupidly hard in response. He can see the peaks of her nipples gone hard through the crisp white material of her shirt, and she's got enough buttons undone that he can see the lacy edge of her bra. He puts his pen down and takes another sip of iced tea, wishing he could loosen his collar and tie. Wishing he could bend Sam over the fancy dining room table and fuck her until her legs went boneless.
He settles for giving Mrs. Radcliffe a bright version of his reassuring smile and flicking Sam's clit with his thumb. She shifts in her seat again, hips canting up to give him deeper access and hand coming down to wrap around his wrist and keep his fingers where she wants them. Her cheeks are flushed and sweat is beading in her hairline. Her mouth parts on a soft gasp when he crooks his fingers and hits the right spot, and her nails dig into his wrist. She bites her lip, even white teeth sinking into pink flesh, and he can't help but look at her as she comes, slick hot walls of her cunt clenching tight around his fingers.
"My dear, you look a little faint," Mrs. Radcliffe says. "Are you all right?"
"Just a little warm," Sam says hoarsely. She makes a small distressed sound when Dean pulls his hand away, which makes Mrs. Radcliffe's face crease with worry. "I need some air."
"Of course, dear. It is rather warm in here." Mrs. Radcliffe stands, and Sam and Dean follow suit, though Sam's a little unsteady on her high heels. Dean grins smugly. He shoves his left hand in his pocket and puts his right against the small of her back; her shirt is damp with sweat.
"Thanks for your time," he says, steering Sam towards the door. "We'll be in touch if you need anything."
They hurry to the car, and Dean drives down the road to a shady spot that can't be seen from the house. Sam's already shimmied out of her skirt and she's pulling her shirt off over her head without unbuttoning it by the time Dean throws the car into park. They don't bother heading to the backseat. Dean slides over and Sam climbs on top of him, hands working at his belt and fly.
Dean yanks his tie off; he doesn't miss the speculative look in Sam's eyes, but he doesn't want to tie her up or be tied up right now, so he tosses it into the backseat and pulls her in for a hungry kiss. He gets her bra off while they're making out, and he breaks the kiss so he can suck her nipples. He loves the way she arches into his mouth and moans hoarsely. She grabs his left hand and licks herself off his fingers. He thinks he could come just from the way she wraps her tongue around his knuckles and sucks his fingertips. Sweat prickles against his scalp and drips down his back. He pulls away long enough to crank the air conditioning as high as it will go, which isn't nearly enough to cool them off when they're like this.
"You're lucky I'm good with both hands," he says.
"Mmmhmm," she answers. She reaches down and guides him inside of her, little frown line between her eyebrows. She's even wetter and hotter now that she's come once, and she rides him hard, making her tits bounce with each roll of her hips.
He thumbs her clit and says, "What happened to your underwear?"
"It's no panties Thursday," she says, twisting her hips and tightening around him as she shoves down to meet his upward thrust.
White heat is jolting down his spine, and white light is sparking at the edges of his vision, but he says, "So are you really being spontaneous and naughty, or do we need to do laundry again?"
Her grin is all teeth, which she's not afraid of using; he'll have little red marks along his jaw for a couple of days. He's totally okay with that. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she asks just before she bites his earlobe, then soothes the sting of it with the rough velvet pad of her tongue.
He really would, but he can't think about the laundry when he's this close to coming. He tangles his hand in her hair and yanks her close for a rough, messy kiss, his whole body on fire as his orgasm blows through him like a bomb blast. She fucks him through it, pressing his fingers to her clit and getting off a second time. He can feel the hard flex of her cunt and the trembling in her thighs, the ragged rhythm of her breath in his mouth and her chest heaving against his. They kiss softly through the afterglow. She's usually soft and pliant afterwards and lets him hold her close; she rarely teases him about his need to cuddle until later, when he denies it ever happened. She shivers against him and he tightens his arms around her as the air conditioner finally does its work.
"I like no panties Thursday," he says, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead and planting a kiss there. "This is definitely a tradition I could get behind."
She laughs breathlessly and kisses him. "Me, too, Dean. Me, too."
end
~*~
Note: title from Vienna Teng.
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/178380.html.
people have commented there.
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; adult; 2,180 words
It's no panties Thursday.
alittlefaith and I used to talk about this all the time, back when she was still enabling girl!Sam. At one point this was going to be part of a long casefile-ish thing, set sometime in season 2. That will likely never happen, so you just get the porny parts. Apparently, today was write porn at work day.
~*~
can't erase that secret smile
"This is such bullshit," Sam says, her mouth curled in that snarl that makes Dean want to kiss her and spank her at the same time, but he doesn't let himself get distracted by either of those thoughts, because he is going to win a damn argument with her for once. Just as soon as he stops thinking about spanking her and remembers what it is they're arguing about.
His phone rings, saving him from saying something embarrassing.
"Don't answer that," Sam says. "We're having a conversation here."
Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Believe me, we're not done with this," before he hits talk and barks a "Yeah?" into the phone.
"How close are you to Charleston?"
Dean doesn't even have to do the math in his head anymore. "About eighteen hours away. Why?" It's Bobby, he mouths to Sam before he sits down at the table and grabs his journal and pen. He points at the laptop and waves a hand at Sam. Her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn't do what he wants her to. Of course. He's probably going to get an earful when he hangs up.
He nearly drops the phone when Sam settles herself into his lap, her mouth latching onto his earlobe and sucking. His dick twitches to life as she licks her way down his jaw and bites at his lower lip. He glares at her and she giggles.
"You got a girl there or something?"
"No, no," Dean says. "No girl." Sam huffs and bites down hard on his collarbone. Dean stifles a whimper and closes his eyes, trying to regain control. "It's some stupid show on TV," he says, a little more high-pitched than he'd like. Sam runs her nails up under his shirt, making him squirm.
Bobby grunts. "Something's going on out there," he says. He sounds really far away. "Could be a black dog."
"Maulings?" Dean's voice is hoarse with shock and need, and he hopes Bobby doesn't pick up on it.
"Yeah. Four dead so far. Paper's talking about mountain lions or something, but I got a feeling in my gut..."
"Okay." Sam slithers down from his lap and kneels between his thighs. She rucks up his t-shirt so she can press kisses to his belly, which tightens in response. "Listen, Bobby--" Dean breaks off when Sam's unbuttons his jeans with a flick of her long fingers, the pink tip of her tongue visible between her saliva-slick lips. It's her concentration face, and heat washes through his veins whenever it's directed at him. This time is no different, despite Bobby nattering away in his ear.
Sam curls her hand around his dick and draws him out of his boxers. Dean chokes out a gasp and forgets what he was going to say. He dredges his brain and comes up with Charleston. Black dogs. People being mauled. Right. "Why don't you email me the information?"
"Okay." Over the sound of blood pounding in his ears, Dean can hear the clickety-clack of Bobby's typing. "How you kids doing?"
"Good, good," Dean says, one hand tightening on the phone, the other in Sam's silky hair. She shivers lightly and gives him a mischievous grin before she leans forward and swirls her tongue around the head of his cock.
"Glad to hear it. Heard from Calvin Pritchard the other day, says he's got some extra parts for the Chevy. Couldn't hurt to have 'em on hand for back up." He sounds like he's settling in for a long, gossipy chat, and Dean has to bite back a groan.
"Uh huh," is all he can manage. Sam hums around him, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. He plants his feet and pushes up into the wet heat of her mouth. She pulls back, shaking her head and wagging a finger at him.
Behave, she mouths at him, like he's the troublemaker here.
He concedes with a grunt, and she leans in again, lips wrapping around him and sliding down, taking as much of him in as she can. He's mesmerized by the sight, at least until she reaches a hand between their bodies and starts stroking his balls. That sends another bolt of heat through him, his whole body tensing up, getting ready.
Bobby's still talking, but Dean can't understand a word he's saying. "I have to call you back," he says, hanging up before Bobby can say another word. He tosses the phone on the table and twines his hand through Sam's hair, thrusting up into her mouth as he comes, white hot pleasure licking down his spine like lightning.
She swallows what she can and leans back, satisfied smirk on her face, strands of come glistening on her lips, chin, and throat. He pulls her up into his lap so he can lick her face clean, suck the taste of himself off her tongue.
He doesn't remember what they were arguing about until they're halfway to Charleston. He doesn't even remember they're supposed to be going to Charleston until they're twenty minutes on the road and she starts quizzing him about the case.
"I don't know, Sam. Like I could hear a word Bobby said while you were sucking me off."
Sam's answering smile is smug and possessive. Heat flares again in Dean's belly. They pull over ninety minutes later for an early lunch and a quickie in the backseat.
*
Mrs. Radcliffe is their best witness on this case. Three of the four attacks occurred on or near her property. Even though it's the middle of summer in Charleston, all the windows in her house are shut tight, and only a barely oscillating ceiling fan pushes hot, humid air sluggishly around the room. She sits across from them at the long dining room table draped with two tablecloths. One is a leafy green color that almost matches Sam's skirt; there's a white lacy one over top that, and Dean can't figure out why the tablecloth is covered with a tablecloth. He thinks it might drive him crazy if they don't get out of here soon. Sam looks over and gives him this secret smile, like she knows something he doesn't, and that might drive him crazy, too.
Mrs. Radcliffe gets lost in a long and likely irrelevant story about how her husband hired the local handyman to clean the gutters two days before he died, and Dean is having a hard time keeping his eyes open when Sam's hand slips into his lap, palming his dick through his suit pants. He sits up straight and keeps his eyes on his notebook, though he stopped taking notes ten minutes ago.
