Fic: What You Need - Part II (Sam/Dean)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, D/s relationship, angst
Summary - After their first big night, Dean has to confront what it all means - and Sam has to tie him up to make sure he does.
Dean shifted on the front seat of the Impala, smooth leather creaking under his jeans, and added another empty beer bottle to the collection taking up the spot his giant ass little brother usually filled. He cracked open another from the twelve-pack in the floor board and sucked down half of it in one go. Warm beer wasn't usually his choice for breakfast, but when you wake up at four in the morning with your head resting on your little brother's hip and his sleep-soft dick almost touching your lips, something has to be done. And that something is drinking.
It wasn't exactly like Dean had never thought about it. Actually, he'd considered it off and on from the time Sammy grew out of 'chubby little kid' and into 'holy crap, that's a big boy', and especially after he'd gotten Sam at Stanford and discovered his little brother had filled out in all the right ways. So yeah, he'd thought about it - more than even their special kind of fucked up could excuse - but he'd never have acted on it.
More disturbing than the incest stuff though - there's a sentence he never thought he'd think - was this whole, crazy, dom-Sammy thing. Which was not hot, like even any, at all, despite what his clearly misguided dick might think.
Shock; that's was it, he was in shock from the way Sam had just lost it like that - that's why it had all happened. Possibly in conjunction with some kind of weird, toppy-bastard possession that had gotten hold of Sam. That made sense.
And even if it WAS just Sam exorcising some seriously messed up issues of his own, it didn't mean Dean had to go along with it. If it looked like anything was going to happen again, he'd just put a stop to it, easy as that. He COULD actually say 'no' to sex - it had happened before… he thought. Almost positive.
The empty bottles clink as the new one joins their ranks.
Sam's probably going to wake up soon, notice that Dean's gone. He should probably head back, although driving may not be the hottest idea at the moment. Maybe he'll just hang out a little while longer, watch the sun climb over this nice river - what the hell state are they in, anyway? - for safety's sake of course. Not because he's avoiding Sam. Because that would be stupid - he can totally handle Sam. Totally.
***
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sam's shouting before he's even out of his car. Or, well, probably somebody else's car. He can't believe Sam actually stole a car just to come looking for him; or that it's giving him warm fuzzies. Ok, time to stop drinking now.
Sammy moves scary-fast on those big Sasquatch legs of his and he's yanking open Dean's door before Dean even has a chance to reach for it.
"Where the hell have you been!" Sam yells, way closer to Dean's face than he needed to be. Dean probably should have answered his phone earlier.
"Right here," Dean says simply, because he's the calm, rational one in the family. How come nobody ever notices that?
"Are you drunk?" Sam squeaks girlishly, 'cause he does shit like that - he's just not as calm and rational as Dean. "Correction, how drunk are you?"
Dean chooses not to dignify that with an answer and leans - calmly and rationally - on the setback. Which somehow dissapeared while he wasn't looking and now he's facing the ceiling of the Impala, head knocking against the half-full bottle of Jack on Sam's side of the car. Okay, maybe he should have stopped at the beer.
"Jesus, Dean," he hears Sam sigh, then he's being manhandled to sit up in the cluttered passenger seat and he's really had just about e-fucking-nough of that for one lifetime.
Sam's eyes shoot wide for the spit second before they close in pain when Dean shoves him back and the younger man ends up slammed against the steering wheel. Dean savagely surprises the immediate urge to make sure Sammy's ok - his little brother needs to learn to keep his damn hands to himself.
"Shit! What the hell, Dean!" If Sam's voice gets any higher only dogs - and other big, screechy girly-men - are going to be able to hear him.
"Just leave me fucking alone, Sam" Most of those words came out just fine.
A whole bunch of things happen with Sammy's face, but they're gone faster than Dean can get a hold on what they mean. He thinks maybe hurt was one of them; now it's definitely pissed off, though - college boy would call it 'resigned', but it's pissed off.
"So this is how you're going to handle things? Again?" And goddamnit, Sam should not be able to do that shit - should not be able to sound all hurt and dissapointed and make it feel even worse than if he'd just come right out and hit Dean or something. Hell, it wasn't like this was Dean's fault anyway; Sam had been like one step shy of fucking date-rape last night thank you very much. Which was exactly what he told Sam... or meant to; now that it's out of his mouth he's not sure the words were all in the right order.
Sam slumps into the seat next to him, not really looking at Dean even though he can sort of feel Sam watching out of the corner of his eye.
