fic: I'm With the Band (Supernatural; Dean/girl!Sam; adult)
Today is my six-year LJ-versary. Have some completely context-free AU porn.
I'm With the Band
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; AU; adult; 1,468 words
In which Dean plays bass and Sam is his favorite groupie.
Despite whatever she might tell you, this is all luzdeestrellas's fault, and I have the emails to prove it.
One of five six seven ways Dean Winchester slept with his (non-existent) sister.
***
I'm With the Band
Dean's band plays shows in San Francisco pretty often, so he can visit her, keep an eye out, just like Dad said. They're getting pretty popular now, sold out shows up and down the west coast, but Sam never mentions that her brother is the bassist, never tells her friends she can get tickets, get them backstage. She won't admit it, denies it when he teases her about it, but she doesn't want to share him with anyone, not even the friends she's made at school. She just grabs a ride with whoever's heading in the right direction, and Dean always gives her a ride back.
She dresses the part because it makes him laugh--short black skirt, low-cut red top with a black satin push-up bra giving her cleavage, ripped fishnets, and the twenty-hole Doc Martens he bought her when the band signed their first contract. He likes to fuck her while she's wearing them.
She likes it, too.
Sam stays in the back of the room, content to watch the roiling crowd stomp and slam into each other. She sips her beer and bangs her head in time with the music, the low heavy throb of Dean's bass like the beat of her heart, the pulse between her legs. She leans against the wall for a moment, takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and bites down on her lower lip, letting the sensation surge through her. Her nipples are hard and aching against the soft padding of her bra, and she crosses her arms over her chest briefly, quick flashes of pleasure arcing from her breasts to her cunt.
She jerks off to his music when he's on the road, rhythm of her fingers against her clit the same rhythm he lays down with his bass, pretending her hands are his.
When he steps up to the mike to sing--he writes almost all the music but Ted the lead guitarist does most of the singing--it's for the one love song the band's recorded (all the others are about death, or sex, or cars, or death and sex, or sex in cars, with the occasional one about the joy of blowing shit up, but this one is definitely about love. And cars.), the one song that got them on the radio. The one song Dean wrote both the music and lyrics for. Dean swears up and down it's about some girl he met in Ohio, but Sam knows it's really about her (or possibly the Impala). All the girls in the crowd scream shrilly over the opening notes, and then settle down as he sings.
Sam knows this means the show is coming to a close, and she starts pushing her way to the backstage door.
None of the usual guys--the ones she knows and who know her--is there, and though she has an all-access pass around her neck, the roadie just shakes his head and crosses his arms. She mimics his pose and waits as the group of girls around her swells, all of them claiming to be with the band.
"Randall! Randall!" she yells as the band finishes playing and she catches sight of the guy in charge of the equipment.
"Hey, Sam." He comes over and gives her a hug, pulls her past the velvet rope. "Gary, this is Dean's sister," he tells the new guy. "You let her through whenever you see her, okay?"
Sam smiles and shakes his hand, and then lets Randall lead her back into the dressing room. The guys are all there, Ted with his blue hair and skinny shoulders--he still looks like the art school student he was when Dean saved him from the ghost of his great-aunt Gertrude (he writes the lyrics about sex and death)--Darren, the drummer, already down half a bottle of Jack and looking for a fuck (he writes most of the songs about sex), and John, the rhythm guitarist and sometime keyboards player, whose wife doesn't like Sam at all, which is awkward, because they're the only two constants among the steady stream of girls (and boys, in Ted's case) who hang around the band.
She barely has time to wave hello before Dean has his arm around her waist and is leading her away. They don't hide and they don't pretend here, though she knows none of the others except Ted actually believe she's Dean's sister, and Ted is too busy with his own drama to pay attention to theirs.
Dean pushes her into a small dressing room and kicks the door shut behind them, then pulls her close and kisses her like he's dying of thirst and she's the first water he's seen in a week. She clings to him, kisses him back just as fiercely, heated clash of teeth and tongues saying more than any words ever could.
They're both breathing heavily when they pull apart, just long enough for her to yank his sweaty t-shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. He unlaces her top and unhooks her bra, and she utters a silent thanks to whoever invented the front-hook bra. She gasps at the brush of callused fingers over her breasts, her already hard nipples.
"You missed me," she says, triumph a little diluted by how breathless she is when he takes one aching nipple into his mouth and sucks.
He looks up, skeptical. "What?"
"You missed me."
He laughs, bright as silver, and it makes her heart (and her cunt) clench. "Dude. Whatever you need to tell yourself."
