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Apr. 11th, 2014 04:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_springflingTitle: Obedience
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: Underage (Sam is 14, Dean is 18), drug and alcohol use, shotgunning.
The game starts one sticky hot summer in Louisiana. John had left for town and told them to be packed and ready to go in two hours. Eight-year old Sam had howled, and Dean felt dismayed, and they’d wasted a whole hour arguing and flopping around on the furniture and not getting started while the enormity of the task grew in Dean’s mind, and the amount of time they had to do it in shrank.
Finally, they reach the point where they’re really pushing it, and Dean knows if they wait even a few more minutes they wont finish on time.
“Okay Sam, you work on the laundry and I’ll work on the weapons.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Sam grumbles. “You do the laundry. I’ll…” Sam looks around. Although he can shoot, and sharpen the knives, he knows he’s not allowed to be in charge of the weapons, yet.
“You work on cleaning up the wards.”
Neither of them moves.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Sam says. “We can take turns being the boss. You tell me five things to pick up, and then I’ll tell you five things to pick up. The person who’s the boss can do whatever he wants while the slave is doing the work.” And, because Sam really wants Dean to agree to the game, he adds, “you can take the first turn being the boss.”
It works, because Dean is more than happy to keep lounging in his chair and order Sam to pick things up, and then, it still works when it’s his turn to be the slave, because if nothing else, Dean has a well-developed sense of fairness when it comes to Sam.
It takes a little adjusting here and there. The definition of “five things” being the first thing to be contested. Doing the dishes doesn’t count as one thing. You have to say “wash five dishes.” They have to negotiate about the weapons, because they know Dean will end up doing that whole job by himself, but Sam doesn’t want to waste so many of his bossy orders on that one job that he actually wishes he could do himself. But they work it out. And in the end, they get things done a lot faster than they normally would have, because the slave always rushes to get their five things done so they can get to their turn being the boss.
By the time John returns with the car gassed up and a couple of bags of drive-thru cheeseburgers, both Sam and Dean are sitting on the porch, bags packed between them. They’d even washed the dishes, because there’s always a chance they’d end up squatting at this place again, and it really sucks when they turned up somewhere that they’d left dirty dishes at months before.
++++++++
“Let’s play that game again, the one where you have to obey what I tell you to pick up”
…
“Should we do the Obeying game this time?”
…
“Let’s play Obedience.”
And that’s how the game got its name.
++++++++
They’d been staying in this house for two months, and although John called at least once a week, he hadn’t stopped by. The result being that they’d gotten waaaay loose with their chores, and it was going to be a goddamned project to get the place in shape by the time John said he would be back on Tuesday. Both of them know they’d damn well have it done by Monday in case John made better time than he anticipated. And that really means that it has to be done by Sunday night, because they have school on Monday. Theoretically, they could skip, because they’ll be transferring to a new school next week, and while Dean is all for that idea, Sam nixes it.
“We’ve got to get it done by Sunday. Period,” Sam says.
“Dude, it’s Saturday night. I’ve got a six-pack for us. I’ve got some weed. You seriously want to be cleaning?”
“No. But I sure as hell don’t want to be cleaning tomorrow with your hungover ass. Tell you what. Let’s make a drinking game out of it.”
“Drunk Obedience. I like the sound of that.” And Sam’s got a point. It’s going to be a lot more fun cleaning up if they can do it with a couple of beers, maybe crank some tunes.
“Okay, but I get to be boss first. Bring me a bottle opener.” Dean pulls out his papers. He won’t smoke a joint this early in the evening, but he’d rather get it rolled while he’s still sober.
Sam comes back, tosses the opener at him, and smirks. “That’s one. Four more to go.”
“That totally didn’t count. We haven’t started yet.” But Dean smiles as he cracks a beer open and hands it to Sam. Part of the fun of this game always was trying to cheat a little. Sam always finds creative ways for Dean to end up with worse chores. Dean always hopes Sam will lose count and take orders for six things instead of five. In the end, it probably all balances out.
Three hours later, they’re both pleasantly buzzed. At fourteen, that means only one beer for Sam. Dean’s working on his third. For some reason, Sam is doing his chores in exaggerated super-slow motion, and it’s making them both laugh that kind of laughter that cramps your stomach and steals all your breath. God, he loves Sam. Loves him.
Dean lights his joint, contemplates for a moment, makes a decision. “C’mere Sam,” he says before he catches himself. Shit.