"Look, I'd have rather done it another way. But for some stupid reason, I thought you might react badly," he shoots Dean a glare, "I figured action was more up your alley. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"Fuck you! And don't pull any of that cutesy 'maybe later' mindfuck shit either!" Dean growls at the windshield, "You couldn't fucking hurt me if you tried. And who the hell said I wanted any of that, you know? I don't know what you got up to in school Sammy, but I don't go for that whips and chains thing."
Which was a pretty shitty lie since they both knew that he totally went for that - went for it hard - even before he'd come all over himself just from Sam fucking talking to him last night. He really wished his face wasn't getting so hot.
"I'll apologize for the way I did things, Dean, that's on me and I'll try my best to make it up to you. But I won't be sorry for what happened. It was good, amazing, and we both needed it." The warmth of Sam's hand bleeds through the denim stretched across Dean's knee and he jerks away from it a couple of seconds too late.
"Just forget it, Sam," he mumbles, still not meeting the hazel stare he can feel burning into the side of his face. "It's over, ok. And it's not going to happen again, so you can just forget about it. Just - just, let's get to work, ok? There's still a monster that needs ganking, you know?"
Sam heaves another one of those sighs that's just as good as getting the last word for all the shit that's jammed up in it, but he turns the ignition over and they pull back onto the road, leaving whoever-it-was' stolen car for the cops to return.
***
Dean feels like hell - and he would fucking well know - when he wakes up. It's sometime in the late afternoon, he thinks from the light pouring in around the shut curtains. He remembers arguing with Sam about helping interview witnesses and he remembers grudgingly chugging down the water and aspirin his brother gave him before finally agreeing to a quick nap.
He does not remember being strapped to the bed. And yet, there he is, staring up at the shiny, body-warm cuffs holding his arms in place - a nice match for the fabric ties keeping his legs spread. And when the hell did he get naked?
His restraints are all attached low to the bed so his muscles aren't straining, so for all he knows, he could have been like this for hours. Really no way to tell, except -
"You actually get anything done on the case today or you just sit around watching me look pretty?" He leans up as much as the binding will let him; enough to glare at where he can feel Sam looking at him. His little brother's leaned back on the couch, laptop open on his knees but he doesn't seem to be looking at it. His eyes are all for Dean, dark and unnerving in the artificial glow of the screen.
"Both," Sam smirks, which is almost universally a bad sign. Smirking is Dean's job, Sam's supposed to sit around looking open and earnest. "Found a lead, don't think it should be anything bigger than a quick salt and burn. Got a few of hours to kill before it gets dark enough though."
"Yeah? Well why don't you let me out of these cuffs so I can kick your ass," Dean smiles, "I'll really drag it out, take up lots of time, I promise" If anything, Sam's smirk widens.
"Had something else in mind, actually." Sam sets the computer aside and stalks - stalks! - over the bedside. Which is when Dean notices that the damn handcuff keys are sitting right there on the nightstand where he could just reach out and grab them - you know, if he wasn't motherfucking handcuffed to the motherfucking bed! Sam's going to pay dearly for this.
"Sammy, whatever the hell you think you're up to, you need to change your mind right fucking now," he warns as the bed dips under Sam's weight.
"Or what, Dean? You'll scowl me to death?" Sam settles easily between Dean's spread thighs, patting one of them lovingly in a way that makes Dean jerk in frustration.
He hates this shit, hates feeling all vulnerable, not being able to move - too many times he's felt it with his life on the line, too many 'almost's for his body to ignore. It's one thing when he lets somebody he meets in a bar use these things on him - flimsy stuff made for sex with safety catches he could get around with his eyes closed - or pretends like they're holding him down when really he could take any one of them in a fight if he was motivated enough. But not like this. These are real cuffs, real knots - the kind he taught Sam how to tie - and Sam's obviously real serious which means that even if Dean could get out of all of this - which he probably can't - he'd have a hell of a fight on his hands going up against Sammy's skills. Yeah, this officially sucks.
At least he manages to bite back the 'fuck you' that's on the tip of his tongue - that hasn't seemed to work out very well recently, and considering how he's trussed up now, he's not feeling too inspired to push his luck.
"Okay, I'll bite - what's the plan, Sammy? More suck and fuck?" He tries to make the words filthy, mocking - make it cheap as he feels, like this - over the churning in his gut that seems to fill his ears completely.
Sam grins like hell itself is about to open up.
Dean's losing his hold on the anger fast, like the warm pressure of metal on his skin is draining it right out of him, and what's left underneath is sticky, dark panic. It's taking everything he's got just to make sure it doesn't show on his face.
"Don't want to spoil the surprise," Sam muses, sliding his fingers up and down Dean's thigh, feather light and so slow his teeth itch. "See, here's the thing you don't seem to get, Dean. I know you, better than anyone else could ever dream, know the stuff you've done, what does it for you because you've told me - told me all kinds of things. I'm the best damn lay you're ever going to get; tailor made for you."