Two can play at that game. He takes a long sip of sugary-sweet--and since the ice has started to melt, watery--iced tea, and tries not to smile as he rubs the condensation between his fingers.
He reaches down and slips his left hand beneath the two tablecloths to land on Sam's bare leg. It's her turn to straighten up, wary. She licks her lips and gives him a sideways glance, eyebrows raised in challenge.
He slides his hand up the smooth, warm skin of her thigh, but where he's expecting the soft familiarity of cotton, he finds the slick heat of her cunt, bare under her skirt. He shoots another glance in her direction, startled, and has to bite back a laugh when she grins, bright and mischievous and obviously pleased with herself. And with him.
He strokes her slowly, teasing her folds open so he can dip his fingers inside. She sucks in a surprised breath and squirms. She's ridiculously wet, which makes him stupidly hard in response. He can see the peaks of her nipples gone hard through the crisp white material of her shirt, and she's got enough buttons undone that he can see the lacy edge of her bra. He puts his pen down and takes another sip of iced tea, wishing he could loosen his collar and tie. Wishing he could bend Sam over the fancy dining room table and fuck her until her legs went boneless.
He settles for giving Mrs. Radcliffe a bright version of his reassuring smile and flicking Sam's clit with his thumb. She shifts in her seat again, hips canting up to give him deeper access and hand coming down to wrap around his wrist and keep his fingers where she wants them. Her cheeks are flushed and sweat is beading in her hairline. Her mouth parts on a soft gasp when he crooks his fingers and hits the right spot, and her nails dig into his wrist. She bites her lip, even white teeth sinking into pink flesh, and he can't help but look at her as she comes, slick hot walls of her cunt clenching tight around his fingers.
"My dear, you look a little faint," Mrs. Radcliffe says. "Are you all right?"
"Just a little warm," Sam says hoarsely. She makes a small distressed sound when Dean pulls his hand away, which makes Mrs. Radcliffe's face crease with worry. "I need some air."
"Of course, dear. It is rather warm in here." Mrs. Radcliffe stands, and Sam and Dean follow suit, though Sam's a little unsteady on her high heels. Dean grins smugly. He shoves his left hand in his pocket and puts his right against the small of her back; her shirt is damp with sweat.
"Thanks for your time," he says, steering Sam towards the door. "We'll be in touch if you need anything."
They hurry to the car, and Dean drives down the road to a shady spot that can't be seen from the house. Sam's already shimmied out of her skirt and she's pulling her shirt off over her head without unbuttoning it by the time Dean throws the car into park. They don't bother heading to the backseat. Dean slides over and Sam climbs on top of him, hands working at his belt and fly.
Dean yanks his tie off; he doesn't miss the speculative look in Sam's eyes, but he doesn't want to tie her up or be tied up right now, so he tosses it into the backseat and pulls her in for a hungry kiss. He gets her bra off while they're making out, and he breaks the kiss so he can suck her nipples. He loves the way she arches into his mouth and moans hoarsely. She grabs his left hand and licks herself off his fingers. He thinks he could come just from the way she wraps her tongue around his knuckles and sucks his fingertips. Sweat prickles against his scalp and drips down his back. He pulls away long enough to crank the air conditioning as high as it will go, which isn't nearly enough to cool them off when they're like this.
"You're lucky I'm good with both hands," he says.
"Mmmhmm," she answers. She reaches down and guides him inside of her, little frown line between her eyebrows. She's even wetter and hotter now that she's come once, and she rides him hard, making her tits bounce with each roll of her hips.
He thumbs her clit and says, "What happened to your underwear?"
"It's no panties Thursday," she says, twisting her hips and tightening around him as she shoves down to meet his upward thrust.
White heat is jolting down his spine, and white light is sparking at the edges of his vision, but he says, "So are you really being spontaneous and naughty, or do we need to do laundry again?"
Her grin is all teeth, which she's not afraid of using; he'll have little red marks along his jaw for a couple of days. He's totally okay with that. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she asks just before she bites his earlobe, then soothes the sting of it with the rough velvet pad of her tongue.
He really would, but he can't think about the laundry when he's this close to coming. He tangles his hand in her hair and yanks her close for a rough, messy kiss, his whole body on fire as his orgasm blows through him like a bomb blast. She fucks him through it, pressing his fingers to her clit and getting off a second time. He can feel the hard flex of her cunt and the trembling in her thighs, the ragged rhythm of her breath in his mouth and her chest heaving against his. They kiss softly through the afterglow. She's usually soft and pliant afterwards and lets him hold her close; she rarely teases him about his need to cuddle until later, when he denies it ever happened. She shivers against him and he tightens his arms around her as the air conditioner finally does its work.
"I like no panties Thursday," he says, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead and planting a kiss there. "This is definitely a tradition I could get behind."
She laughs breathlessly and kisses him. "Me, too, Dean. Me, too."
end
~*~
Note: title from Vienna Teng.
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/178380.html.
people have commented there.