Sam laughs. “Ha! That’s your fourth thing. You only got one more.” He goes into slo-mo again, this time making the Steve Austin Bionic Man sound effect. Dean laughs so hard, he can’t inhale. But once Sam is finally in front of him, he pulls his shit together.
“Okay, I’m going to take a drag, and then I want you to put your mouth right over mine. Got it?”
Sam gets this weird look on his face. “That’s your fifth thing?” he asks uncertainly. Sam has always been one of those kids who pays attention in health class. He keeps himself to one beer. He’s always refused before when Dean has offered him a toke. But Dean’s beer-and-laughter logic assures him that Sam can’t say no this time. That’s the rule in this game.
Dean nods. “Yeah, Sammy, that’s my fifth thing.” Of course, he’ll back down if Sam puts up a fuss. Of course he will. But Sam doesn’t. Instead, he climbs onto Dean’s lap, straddling him, hands on his thighs, waiting.
Okay, so that’s not exactly how Dean thought that would go, but whatever. He takes a deep drag then looks at Sam and nods, opens his lips slightly.
Sam hesitates only a second, and then his mouth is on Dean’s and before Dean realizes what the hell is going on, Sam’s also got his hands on Dean’s jaw, fingers splayed down over his neck, thumbs stroking the stubble on Dean’s chin, and his tongue is in Dean’s mouth.
Sam’s eyes go very wide when Dean lets all of the smoke out into Sam’s mouth in one surprised huff, and Dean’s thinking, wait. What? Because he can tell from the look on Sam’s face that he didn’t know that’s what this is about. And— how the hell could he not know? And then why did he agree if he didn’t know what…
Sam, of course, coughs his head off. The fingers of one hand grip Dean’s shoulder while he covers his mouth with the back of his other hand, face turned away from Dean. Then they both sit there, staring at each other in horror.
Well, maybe not horror. Definitely not horror at what just happened, more like… fear about what happens next. Sam hasn’t moved from his position on Dean’s lap, and when he’s more or less done coughing, he lets his hands fall back down, only this time, they rest lightly on Dean’s waist. On purpose. Dean’s eighty percent sure of it.
“Sam…” he says, but then stops. He has no idea how to end that sentence, and it was hard enough to squeeze that one word out of his constricted throat. He figures if Sam really listens, he’ll hear the frantic racing of his heart, and that will be words enough.
Still, nothing. Sam shifts slightly, settling his weight back. He looks as scared as Dean feels.
At last, the right thing to say comes to Dean’s mind. The perfect out for both of them, if that’s the way Sam wants to go. “It’s your turn, Sam,” he says, and his voice comes out in a rough whisper. “Five things.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it can still be your turn,” he says. “You don’t have to count those last two.”
“It counts,” Dean answers. “I don’t want to take them back. It’s your turn, Sam.”
Sam sets his jaw, and for a moment, Dean thinks he’s blown it. That this is going to turn into a stupid quarrel, that the moment will pass and be something weird that happened once instead of what he wants it to be, which is… he doesn’t know exactly, but he doesn’t want it to fizzle out just by accident and happenstance. He wants it to be a choice, one way or the other.
“Okay,” Sam says. “The first thing you have to do is tell me what to do next.”
Dean closes his eyes. The kid is so friggin stubborn, but smart enough for both of them. “I want you to show me what you thought that last one was about,” he says.
And Sam does. On purpose. Leans forward and opens his mouth just enough so that his lips slot around Dean’s bottom lip. Puts his hands back up to Dean’s face. Kisses him. Opens up to the tip of Dean’s tongue. Rolls his hips to let Dean know that he wasn’t exactly envisioning a PG-13 version of events.
It unearths things that Dean didn’t even know were buried in him, but that feel familiar, and right. He pulls Sam in closer by the hips, and Sam grinds into it. Sam kisses like an invitation, his tongue darting forward, then retreating, allowing Dean to follow. He puts his hand into Dean’s, not holding it, but asking for guidance. “Tell me what to do with my hands,” Sam says when the kiss pauses. His forehead is against Dean’s, and his lips move against Dean’s when he talks.
Dean pulls Sam’s hand to the front of his jeans, and Sam presses down, rolling Dean’s instantly-hard cock underneath his palm.
“Okay, that’s two things, tell me what to do next.” Sam keeps rubbing his palm over Dean, rough and unpracticed.