"Heh, and you give me shit about MY fucking ego, dude?" he huffs out like a joke, as if Sam's words hadn't crawled under his skin, laying down slick, sin-slimy patterns wherever they touched. It's all getting mixed up inside him, sick and wrong and tight like his skin shrunk in the wash and now everything's all sensitive and tingly under Sammy's possessive touch.
"Case in point," Sam says, teeth bared like a smile as he lowers his head down to caress his lips ticklishly over the join of Dean's thigh. Wet heat - Sam's fucking tongue, raising goosebumps all over him - runs back and forth over the skin like he's cleaning it and just as the instinctual tension in Dean's muscle starts to release, sharp teeth dig in.
Dean couldn't even begin to describe the sound he made but it makes his face flush anyway, blood throbbing hot in his cheeks, his ears, not to mention in the stinging imprint of Sammy's teeth on his skin, burning like a brand. He looks down, perversely compelled to watch as his little brother soothes over the bite with his tongue, but he can't really see past the jut of his thickening dick. Why the fuck did he have to tell Sam things?
Sammy breaks off from sending skittering jolts up from the bitemark to nose at Deans balls with an affectionate hum. The vibration makes Dean's hips wiggle of their own accord.
"Told you," Sam mutters, the wet heat of his breath saturating Dean's heavy sac. He licks a stripe up the middle, following the vein halfway up Dean's progressively stiffer dick before placing a soft, chaste kiss to the head. The traitorous fucker lurches.
It feels like a truckload of hot gravel was just dumped inside Dean's chest, weighing down his lungs and making everything bake from the inside out. He can't do this, not all over again. Last night was bad enough when at least he could say he was caught unawares but this… he'd gone back to the motel with Sam, fucking gone to bed when his brother told him to - and maybe his higher functions weren't exactly firing on all cylinders at the time, but he'd still known better, still gone anyway. Because maybe that sick smoldering knot in the pit of his stomach wasn't so much fear of Sam doing this as it was fear of him NOT doing it, because maybe he needed this just as bad as Sam said he did. That didn't do a damn thing to make him feel better.
"Sam, you can't. You've got to stop," he gibbers, knowing his voice is too high and not even giving a damn because he had to do fucking something - couldn't just let it all happen without a word AGAIN, "Y-you're my brother." It's a lame ploy because when the hell did they play by anybody else's rules anyway; when were the blood-boundaries between them more than so much smoke and mirrors? Still, it stops Sam for a second, makes him meet Dean's eyes and the wave of disappointment that hammers his system completely overwhelms the relief.
"I know, Dean. That's why I have to. You took care of me my whole life, gave me everything I ever needed; now you have to let me return the favor, okay?" Sam leans up until they're face to face, staring into Dean with that wicked, sincere intensity that makes him want to squirm even more than the bite did. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want, I promise. Not going to fuck you until you ask for it. I want to, dying to, but I won't. All I'm asking you to do is let go, let me take care of you." Dean can feel his muscles fluttering all over, fucking trembling with the things Sam's saying because it sounds so good, so damn good to just finally let go and let somebody else take the weight. But he can't, has to protect Sam - that's his job and if things got out of control, if Sammy had to blame himself for something bad happening… no, he can't.
It must have shown on his face, because something breaks inside Sam's eyes, his expression falling into something so hurt Dean's hands clack in the handcuffs when he moves automatically to comfort his brother.
"Dean, please," Sam whispers, ragged at the edges "I've always been yours, since the day I was born. Is it so much to ask that you be mine too?"
Just like that, he's lost; Sammy and his goddamn talking.
He's always been Sam's too; his heart walking around inside his little brother's body, ripped right out of his chest and dragged through the dust all the way to California and back again so what the hell does it matter if it goes a little bit further? What the hell was he saving it for anyway?
Dean feels the pressure releasing in his chest like threads snapping, caught between the terrifying sensation of his control slipping away and the overwhelming, warm strength of Sam's body, Sam's will, washing over him. When had his brother gotten so strong?
He knows he's already surrendered long before he manages to make his head nod and the sigh Sam shivers out over his lips is like the first breath Dean's taken in years. Then Sam's mouth is on his, gentle, but firm, commanding, making Dean take him. And fuck but it feels so good, so much more right than anything Dean's felt in maybe ever, to just open up and let it all melt out of him, give himself over to Sam with some part of him knowing - always knew - that his little brother would make it better.
