Fic: Sleeping on a Razor (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 7,400
Warnings: Not Related!AU, underage (Sam is 17), vampire!Dean, first time, rimming, bareback, bloodplay
Notes: Ok, this wasn't actually one of my creature!boys prompts, but it got into my head and wouldn't go away and is technically creature!boys, so there! Title from "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, just because I said so.
Summary - Faster than he can blink, Sam goes from upright to flat on his back on the bed, the weird not-quite-heat of Dean’s cheek brushing softly against his own. All this time he’d just thought Dean had crappy circulation.
On AO3
The first thing Sam notices is the light. The room he wakes up in is suffused with a dusky, sienna light that doesn’t make sense. He feels like he’s slept for hours but it was dark when he- when he got knocked out. In that warehouse. With that vampire.
Fuck.
His hands grope automatically for a weapon but of course there isn’t one stashed under the soft pillow beneath his head - why would there be, it’s not his room. A barb of pain shoots through his skull when he sits up but he’s too well trained to let that throw him off much.
It’s a cellar, Sam guesses, going by the small window snug against the ceiling, all but hidden behind a set of make-shift pillowcase curtains. That explains the light, and the damp-cool air sitting on his skin like a film; the dusty, earthy scent that’s not drowned out by the natural smells of whoever set up the TV and the bed and the salt lines in front of the stairs because the person who lives here isn’t alive.
Not alive, but watching nonetheless.
He’s not even being subtle about it, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back against a rough brick column that spans from floor to ceiling in the middle of the room. Tucked around him is a leather jacket that reminds Sam of his dad’s but even more worn. Wonder if jackets help when you don’t have body heat.
The spiky tips of his ‘I just ran my hands through it and somehow it turned out perfect’ hair catch what few rays of sun filter through, just like the wet surface of his eyes. It’s impossible to make out the mossy green of them in this light, but there’s no question that they’re fixed on Sam, steady and unblinking. A quirk at the corner of his lips when Sam stares back is the only sign that he’s not just a very demented statue.
“If you were going for the creepy stalker vibe, good job.” Sam’s voice comes out rough - probably inhaled a pound of grit last night running after-from-after that damn chupacabra. The south sucks - never have to deal with chupacabra crap in Wyoming. Then there’s just vicious, blood thirsty wendigos. Correction, Sam’s life sucks.
Dean’s face splits on a smirk that Sam’s really starting to wish he wasn’t so familiar with.
“You know,” he says, swaggering over to flop down on the mattress next to Sam, “nobody says that shit when it’s Santa who sees you when you’re sleeping, but a vampire watches somebody catch a nap and it’s all scary and wrong. Double standards, man.”
So that’s how they’re going to play it, huh? Just put it all right out there like Sam hasn’t been sitting beside Dean for days on end doing research and discussing tactics and occasionally snaking a french fry out of his takeout carton. Like Sam didn’t fall for his bullshit hook, line and sinker. His dad’s going to kill him. And then Dean. Probably in that order. Assuming that Dean doesn’t take care of Sam first.
“Might have something to do with the whole eating people thing,” Sam fires back, all too aware that snapping at a freaking vampire isn’t going to be winning any Best Idea in the World prizes anytime soon but unable to stop himself anyway; sure, it’s a vampire, but it’s still Dean.
It’s only when he reaches out to hitch the covers up more that he realizes he’s in nothing but boxers and t-shirt. Neither of which are the ones he was wearing last night.
Before he can spout an accusations about that - because what the serious fuck? - Dean’s muttering, “Hey, you don’t know what Santa does on his personal time. And I don’t eat people, I eat blood. Could really care less about all the fleshy boney parts.” An idea that’s shot to shit by the way he’s plucking at the shirt collar hanging limp against Sam’s throat, tugging it aside to ogle the skin there so blatantly it prickles with the phantom touch.
Clutching at the fabric probably makes him look like a frightened maiden - made all the worse by the fact that Dean’s bigger than him in everything but height so the shirt is gapping all over the place - but considering he’s currently trapped in a basement, in a bed, with a blood-sucker, Sam decides he doesn’t really care. “Comforting.”
That gets a roll of Dean’s eyes as he slumps back against the headboard. “Dude, if I was gonna fang-rape you, I’ve had plenty of chances. For a hunter, you’re pretty shitty at keeping your guard up.”
It’s probably true - up until last night when it had become painfully obvious what the situation really was, Sam hadn’t even thought to question if Dean was anything but another hunter just like he claimed. A hunter who had a thing for jailbait boys, but whatever - Sam’s done weirder things on a case than let some perv hit on him constantly. Not that this was even technically supposed to be Sam’s hunt, but when reports of weird livestock deaths started coming in from just two towns over from the motel Dad had him stashed in this week, he’d gotten the order to go and research. He hadn’t actually expected to find the thing, let alone somebody else working the case on top of that. Which, actually, he should probably have been a little more suspicious of, in retrospect.