There’s next to no room between them, but Dean angles back as best as he can, fingertips lightly stroking Sam’s forearms. “Take it out,” he says. “Yours too.”
With every movement, every brush of fabric, Sam’s uncharacteristically clumsy fingers threaten to send Dean skittering over the edge. His nerves are all lit up and his dick is on hair-trigger alert. When Sam pulls his own out, shimmying his hips side to side to pull his jeans down a little, Dean closes his eyes, but it’s no good. The raw, sweaty scent of Sam floods his nose, familiar and intimate; it smells like sex.
Sam doesn’t need telling what to do next. He leans forward, crushing their mouths together and grinds his cock right up against Dean’s. They don’t have to do anything coordinated or intentional, just the way Sam moves against him while they kiss does the trick; friction and heat and shock of Sam’s hard length touching his, that’s all it takes.
It’s so intense that when Dean comes, he can’t do anything but lock his muscles, rigor-tight and dig his fingers into Sam’s hips. Sam reaches down between them and holds their cocks together, twitching and slipping over one another, and when Dean realizes that Sam is coming too, it sets him off again, unexpected and overly sensitive.
Sam falls forward onto him, onto the mess between them. For a few moments, they just breathe, and Dean can feel Sam’s heart competing with his own, straining towards each other through their ribcages.
Finally, Sam lets out a deep breath. He sits up and peels off his sticky shirt and uses it to wipe the wet smears on his stomach. He grins at Dean. “I still got three things,” he says.
++++++++
Nights in the dark, when Sam doesn’t know what to do; “Be the boss of me, Dean.”
“Put your mouth on it, Sam”
…
“Grab this strap, Sam”
….
“Put on the collar, Sam”
And that’s how they make it through.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: Underage (Sam is 14, Dean is 18), drug and alcohol use, shotgunning.
The game starts one sticky hot summer in Louisiana. John had left for town and told them to be packed and ready to go in two hours. Eight-year old Sam had howled, and Dean felt dismayed, and they’d wasted a whole hour arguing and flopping around on the furniture and not getting started while the enormity of the task grew in Dean’s mind, and the amount of time they had to do it in shrank.
Finally, they reach the point where they’re really pushing it, and Dean knows if they wait even a few more minutes they wont finish on time.
“Okay Sam, you work on the laundry and I’ll work on the weapons.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Sam grumbles. “You do the laundry. I’ll…” Sam looks around. Although he can shoot, and sharpen the knives, he knows he’s not allowed to be in charge of the weapons, yet.
“You work on cleaning up the wards.”
Neither of them moves.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Sam says. “We can take turns being the boss. You tell me five things to pick up, and then I’ll tell you five things to pick up. The person who’s the boss can do whatever he wants while the slave is doing the work.” And, because Sam really wants Dean to agree to the game, he adds, “you can take the first turn being the boss.”
It works, because Dean is more than happy to keep lounging in his chair and order Sam to pick things up, and then, it still works when it’s his turn to be the slave, because if nothing else, Dean has a well-developed sense of fairness when it comes to Sam.
It takes a little adjusting here and there. The definition of “five things” being the first thing to be contested. Doing the dishes doesn’t count as one thing. You have to say “wash five dishes.” They have to negotiate about the weapons, because they know Dean will end up doing that whole job by himself, but Sam doesn’t want to waste so many of his bossy orders on that one job that he actually wishes he could do himself. But they work it out. And in the end, they get things done a lot faster than they normally would have, because the slave always rushes to get their five things done so they can get to their turn being the boss.
By the time John returns with the car gassed up and a couple of bags of drive-thru cheeseburgers, both Sam and Dean are sitting on the porch, bags packed between them. They’d even washed the dishes, because there’s always a chance they’d end up squatting at this place again, and it really sucks when they turned up somewhere that they’d left dirty dishes at months before.
++++++++
“Let’s play that game again, the one where you have to obey what I tell you to pick up”
…
“Should we do the Obeying game this time?”
…
“Let’s play Obedience.”
And that’s how the game got its name.
++++++++
They’d been staying in this house for two months, and although John called at least once a week, he hadn’t stopped by. The result being that they’d gotten waaaay loose with their chores, and it was going to be a goddamned project to get the place in shape by the time John said he would be back on Tuesday. Both of them know they’d damn well have it done by Monday in case John made better time than he anticipated. And that really means that it has to be done by Sunday night, because they have school on Monday. Theoretically, they could skip, because they’ll be transferring to a new school next week, and while Dean is all for that idea, Sam nixes it.