Dean's still trembling though; scared and empty and more torn open than he was even back in the pit, with his insides spilled all over the ground. But now it's Sammy's eyes he's staring into, the hazel clear and absolute - this is where he belongs, and the sudden swell of need fills him up so fast he's choking on it.
"Sa-am" comes out of his mouth as a sob and he doesn't want to fucking cry again, face blazing hot with them embarrassment of it - why does this have to be so goddamn intense? - but Sam's hands are pressed wide and sweetly cool to his cheeks, making him look into that unwavering gaze.
"It's ok, I want it all," Sam soothes, "You've got nothing to hide from me."
Dean couldn't have stopped the tears if he'd wanted to then, even with part of him screaming that it was stupid and humiliating and he needed to cowboy the fuck up, because Sam told him to give it up so it wasn't even a choice anymore.
It's insane how easy it is to give all the control over to Sam - once he'd decided to do it, it was like puzzle pieces fitting together, like he'd never really been meant to control this anyway. Every tingling, soft kiss across his overheated skin, every whispered praise filling him up in ways he ought to be ashamed of but needs so bad he doesn't even care.
His skin's prickling all over by the time Sam finally gets a hand on his dick - still aching-hard despite the jagged remainder of sobs working through his chest - and then he can't breathe at all. Sam's hand grips him tight and steady, slow strokes that ground him in his shaking body. Then sudden flash-fire burn as Sam's teeth sink in again, this time just below the collar bone.
Dean feels shivering and insubstantial - like electronic snow on a disconnected TV - only held in place by the gritty pleasure of Sam's hands on him, the rough shocks of pain as his brother bites into his skin, mounding the flesh between his teeth and sucking lingering marks onto Dean's skin. He groans for each shimmering point of pain, arching up, begging for more evidence to prove to his body that it belongs to Sam.
His brother's free hand slips down between their bodies until Dean can feel the gentle, exploring touch against his hole. There's no pressure behind it, like Sam's just getting a feel, but the muscles jump with every light brush of his fingertips. White hot flares are firing off randomly in Dean's body as though his nerves can't even tell where Sam's touching him any more, like he's totally consumed by Sam and it's kind of stupidly wonderful.
Dean never asks for anything, never has, never could, but it all pours out of him now in a wordless need and Sam just takes it in, absorbs it, and gives it back until the fulfillment is going to overflow from him - too small to hold it in.
Sam's dick paints a slick stripe where he's straddling Dean's thigh, rocking against his leg as Dean does the best he can to tense the muscle and give Sam everything he can. He wants to get his hands down there and stroke Sammy off, get Sam's come smeared hot across all of the other marks his brother has covered his body in, but this is the way Sam wants him and there's a thrill in that too that he's not even going to try to understand. Maybe next time, if he asks nice, Sam will let Dean touch him.
Just the thought of begging for it has him shuddering so hard the cuffs rattle, the searing pressure at the base of his spine spiraling steadily inward until he can feel it curling up into a ball, getting ready to be released. Dean doesn't want to come yet, wants to wait, watch Sam lose it first but there's no way he can hold back like this - at Sam's mercy - so instead he stutters out,
"Sammy, I - I'm gonna. Can I?"
He hadn't really thought about asking, it just tumbled out of him like he knew he wouldn't be able to unless Sam said the words, but the wanton groan Sam gives up over it is worth the hot sting on embarrassment when he realizes what he did.
"Do it. Come for me, Dean." Sam voice is low and sharp, an order, and yeah, Dean can do that.
The world goes silver around the edges, sinking down into the sharp sizzles of pleasure running through him like a current. The warm, wet spread against his thigh tells him that Sam lost it too and that's almost better than coming; feels so ludicrously good to have made Sam happy, to have done it right.
He comes down on short, hiccuping breaths with Sam whispering 'love you, love you' over him and Dean feels so warm and full and right. He barely even notices that Sam's released his arms until his brother starts laying tender kisses against the abraded flesh. Another bruise, another set of marks and Dean wants more, wants Sam to put something stark and permanent on him and the second the idea hits he's burning up with hunger for it.
But it will have to wait, because Sam's laying out beside him, pulling his newly released legs in to tangle with Sam's own and raising an arm in invitation for Dean to curl close. He does it instantly, couldn't even think of denying Sam right now, even if he wasn't yearning for that closeness more than anything.
The warm scent of sweat and sex and Sam envelopes him like a cloud, wrapped tight in the power of his brother's arms. Sleep closes in on him fast and he fights it for a while, trying to stay lost in this moment - it will be over too soon, and he's afraid maybe he'll freeze up again like this morning and try to fight once it's gone - before Sam murmurs softly "Sleep, Dean."
And he does.