Sam’s, “Shut up,” comes out more sullen than he meant it to.
It’s just, he’d kind of liked Dean before he found out he was something Sam’s been brought up to exterminate. He’d been funny and relaxed and he’d treated Sam like an adult from the word go. In a couple of months, Sam’s going to be eighteen but from the way Dad and Uncle Bobby and, well, practically everybody, treats him it seems more like he’s going on eight. It had been nice to have someone who looked him in the eye when they talked instead of over his shoulder at his father. Someone he didn’t have to lie to, who he’d started to think of as an actual friend. And he’d maybe liked it a little that a guy like Dean could look at Sam and see something that he wanted.
Turns out what he really wanted was pounding through Sam’s arteries. Awesome. How the hell is he going to get out of here?
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Dean voice interrupts Sam’s mental diatribe, “You know, for totally saving your ass last night. Don’t worry, it was no trouble to kill a feral hell beast with my bare hands, pick you up and carry you all the way back to my home and then give up my bed so you could rest your dainty head, my precious princess. No trouble at all.”
He does this little wiggle that settles him deeper against the mattress as he smirks at Sam. His legs are splayed open wide enough that one thigh is pressed against Sam’s knee where he’s got his own crooked up Indian style. Between the jacket and everything else he’s still got on, Dean’s bare feet sticking out from his jeans seem strangely vulnerable; fine bones below the stretch of thin, delicate skin. Sam’s not even sure why he noticed that.
“Why?” he says, feeling out of the blue with it even as the word is curling off of his tongue.
“Gonna need a few more specifics there, tiger.” Dean’s fingers are creeping, none too subtly, over the curve of Sam’s hip. His skin flashes hot from it the way it always seems to when Dean gets handsy before he bats them away. If he wasn’t intimately familiar with how it feels to be afraid for his life, Sam would write the flutter in his chest off as that.
“All of it. Why did you help me? Why did you kill that thing? Why did you bring me back here? You obviously know what I do, so why not just let me die?”
Faster than he can blink, Sam goes from upright to flat on his back on the bed, the weird not-quite-heat of Dean’s cheek brushing softly against his own. All this time he’d just thought Dean had crappy circulation.
“Well you do make an awfully nice air freshener,” is all but purred into his ear, the deep inhale of Dean scenting him loud and alien. Sam’s suddenly thundering heart stumbles over a beat.
“Dean!” he yelps the second he’s got the breath for it. Shoving against Dean’s shoulders isn’t going to do anything, strength of the undead and all of that, but Sam can’t help himself. He’s known since he woke up what Dean is, saw the way he moved last night, caught the flash of fangs - he’s known, but his body was still stuck on Dean, the kind of strange, kind of cool guy he’s spent a decent portion of the past week working alongside. That comforting delusion just shattered into a billion tiny pieces, shards of it cutting him up and serving him raw for exactly the kind of animal that would gobble him up with a spoon.
But instead of making a move to bite, Dean braces himself on his elbows and looks down at Sam, shaking his head. “You have some serious trust issues, you know that?”
Absently, it seems, Dean’s fingers fiddle with Sam’s hair, tiny little moments he can hear in the rustle of the sheets more than actually feel. Dean’s shooting him this look, assessing with a laser precision that makes Sam feel lit up inside, like his body could act as a nightlight for the whole dark-ass room. After everything his dad has pounded into him over the years, the knee-jerk need to measure up is still the hardest to fight.
“Look,” Dean starts, “I like you. You seem like a good kid despite being John Winchester’s offspring.” Jumps in with, “oh yeah, I know all about your dad too,” when Sam obviously fails at hiding his surprise. He’d never given Dean his real last name. “Did it ever occur to you that just because I lied about this one little thing that doesn’t mean that everything I told you was crap? Believe it or not, the fact that you lump us all into the ‘mark box D for “other”’ category, doesn’t mean all of us ‘creatures’ are BFF. Some of us are perfectly happy to take out things that go bump.”
Ok, first of all, Sam’s pretty confident that being a member of the undead is more than one little thing to have left out. Secondly… wait, what?
“You hunt your own kind?”
Dean glares like Sam just totally missed the point but apparently decides to let it go since he shrugs, “Sure, why not? It’s not exactly like I can get a day job. I’m a predator, made for it, so why not use it? Help some people, burn off a little energy, grab a snack - takes care of all my needs at once.”
Alright, once more with feeling - what?
“You drank the chupacabra?”