“We’ve got to get it done by Sunday. Period,” Sam says.
“Dude, it’s Saturday night. I’ve got a six-pack for us. I’ve got some weed. You seriously want to be cleaning?”
“No. But I sure as hell don’t want to be cleaning tomorrow with your hungover ass. Tell you what. Let’s make a drinking game out of it.”
“Drunk Obedience. I like the sound of that.” And Sam’s got a point. It’s going to be a lot more fun cleaning up if they can do it with a couple of beers, maybe crank some tunes.
“Okay, but I get to be boss first. Bring me a bottle opener.” Dean pulls out his papers. He won’t smoke a joint this early in the evening, but he’d rather get it rolled while he’s still sober.
Sam comes back, tosses the opener at him, and smirks. “That’s one. Four more to go.”
“That totally didn’t count. We haven’t started yet.” But Dean smiles as he cracks a beer open and hands it to Sam. Part of the fun of this game always was trying to cheat a little. Sam always finds creative ways for Dean to end up with worse chores. Dean always hopes Sam will lose count and take orders for six things instead of five. In the end, it probably all balances out.
Three hours later, they’re both pleasantly buzzed. At fourteen, that means only one beer for Sam. Dean’s working on his third. For some reason, Sam is doing his chores in exaggerated super-slow motion, and it’s making them both laugh that kind of laughter that cramps your stomach and steals all your breath. God, he loves Sam. Loves him.
Dean lights his joint, contemplates for a moment, makes a decision. “C’mere Sam,” he says before he catches himself. Shit.
Sam laughs. “Ha! That’s your fourth thing. You only got one more.” He goes into slo-mo again, this time making the Steve Austin Bionic Man sound effect. Dean laughs so hard, he can’t inhale. But once Sam is finally in front of him, he pulls his shit together.
“Okay, I’m going to take a drag, and then I want you to put your mouth right over mine. Got it?”
Sam gets this weird look on his face. “That’s your fifth thing?” he asks uncertainly. Sam has always been one of those kids who pays attention in health class. He keeps himself to one beer. He’s always refused before when Dean has offered him a toke. But Dean’s beer-and-laughter logic assures him that Sam can’t say no this time. That’s the rule in this game.
Dean nods. “Yeah, Sammy, that’s my fifth thing.” Of course, he’ll back down if Sam puts up a fuss. Of course he will. But Sam doesn’t. Instead, he climbs onto Dean’s lap, straddling him, hands on his thighs, waiting.
Okay, so that’s not exactly how Dean thought that would go, but whatever. He takes a deep drag then looks at Sam and nods, opens his lips slightly.
Sam hesitates only a second, and then his mouth is on Dean’s and before Dean realizes what the hell is going on, Sam’s also got his hands on Dean’s jaw, fingers splayed down over his neck, thumbs stroking the stubble on Dean’s chin, and his tongue is in Dean’s mouth.
Sam’s eyes go very wide when Dean lets all of the smoke out into Sam’s mouth in one surprised huff, and Dean’s thinking, wait. What? Because he can tell from the look on Sam’s face that he didn’t know that’s what this is about. And— how the hell could he not know? And then why did he agree if he didn’t know what…
Sam, of course, coughs his head off. The fingers of one hand grip Dean’s shoulder while he covers his mouth with the back of his other hand, face turned away from Dean. Then they both sit there, staring at each other in horror.
Well, maybe not horror. Definitely not horror at what just happened, more like… fear about what happens next. Sam hasn’t moved from his position on Dean’s lap, and when he’s more or less done coughing, he lets his hands fall back down, only this time, they rest lightly on Dean’s waist. On purpose. Dean’s eighty percent sure of it.
“Sam…” he says, but then stops. He has no idea how to end that sentence, and it was hard enough to squeeze that one word out of his constricted throat. He figures if Sam really listens, he’ll hear the frantic racing of his heart, and that will be words enough.
Still, nothing. Sam shifts slightly, settling his weight back. He looks as scared as Dean feels.
At last, the right thing to say comes to Dean’s mind. The perfect out for both of them, if that’s the way Sam wants to go. “It’s your turn, Sam,” he says, and his voice comes out in a rough whisper. “Five things.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it can still be your turn,” he says. “You don’t have to count those last two.”
“It counts,” Dean answers. “I don’t want to take them back. It’s your turn, Sam.”