Back to Part One
On to Part Three
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, D/s relationship, angst
Summary - After their first big night, Dean has to confront what it all means - and Sam has to tie him up to make sure he does.
Dean shifted on the front seat of the Impala, smooth leather creaking under his jeans, and added another empty beer bottle to the collection taking up the spot his giant ass little brother usually filled. He cracked open another from the twelve-pack in the floor board and sucked down half of it in one go. Warm beer wasn't usually his choice for breakfast, but when you wake up at four in the morning with your head resting on your little brother's hip and his sleep-soft dick almost touching your lips, something has to be done. And that something is drinking.
It wasn't exactly like Dean had never thought about it. Actually, he'd considered it off and on from the time Sammy grew out of 'chubby little kid' and into 'holy crap, that's a big boy', and especially after he'd gotten Sam at Stanford and discovered his little brother had filled out in all the right ways. So yeah, he'd thought about it - more than even their special kind of fucked up could excuse - but he'd never have acted on it.
More disturbing than the incest stuff though - there's a sentence he never thought he'd think - was this whole, crazy, dom-Sammy thing. Which was not hot, like even any, at all, despite what his clearly misguided dick might think.
Shock; that's was it, he was in shock from the way Sam had just lost it like that - that's why it had all happened. Possibly in conjunction with some kind of weird, toppy-bastard possession that had gotten hold of Sam. That made sense.
And even if it WAS just Sam exorcising some seriously messed up issues of his own, it didn't mean Dean had to go along with it. If it looked like anything was going to happen again, he'd just put a stop to it, easy as that. He COULD actually say 'no' to sex - it had happened before… he thought. Almost positive.
The empty bottles clink as the new one joins their ranks.
Sam's probably going to wake up soon, notice that Dean's gone. He should probably head back, although driving may not be the hottest idea at the moment. Maybe he'll just hang out a little while longer, watch the sun climb over this nice river - what the hell state are they in, anyway? - for safety's sake of course. Not because he's avoiding Sam. Because that would be stupid - he can totally handle Sam. Totally.
***
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sam's shouting before he's even out of his car. Or, well, probably somebody else's car. He can't believe Sam actually stole a car just to come looking for him; or that it's giving him warm fuzzies. Ok, time to stop drinking now.
Sammy moves scary-fast on those big Sasquatch legs of his and he's yanking open Dean's door before Dean even has a chance to reach for it.
"Where the hell have you been!" Sam yells, way closer to Dean's face than he needed to be. Dean probably should have answered his phone earlier.
"Right here," Dean says simply, because he's the calm, rational one in the family. How come nobody ever notices that?
"Are you drunk?" Sam squeaks girlishly, 'cause he does shit like that - he's just not as calm and rational as Dean. "Correction, how drunk are you?"
Dean chooses not to dignify that with an answer and leans - calmly and rationally - on the setback. Which somehow dissapeared while he wasn't looking and now he's facing the ceiling of the Impala, head knocking against the half-full bottle of Jack on Sam's side of the car. Okay, maybe he should have stopped at the beer.
"Jesus, Dean," he hears Sam sigh, then he's being manhandled to sit up in the cluttered passenger seat and he's really had just about e-fucking-nough of that for one lifetime.
Sam's eyes shoot wide for the spit second before they close in pain when Dean shoves him back and the younger man ends up slammed against the steering wheel. Dean savagely surprises the immediate urge to make sure Sammy's ok - his little brother needs to learn to keep his damn hands to himself.
"Shit! What the hell, Dean!" If Sam's voice gets any higher only dogs - and other big, screechy girly-men - are going to be able to hear him.
"Just leave me fucking alone, Sam" Most of those words came out just fine.
A whole bunch of things happen with Sammy's face, but they're gone faster than Dean can get a hold on what they mean. He thinks maybe hurt was one of them; now it's definitely pissed off, though - college boy would call it 'resigned', but it's pissed off.
"So this is how you're going to handle things? Again?" And goddamnit, Sam should not be able to do that shit - should not be able to sound all hurt and dissapointed and make it feel even worse than if he'd just come right out and hit Dean or something. Hell, it wasn't like this was Dean's fault anyway; Sam had been like one step shy of fucking date-rape last night thank you very much. Which was exactly what he told Sam... or meant to; now that it's out of his mouth he's not sure the words were all in the right order.
Sam slumps into the seat next to him, not really looking at Dean even though he can sort of feel Sam watching out of the corner of his eye.
