Start out with fancy sheets, and wear them down so thin
"It's not like there's a drill sergeant showing up tomorrow morning for a surprise inspection, Sam."
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.
Rating: M (Sexual Situations)
A/N: Written for the Celebrations challenge at spn_het_love. Missed the word count on this one, too.
Beta(s): Just me and my own mistakes.
It wasn't the same thing as Dad's training schedule, nights filled with precise exercises and successes calculated by the seconds shaved off of cleaning a gun or the longer Sam managed to evade Dean before getting rolled to the ground, but Jess had looked at him like he was crazy when Sam slipped their list of chores into a plastic sheet protector and slapped it onto the refrigerator with a magnet.
She didn't start laughing until she saw the grease pencil, tied at one end with a piece of yarn that Sam had wrapped around another magnet; her fingers held loosely over her mouth while her eyes shone at him.
"Jesus, Jess. It's just a grease pencil." He scrubbed his knuckles down his cheek. "We can use it to mark off the chores when we're done…"
"It's not like there's a drill sergeant showing up tomorrow morning for a surprise inspection, Sam. I don't mind a little mess." Jess slipped her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his chest, and a smile flickered across her lips. "Sometimes even you leave your clothes lying around."
"That's because my girlfriend is a nympho. It's rude to start picking up your clothes after she's pushed you onto the couch."
"Don't you forget it, buster." Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his mouth down on top of hers. Sam slid his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, hooking onto the elastic waistband of her underwear, and Jess' mouth opened up underneath his as he tugged them past her hips. "But isn't it overkill to put something on there about emptying the dishwasher every day?" Jess breathed against his lips.
"Not after you didn't do dishes for three days."
"We've only been here for three days," she murmured.
Jess scratched down his back when Sam began licking the pulse underneath her ear, hissing when he dipped his mouth down and sucked on the hard nub pushing through the cotton of her t-shirt. He pushed her backwards, making it as far as the kitchen island before Sam hitched her up onto the cool tiles. She was spread in front of him, tanned legs opening to the kisses marking her thighs.
She was the one who pulled her t-shirt over her head, breasts reaching up towards the ceiling fan when her back arched. Her pulse sped up against his tongue, murmurs of 'more' and whispers of 'faster' when Sam slipped two fingers into the wet, and her hips bucked up into his face with a 'fuck, Sam, fuck' and a rush of salty musk against his lips and his knuckles.
The title of this story is a song lyric from "One For Sorrow" by Jeffrey Foucault. I'm a little obsessed with the man right now, probably because he's the mainstay of my current writing soundtrack...
Finished this up while taking a break from Chapter Six of Your Sorrow for Another Coin.
Lastly, I did my best to tone down the adult content. If you feel more work is required in this regard, please let me know and I will fix it accordingly.