"Liar." She smiles, though, because with every kiss and touch he tells her himself. She undoes his jeans, jacks his cock roughly until he grabs her wrist, makes her stop.
"Not so fast." He presses his forehead against hers, panting; his breath smells of Jack Daniels, and his skin tastes of sweat.
"Oh, you really missed me," she says, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and feeling around in her little black backpack for a condom. She doesn't know what he does when he's on the road--she doesn't ask and he doesn't tell, because she knows he's always going to come back to her, and that's all that matters in the end.
She hands him the condom, pushes him down onto one of the rickety wooden chairs, and climbs into his lap.
He slides a hand up the inside of her thigh, beams when he discovers the garters. "Awesome." The word is a breath, nothing more.
"I thought you'd like that," she says, grinning, as he pushes aside the crotch of her panties and thumbs her clit.
She feels more than hears the vibration of his "Mmm," as he kisses her again, fingers holding her open as she shifts up and then sinks down, taking him inside of her. His hands roam up and down her back, slide between her legs to play with her clit as she fucks herself on his dick, fucks him good and hard, her hands tight on his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.
When she looks to her right, she can see herself in the stained mirror, breasts bouncing and body flexing as she moves, see his hands large and strong on her body, see the marks his mouth and stubble leave on her skin, the bruises her teeth leave on his, blossoming red like the flowers he never gives her. They're both flushed and sweaty in the harsh light of the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Seeing it makes it even more intense, pleasure curling hot and sweet in her belly, making her cunt tighten around him.
He notices where she's looking, turns his head to watch as well, and laughs breathlessly. "You're a dirty girl, Sammy."
"S'why you love me," she answers, clenching tight, trying to make him come before she loses it completely.
"One reason," he says, and with another flick of his thumb, she's coming apart, pleasure bursting light lightning through her, so good she can't breathe.
She keeps moving, slower now, and he uses what leverage he has to thrust up jerkily, coming as she clenches around him, riding it out together, his arms wrapping around her when she slumps against him, face pressed to the crook of his neck.
"You totally missed me," she murmurs into the sweaty, stubbly skin of his jaw.
"Yeah," he replies, pressing a kiss to her temple, the tips of his fingers rubbing against the blades of her shoulders. "I did."
She hides her grin of triumph against his throat, and finally finds the strength of will to lift herself off of him. "Come on," she says, pulling her skirt down and attempting to re-hook her bra. "You've got all weekend to show me how much."
end
***
Feedback is adored.
***
I'm With the Band
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; AU; adult; 1,468 words
In which Dean plays bass and Sam is his favorite groupie.
Despite whatever she might tell you, this is all luzdeestrellas's fault, and I have the emails to prove it.
One of five six seven ways Dean Winchester slept with his (non-existent) sister.
***
I'm With the Band
Dean's band plays shows in San Francisco pretty often, so he can visit her, keep an eye out, just like Dad said. They're getting pretty popular now, sold out shows up and down the west coast, but Sam never mentions that her brother is the bassist, never tells her friends she can get tickets, get them backstage. She won't admit it, denies it when he teases her about it, but she doesn't want to share him with anyone, not even the friends she's made at school. She just grabs a ride with whoever's heading in the right direction, and Dean always gives her a ride back.
She dresses the part because it makes him laugh--short black skirt, low-cut red top with a black satin push-up bra giving her cleavage, ripped fishnets, and the twenty-hole Doc Martens he bought her when the band signed their first contract. He likes to fuck her while she's wearing them.
She likes it, too.
Sam stays in the back of the room, content to watch the roiling crowd stomp and slam into each other. She sips her beer and bangs her head in time with the music, the low heavy throb of Dean's bass like the beat of her heart, the pulse between her legs. She leans against the wall for a moment, takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and bites down on her lower lip, letting the sensation surge through her. Her nipples are hard and aching against the soft padding of her bra, and she crosses her arms over her chest briefly, quick flashes of pleasure arcing from her breasts to her cunt.
She jerks off to his music when he's on the road, rhythm of her fingers against her clit the same rhythm he lays down with his bass, pretending her hands are his.
When he steps up to the mike to sing--he writes almost all the music but Ted the lead guitarist does most of the singing--it's for the one love song the band's recorded (all the others are about death, or sex, or cars, or death and sex, or sex in cars, with the occasional one about the joy of blowing shit up, but this one is definitely about love. And cars.), the one song that got them on the radio. The one song Dean wrote both the music and lyrics for. Dean swears up and down it's about some girl he met in Ohio, but Sam knows it's really about her (or possibly the Impala). All the girls in the crowd scream shrilly over the opening notes, and then settle down as he sings.
Sam knows this means the show is coming to a close, and she starts pushing her way to the backstage door.