"Look, I'd have rather done it another way. But for some stupid reason, I thought you might react badly," he shoots Dean a glare, "I figured action was more up your alley. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"Fuck you! And don't pull any of that cutesy 'maybe later' mindfuck shit either!" Dean growls at the windshield, "You couldn't fucking hurt me if you tried. And who the hell said I wanted any of that, you know? I don't know what you got up to in school Sammy, but I don't go for that whips and chains thing."
Which was a pretty shitty lie since they both knew that he totally went for that - went for it hard - even before he'd come all over himself just from Sam fucking talking to him last night. He really wished his face wasn't getting so hot.
"I'll apologize for the way I did things, Dean, that's on me and I'll try my best to make it up to you. But I won't be sorry for what happened. It was good, amazing, and we both needed it." The warmth of Sam's hand bleeds through the denim stretched across Dean's knee and he jerks away from it a couple of seconds too late.
"Just forget it, Sam," he mumbles, still not meeting the hazel stare he can feel burning into the side of his face. "It's over, ok. And it's not going to happen again, so you can just forget about it. Just - just, let's get to work, ok? There's still a monster that needs ganking, you know?"
Sam heaves another one of those sighs that's just as good as getting the last word for all the shit that's jammed up in it, but he turns the ignition over and they pull back onto the road, leaving whoever-it-was' stolen car for the cops to return.
***
Dean feels like hell - and he would fucking well know - when he wakes up. It's sometime in the late afternoon, he thinks from the light pouring in around the shut curtains. He remembers arguing with Sam about helping interview witnesses and he remembers grudgingly chugging down the water and aspirin his brother gave him before finally agreeing to a quick nap.
He does not remember being strapped to the bed. And yet, there he is, staring up at the shiny, body-warm cuffs holding his arms in place - a nice match for the fabric ties keeping his legs spread. And when the hell did he get naked?
His restraints are all attached low to the bed so his muscles aren't straining, so for all he knows, he could have been like this for hours. Really no way to tell, except -
"You actually get anything done on the case today or you just sit around watching me look pretty?" He leans up as much as the binding will let him; enough to glare at where he can feel Sam looking at him. His little brother's leaned back on the couch, laptop open on his knees but he doesn't seem to be looking at it. His eyes are all for Dean, dark and unnerving in the artificial glow of the screen.
"Both," Sam smirks, which is almost universally a bad sign. Smirking is Dean's job, Sam's supposed to sit around looking open and earnest. "Found a lead, don't think it should be anything bigger than a quick salt and burn. Got a few of hours to kill before it gets dark enough though."
"Yeah? Well why don't you let me out of these cuffs so I can kick your ass," Dean smiles, "I'll really drag it out, take up lots of time, I promise" If anything, Sam's smirk widens.
"Had something else in mind, actually." Sam sets the computer aside and stalks - stalks! - over the bedside. Which is when Dean notices that the damn handcuff keys are sitting right there on the nightstand where he could just reach out and grab them - you know, if he wasn't motherfucking handcuffed to the motherfucking bed! Sam's going to pay dearly for this.
"Sammy, whatever the hell you think you're up to, you need to change your mind right fucking now," he warns as the bed dips under Sam's weight.
"Or what, Dean? You'll scowl me to death?" Sam settles easily between Dean's spread thighs, patting one of them lovingly in a way that makes Dean jerk in frustration.
He hates this shit, hates feeling all vulnerable, not being able to move - too many times he's felt it with his life on the line, too many 'almost's for his body to ignore. It's one thing when he lets somebody he meets in a bar use these things on him - flimsy stuff made for sex with safety catches he could get around with his eyes closed - or pretends like they're holding him down when really he could take any one of them in a fight if he was motivated enough. But not like this. These are real cuffs, real knots - the kind he taught Sam how to tie - and Sam's obviously real serious which means that even if Dean could get out of all of this - which he probably can't - he'd have a hell of a fight on his hands going up against Sammy's skills. Yeah, this officially sucks.
At least he manages to bite back the 'fuck you' that's on the tip of his tongue - that hasn't seemed to work out very well recently, and considering how he's trussed up now, he's not feeling too inspired to push his luck.
"Okay, I'll bite - what's the plan, Sammy? More suck and fuck?" He tries to make the words filthy, mocking - make it cheap as he feels, like this - over the churning in his gut that seems to fill his ears completely.
Sam grins like hell itself is about to open up.
Dean's losing his hold on the anger fast, like the warm pressure of metal on his skin is draining it right out of him, and what's left underneath is sticky, dark panic. It's taking everything he's got just to make sure it doesn't show on his face.
"Don't want to spoil the surprise," Sam muses, sliding his fingers up and down Dean's thigh, feather light and so slow his teeth itch. "See, here's the thing you don't seem to get, Dean. I know you, better than anyone else could ever dream, know the stuff you've done, what does it for you because you've told me - told me all kinds of things. I'm the best damn lay you're ever going to get; tailor made for you."