Sam sets his jaw, and for a moment, Dean thinks he’s blown it. That this is going to turn into a stupid quarrel, that the moment will pass and be something weird that happened once instead of what he wants it to be, which is… he doesn’t know exactly, but he doesn’t want it to fizzle out just by accident and happenstance. He wants it to be a choice, one way or the other.
“Okay,” Sam says. “The first thing you have to do is tell me what to do next.”
Dean closes his eyes. The kid is so friggin stubborn, but smart enough for both of them. “I want you to show me what you thought that last one was about,” he says.
And Sam does. On purpose. Leans forward and opens his mouth just enough so that his lips slot around Dean’s bottom lip. Puts his hands back up to Dean’s face. Kisses him. Opens up to the tip of Dean’s tongue. Rolls his hips to let Dean know that he wasn’t exactly envisioning a PG-13 version of events.
It unearths things that Dean didn’t even know were buried in him, but that feel familiar, and right. He pulls Sam in closer by the hips, and Sam grinds into it. Sam kisses like an invitation, his tongue darting forward, then retreating, allowing Dean to follow. He puts his hand into Dean’s, not holding it, but asking for guidance. “Tell me what to do with my hands,” Sam says when the kiss pauses. His forehead is against Dean’s, and his lips move against Dean’s when he talks.
Dean pulls Sam’s hand to the front of his jeans, and Sam presses down, rolling Dean’s instantly-hard cock underneath his palm.
“Okay, that’s two things, tell me what to do next.” Sam keeps rubbing his palm over Dean, rough and unpracticed.
There’s next to no room between them, but Dean angles back as best as he can, fingertips lightly stroking Sam’s forearms. “Take it out,” he says. “Yours too.”
With every movement, every brush of fabric, Sam’s uncharacteristically clumsy fingers threaten to send Dean skittering over the edge. His nerves are all lit up and his dick is on hair-trigger alert. When Sam pulls his own out, shimmying his hips side to side to pull his jeans down a little, Dean closes his eyes, but it’s no good. The raw, sweaty scent of Sam floods his nose, familiar and intimate; it smells like sex.
Sam doesn’t need telling what to do next. He leans forward, crushing their mouths together and grinds his cock right up against Dean’s. They don’t have to do anything coordinated or intentional, just the way Sam moves against him while they kiss does the trick; friction and heat and shock of Sam’s hard length touching his, that’s all it takes.
It’s so intense that when Dean comes, he can’t do anything but lock his muscles, rigor-tight and dig his fingers into Sam’s hips. Sam reaches down between them and holds their cocks together, twitching and slipping over one another, and when Dean realizes that Sam is coming too, it sets him off again, unexpected and overly sensitive.
Sam falls forward onto him, onto the mess between them. For a few moments, they just breathe, and Dean can feel Sam’s heart competing with his own, straining towards each other through their ribcages.
Finally, Sam lets out a deep breath. He sits up and peels off his sticky shirt and uses it to wipe the wet smears on his stomach. He grins at Dean. “I still got three things,” he says.
++++++++
Nights in the dark, when Sam doesn’t know what to do; “Be the boss of me, Dean.”
“Put your mouth on it, Sam”
…
“Grab this strap, Sam”
….
“Put on the collar, Sam”
And that’s how they make it through.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2014-04-11 08:11 pm (UTC)Really, really delicious, all mixed in with feelings of laid back intoxication and ridiculously urgency.
♥
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Date: 2014-04-25 02:36 am (UTC):)
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Date: 2014-04-11 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:38 am (UTC):)
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Date: 2014-04-11 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:41 am (UTC)Your fic just about killed me this round, so I am really tickled to get a comment from you.
:)
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Date: 2014-04-11 09:35 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-11 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-12 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-12 11:08 am (UTC)i squirmed my way through every word, so goddamn hot. i'd pay good money to read more about the obedience game. fuck. and this: “Put your mouth on it, Sam” - i'm dying, i'm dead. wonderful, so absolutely wonderful.
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Date: 2014-04-25 02:47 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and squirming!
:)
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Date: 2014-04-12 06:43 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-12 07:26 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-24 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-16 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-18 07:46 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for writing this ;)
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Date: 2014-04-25 02:56 am (UTC)Thank you so much for reading it.
:)
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Date: 2014-04-21 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:57 am (UTC):)
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Date: 2015-03-25 06:30 am (UTC)