Disclaimer: I am claiming no ownership of the Winchesters.
Summary: They have to be quiet because it's the library.
Acknowledgements: So, I just wrote this last Monday to prove I still could after my little debacle. Hope you enjoy. Thanks to memphis86 for betaing.
The stacks are where people come to have sex. Sam remembers hearing about that in college—people who had doubles sneaking in together, rutting against the shelves, and on the grad student carrels. He never did that.
But now Dean’s got him pressed back against the DR440s, LC Class, on the 4th floor mezzanine. His brother’s wrenching his jeans open and biting savagely at his lips while he leans against Proust. The folio they’d come for lies forgotten on top of a filing cabinet as Dean rips his shirt open and grinds their hips together. Sam has to whisper a warning to not fuck up the books.
Dean doesn’t care, he shoves his left hand inside Sam’s jeans and breathes in the scent of aging books and dust. They should be quiet—it is a library—but they’re moaning, making soft and desperate hungry sounds. Dean pulls away from Sam and looks up at him, lips chaffed red and eyes vibrant green. A flush that starts at his cheeks runs down into his neckline.
Jesus, Sam says, and Dean smiles that slow smile of his. Sam leans down and presses kisses to Dean’s neck, soft ones that leave a whisper of sensation and no mark. He doesn’t believe in that, in making Dean look like something ill-used. That’s for other women. Dean tangles his fist in Sam’s hair, fingertips digging into his scalp.
Let me fuck you, Dean asks—no, commands. Sam shakes his head, sucks on Dean’s lower lip.
It’s not your turn.
Dean growls, but there’s an edge of a smile in his sex-drunk eyes. He shoves Sam hard into the books, until they’re digging into his back. He scratches his nails across Sam’s nipples through the thin material of his t-shirt, thumbs over them when Sam groans, sound choked low in his throat.
Sam’s so hard. The library, the fucking library, is turning him on. Dean knows it. He’s started jerking Sam off slowly, pulling and sucking on Sam’s earlobe. Sam has his cheek pressed into six bright-red volumes of Edmund Rostand.
Let me fuck you, Dean asks again. Cajoling this time. Sam growls, shoves Dean’s jacket off his shoulders so it falls with a smack to the dusty floor and thrusts him back against the opposite row of shelves.
Not. Your. Turn.
Dean likes getting fucked, but he always has to make it a battle, make it something that Sam has to take from him. He never gives in blithely or asks for it. But Sam is good at handling his brother; he’s been doing it since he was in the crib—manipulating him with smiles and slippery words, so that Dean can pretend he doesn’t notice.
He catches up the hem of Dean’s Harley Davidson shirt, pulls it up his body until his head and arms are caught in it, and stops, using it to restrain Dean. He bends to swipe his tongue across Dean’s nipple and lick a stripe down Dean’s torso. Dean is breathing hard against the fabric of his shirt, fighting against Sam’s grip.
Sam takes his time torturing Dean with his mouth.
Motherfucker, Dean breathes, when Sam finally puts his hand on Dean’s cock. Dean wraps his thigh around Sam’s hip, like a goddamned woman, and if Dean could just see himself. Sam knows the tube of slick is in Dean’s back pocket, has been since they started this and Sam discovered that Dean had a penchant for dirty wrong bad sex everywhere.
Once Dean took him in a tent in an R.E.I. with the salespeople walking around just outside.
The timed light that they’d pushed blinks once, letting them know time’s almost up, and Sam’s got two fingers inside Dean before his brother can blink. Dean’s worked himself free of the shirt, and he’s rocking into Sam’s hand, trying to take more.
The long column of Dean’s neck is arched back and his head thunks into another stanchion of books. Sam nips at his Adam’s apple, and when Dean starts cursing him out, rolls a condom on and thrusts inside that tight heat. Sam had tugged off Dean’s jeans, discarded them along with his shirt, but his own are still about his hips. At just that moment, the lights go out.
Dean braces himself on the second shelf from the top, knuckles turning white from gripping so hard. Sam is still adjusting to that initial shock of pleasure. Dean is desperately wriggling against him, both legs tight around his waist, trying to get more.
He rocks in hard, cock-head hammering against that spot inside Dean and watching as his brother is silenced, lips parted slightly and burnished lashes against Dean’s cheeks. Sam slides in and out again, corkscrewing slightly, and grip tight on Dean’s hips.
Dean is back to mouthing obscenities at him, and Sam buries his face into Dean’s neck and thrusts in punishingly. He wraps an arm around the small of Dean’s back and draws him harder down onto his cock. Dean groans and slams his head so hard against the shelf that the books are shaken out, multi-colored volumes tumbling to the floor.
Sam uses his newly freed hand to work Dean’s cock, and Dean gulps hard. He’s not sure how Sam has the concentration to swipe his thumb over the head and fuck his way into Dean, it feels that good. Once, twice more he shoves into Dean, and then Dean is practically gargling, tensing and contracting and trembling with the sudden onslaught of his orgasm. Sam grunts, can’t quite take the pressure, and white is bursting behind his eyes as he comes too.
Fuck, he tells Dean. Fuck. And Dean’s smiling just slightly, his legs sliding to the ground, and his arms holding Sam close. In this space right here, Dean is always tender. Sam slides out of Dean and disposes of the condom in the trash. Dean looks over and wrinkles his nose. Sam is too busy righting his clothes, and Dean is just buttoning his jeans back up when the light comes on.
A girl holding a pile of Descartes and Advanced French textbooks still has her hand on the switch. Her mouth drops along with the books.