"Heh, and you give me shit about MY fucking ego, dude?" he huffs out like a joke, as if Sam's words hadn't crawled under his skin, laying down slick, sin-slimy patterns wherever they touched. It's all getting mixed up inside him, sick and wrong and tight like his skin shrunk in the wash and now everything's all sensitive and tingly under Sammy's possessive touch.
"Case in point," Sam says, teeth bared like a smile as he lowers his head down to caress his lips ticklishly over the join of Dean's thigh. Wet heat - Sam's fucking tongue, raising goosebumps all over him - runs back and forth over the skin like he's cleaning it and just as the instinctual tension in Dean's muscle starts to release, sharp teeth dig in.
Dean couldn't even begin to describe the sound he made but it makes his face flush anyway, blood throbbing hot in his cheeks, his ears, not to mention in the stinging imprint of Sammy's teeth on his skin, burning like a brand. He looks down, perversely compelled to watch as his little brother soothes over the bite with his tongue, but he can't really see past the jut of his thickening dick. Why the fuck did he have to tell Sam things?
Sammy breaks off from sending skittering jolts up from the bitemark to nose at Deans balls with an affectionate hum. The vibration makes Dean's hips wiggle of their own accord.
"Told you," Sam mutters, the wet heat of his breath saturating Dean's heavy sac. He licks a stripe up the middle, following the vein halfway up Dean's progressively stiffer dick before placing a soft, chaste kiss to the head. The traitorous fucker lurches.
It feels like a truckload of hot gravel was just dumped inside Dean's chest, weighing down his lungs and making everything bake from the inside out. He can't do this, not all over again. Last night was bad enough when at least he could say he was caught unawares but this… he'd gone back to the motel with Sam, fucking gone to bed when his brother told him to - and maybe his higher functions weren't exactly firing on all cylinders at the time, but he'd still known better, still gone anyway. Because maybe that sick smoldering knot in the pit of his stomach wasn't so much fear of Sam doing this as it was fear of him NOT doing it, because maybe he needed this just as bad as Sam said he did. That didn't do a damn thing to make him feel better.
"Sam, you can't. You've got to stop," he gibbers, knowing his voice is too high and not even giving a damn because he had to do fucking something - couldn't just let it all happen without a word AGAIN, "Y-you're my brother." It's a lame ploy because when the hell did they play by anybody else's rules anyway; when were the blood-boundaries between them more than so much smoke and mirrors? Still, it stops Sam for a second, makes him meet Dean's eyes and the wave of disappointment that hammers his system completely overwhelms the relief.
"I know, Dean. That's why I have to. You took care of me my whole life, gave me everything I ever needed; now you have to let me return the favor, okay?" Sam leans up until they're face to face, staring into Dean with that wicked, sincere intensity that makes him want to squirm even more than the bite did. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want, I promise. Not going to fuck you until you ask for it. I want to, dying to, but I won't. All I'm asking you to do is let go, let me take care of you." Dean can feel his muscles fluttering all over, fucking trembling with the things Sam's saying because it sounds so good, so damn good to just finally let go and let somebody else take the weight. But he can't, has to protect Sam - that's his job and if things got out of control, if Sammy had to blame himself for something bad happening… no, he can't.
It must have shown on his face, because something breaks inside Sam's eyes, his expression falling into something so hurt Dean's hands clack in the handcuffs when he moves automatically to comfort his brother.
"Dean, please," Sam whispers, ragged at the edges "I've always been yours, since the day I was born. Is it so much to ask that you be mine too?"
Just like that, he's lost; Sammy and his goddamn talking.
He's always been Sam's too; his heart walking around inside his little brother's body, ripped right out of his chest and dragged through the dust all the way to California and back again so what the hell does it matter if it goes a little bit further? What the hell was he saving it for anyway?
Dean feels the pressure releasing in his chest like threads snapping, caught between the terrifying sensation of his control slipping away and the overwhelming, warm strength of Sam's body, Sam's will, washing over him. When had his brother gotten so strong?
He knows he's already surrendered long before he manages to make his head nod and the sigh Sam shivers out over his lips is like the first breath Dean's taken in years. Then Sam's mouth is on his, gentle, but firm, commanding, making Dean take him. And fuck but it feels so good, so much more right than anything Dean's felt in maybe ever, to just open up and let it all melt out of him, give himself over to Sam with some part of him knowing - always knew - that his little brother would make it better.