None of the usual guys--the ones she knows and who know her--is there, and though she has an all-access pass around her neck, the roadie just shakes his head and crosses his arms. She mimics his pose and waits as the group of girls around her swells, all of them claiming to be with the band.
"Randall! Randall!" she yells as the band finishes playing and she catches sight of the guy in charge of the equipment.
"Hey, Sam." He comes over and gives her a hug, pulls her past the velvet rope. "Gary, this is Dean's sister," he tells the new guy. "You let her through whenever you see her, okay?"
Sam smiles and shakes his hand, and then lets Randall lead her back into the dressing room. The guys are all there, Ted with his blue hair and skinny shoulders--he still looks like the art school student he was when Dean saved him from the ghost of his great-aunt Gertrude (he writes the lyrics about sex and death)--Darren, the drummer, already down half a bottle of Jack and looking for a fuck (he writes most of the songs about sex), and John, the rhythm guitarist and sometime keyboards player, whose wife doesn't like Sam at all, which is awkward, because they're the only two constants among the steady stream of girls (and boys, in Ted's case) who hang around the band.
She barely has time to wave hello before Dean has his arm around her waist and is leading her away. They don't hide and they don't pretend here, though she knows none of the others except Ted actually believe she's Dean's sister, and Ted is too busy with his own drama to pay attention to theirs.
Dean pushes her into a small dressing room and kicks the door shut behind them, then pulls her close and kisses her like he's dying of thirst and she's the first water he's seen in a week. She clings to him, kisses him back just as fiercely, heated clash of teeth and tongues saying more than any words ever could.
They're both breathing heavily when they pull apart, just long enough for her to yank his sweaty t-shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. He unlaces her top and unhooks her bra, and she utters a silent thanks to whoever invented the front-hook bra. She gasps at the brush of callused fingers over her breasts, her already hard nipples.
"You missed me," she says, triumph a little diluted by how breathless she is when he takes one aching nipple into his mouth and sucks.
He looks up, skeptical. "What?"
"You missed me."
He laughs, bright as silver, and it makes her heart (and her cunt) clench. "Dude. Whatever you need to tell yourself."
"Liar." She smiles, though, because with every kiss and touch he tells her himself. She undoes his jeans, jacks his cock roughly until he grabs her wrist, makes her stop.
"Not so fast." He presses his forehead against hers, panting; his breath smells of Jack Daniels, and his skin tastes of sweat.
"Oh, you really missed me," she says, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and feeling around in her little black backpack for a condom. She doesn't know what he does when he's on the road--she doesn't ask and he doesn't tell, because she knows he's always going to come back to her, and that's all that matters in the end.
She hands him the condom, pushes him down onto one of the rickety wooden chairs, and climbs into his lap.
He slides a hand up the inside of her thigh, beams when he discovers the garters. "Awesome." The word is a breath, nothing more.
"I thought you'd like that," she says, grinning, as he pushes aside the crotch of her panties and thumbs her clit.
She feels more than hears the vibration of his "Mmm," as he kisses her again, fingers holding her open as she shifts up and then sinks down, taking him inside of her. His hands roam up and down her back, slide between her legs to play with her clit as she fucks herself on his dick, fucks him good and hard, her hands tight on his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.
When she looks to her right, she can see herself in the stained mirror, breasts bouncing and body flexing as she moves, see his hands large and strong on her body, see the marks his mouth and stubble leave on her skin, the bruises her teeth leave on his, blossoming red like the flowers he never gives her. They're both flushed and sweaty in the harsh light of the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Seeing it makes it even more intense, pleasure curling hot and sweet in her belly, making her cunt tighten around him.
He notices where she's looking, turns his head to watch as well, and laughs breathlessly. "You're a dirty girl, Sammy."
"S'why you love me," she answers, clenching tight, trying to make him come before she loses it completely.
"One reason," he says, and with another flick of his thumb, she's coming apart, pleasure bursting light lightning through her, so good she can't breathe.
She keeps moving, slower now, and he uses what leverage he has to thrust up jerkily, coming as she clenches around him, riding it out together, his arms wrapping around her when she slumps against him, face pressed to the crook of his neck.
"You totally missed me," she murmurs into the sweaty, stubbly skin of his jaw.
"Yeah," he replies, pressing a kiss to her temple, the tips of his fingers rubbing against the blades of her shoulders. "I did."
She hides her grin of triumph against his throat, and finally finds the strength of will to lift herself off of him. "Come on," she says, pulling her skirt down and attempting to re-hook her bra. "You've got all weekend to show me how much."
end
***
Feedback is adored.
***