Dean's still trembling though; scared and empty and more torn open than he was even back in the pit, with his insides spilled all over the ground. But now it's Sammy's eyes he's staring into, the hazel clear and absolute - this is where he belongs, and the sudden swell of need fills him up so fast he's choking on it.
"Sa-am" comes out of his mouth as a sob and he doesn't want to fucking cry again, face blazing hot with them embarrassment of it - why does this have to be so goddamn intense? - but Sam's hands are pressed wide and sweetly cool to his cheeks, making him look into that unwavering gaze.
"It's ok, I want it all," Sam soothes, "You've got nothing to hide from me."
Dean couldn't have stopped the tears if he'd wanted to then, even with part of him screaming that it was stupid and humiliating and he needed to cowboy the fuck up, because Sam told him to give it up so it wasn't even a choice anymore.
It's insane how easy it is to give all the control over to Sam - once he'd decided to do it, it was like puzzle pieces fitting together, like he'd never really been meant to control this anyway. Every tingling, soft kiss across his overheated skin, every whispered praise filling him up in ways he ought to be ashamed of but needs so bad he doesn't even care.
His skin's prickling all over by the time Sam finally gets a hand on his dick - still aching-hard despite the jagged remainder of sobs working through his chest - and then he can't breathe at all. Sam's hand grips him tight and steady, slow strokes that ground him in his shaking body. Then sudden flash-fire burn as Sam's teeth sink in again, this time just below the collar bone.
Dean feels shivering and insubstantial - like electronic snow on a disconnected TV - only held in place by the gritty pleasure of Sam's hands on him, the rough shocks of pain as his brother bites into his skin, mounding the flesh between his teeth and sucking lingering marks onto Dean's skin. He groans for each shimmering point of pain, arching up, begging for more evidence to prove to his body that it belongs to Sam.
His brother's free hand slips down between their bodies until Dean can feel the gentle, exploring touch against his hole. There's no pressure behind it, like Sam's just getting a feel, but the muscles jump with every light brush of his fingertips. White hot flares are firing off randomly in Dean's body as though his nerves can't even tell where Sam's touching him any more, like he's totally consumed by Sam and it's kind of stupidly wonderful.
Dean never asks for anything, never has, never could, but it all pours out of him now in a wordless need and Sam just takes it in, absorbs it, and gives it back until the fulfillment is going to overflow from him - too small to hold it in.
Sam's dick paints a slick stripe where he's straddling Dean's thigh, rocking against his leg as Dean does the best he can to tense the muscle and give Sam everything he can. He wants to get his hands down there and stroke Sammy off, get Sam's come smeared hot across all of the other marks his brother has covered his body in, but this is the way Sam wants him and there's a thrill in that too that he's not even going to try to understand. Maybe next time, if he asks nice, Sam will let Dean touch him.
Just the thought of begging for it has him shuddering so hard the cuffs rattle, the searing pressure at the base of his spine spiraling steadily inward until he can feel it curling up into a ball, getting ready to be released. Dean doesn't want to come yet, wants to wait, watch Sam lose it first but there's no way he can hold back like this - at Sam's mercy - so instead he stutters out,
"Sammy, I - I'm gonna. Can I?"
He hadn't really thought about asking, it just tumbled out of him like he knew he wouldn't be able to unless Sam said the words, but the wanton groan Sam gives up over it is worth the hot sting on embarrassment when he realizes what he did.
"Do it. Come for me, Dean." Sam voice is low and sharp, an order, and yeah, Dean can do that.
The world goes silver around the edges, sinking down into the sharp sizzles of pleasure running through him like a current. The warm, wet spread against his thigh tells him that Sam lost it too and that's almost better than coming; feels so ludicrously good to have made Sam happy, to have done it right.
He comes down on short, hiccuping breaths with Sam whispering 'love you, love you' over him and Dean feels so warm and full and right. He barely even notices that Sam's released his arms until his brother starts laying tender kisses against the abraded flesh. Another bruise, another set of marks and Dean wants more, wants Sam to put something stark and permanent on him and the second the idea hits he's burning up with hunger for it.
But it will have to wait, because Sam's laying out beside him, pulling his newly released legs in to tangle with Sam's own and raising an arm in invitation for Dean to curl close. He does it instantly, couldn't even think of denying Sam right now, even if he wasn't yearning for that closeness more than anything.
The warm scent of sweat and sex and Sam envelopes him like a cloud, wrapped tight in the power of his brother's arms. Sleep closes in on him fast and he fights it for a while, trying to stay lost in this moment - it will be over too soon, and he's afraid maybe he'll freeze up again like this morning and try to fight once it's gone - before Sam murmurs softly "Sleep, Dean."
And he does.
Back to Part One
On to Part Three