One side of Dean’s mouth hitches up in a grimace. “Yeah, not exactly my favorite item on the menu, but it’ll do.”
The noise Sam makes as he tries to choke back the bile rising in his throat is a few degrees removed from subtle, but hey, he's seen a chupacabra before. He's smelled one. Ugh.
“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it,” Dean replies, distracted-sounding. His eyes are locked on the pull of Sam's skin under his fingers as he traces invisible patterns or- or veins. Sam should probably put a stop to that somehow or other.
A subtle shift tells him exactly how much he is not going to be able to get up with Dean halfway on top of him. So much for all that hand-to-hand training.
“Ok, so you’re telling me you hunt things-“ tumbles out of Sam's mouth, just a little shakier than he meant it to be as slivers of hopeless plans ping-pong off the walls of his skull.
“Save people, the whole nine yards.” A mischievous smile slinks in at the corner of Dean's mouth like a noon shadow, “With a cherry on top, just ‘cause you’re special.”
Sam is entirely certain that Dean's pupils used to have some kind of an edge to them instead of this slow - don't think about bleeding - fade into the irises.
“And you, what? Squat in abandoned basements and sleep all day?”
“Or motels or whatever, basements are just more convenient." The sudden, hard flick Dean delivers to Sam's ear makes him jump. "You can wipe the judge-face off, by the way. There aint a thing on that list that doesn’t describe your life to a T," Dean drawls and for just a second, he's just Dean again. "Well, aside from being a geekboy high school virgin.”
It's familiar enough to make Sam grumble back, “Not a virgin.” Shannon McCullough totally counts - partly in is still in.
Dean inhales sharply, nose pressed right up against the soft skin under Sam’s jaw. Sam might be inclined to call his, “Whatever you say, kiddo,” breathless if vampires, you know, breathed.
“And I don’t drink monster blood,” he adds, because that was actually the important part. Much moreso than his in-no-way-questionable-regardless-of-what-Shannon-said virginity.
Dean waves it off. “Everybody’s got to eat. ‘Cept maybe dullahans. Never really figured out how that one works.”
Actually Sam's read some lore that suggests-
Not the point. Really not the point. The point was... the point is... Look, he was really excited, ok? And Shannon's the one who wanted to spend like an hour making out first and Sam's just a guy, he can't help it that tight wet things feel good around his dick and he is so not a virgin, ok?
The smug twist of Dean's lips is obnoxious. Like he knows what Sam's thinking even though there's no way he does - there is no documented evidence that vampires can actually do that - and he couldn't possibly smell Sam's not-virginity anyway. It's not even a thing, it doesn't have a smell.
“Isn’t it all kind of cliche?" he clips out, reveling in the way the self-satisfaction melts off of Dean's face. "I mean the whole I’m a broody emo vampire, watch me be all hot and enigmatic in my shitty condemned lair deal is kind of played out, don’t you think? Get a new shtick, Spike.”
Except that smile hasn’t actually made itself scarce, more like it retreated for reinforcements.
“Hot, huh?” Dean's flat-out grinning.
Shit. Slip of the tongue. And not a Freudian one, just like... like a slippy one. “Dean,” he says sternly, straight-up channeling his dad.
Evidently, Dean is unimpressed with the John Winchester patented powers of austerity.
“Hot, huh?” he pushes, edging embarrassingly close to gleeful. His badass points are going down the tube as they speak. His hands, however, are going just about everywhere else, specifically places on Sam that are not ok for strangers, particularly evil blood-sucking strangers, to touch.
“I’m serious, cut it out,” Sam does not whine as he slaps away Dean's fingers where they're trying to slip underneath Sam's - Dean's - whoever's shirt. Vampires only have two hands, right? How the hell is he covering so much acreage?
“What if I don’t?" It's not even like Dean speaks it> It’s more like he pours it into Sam's ear, all smoky-deep and close enough that every single hair on Sam's body stands up. Because he's a vampire, obviously, and Sam's body has excellent self-preservations instincts even if his brain's suck. "What if I like how you look in my bed, hmm? Spread out all innocent and pretty all over my sheets. What exactly are you going to do about it, Sammy?”
The answer’s as obvious as it is inexorable - nothing; he’s not going to do one damn thing because there’s nothing he can do. He hasn’t got a weapon, not nearly strong enough to fight his way free, and how screwed up is it that thinking about it makes his dick twitch?
“You think I haven’t smelled it all this time? That I can’t tell you’re turned on right now? It comes off of you so thick I can barely breathe it, just wanna lick it right off of your skin." Words to actions, Dean's tongue rasps wet and not warm enough across the bolt of Sam's jaw. A matching tingle laves down the inside of Sam's spine.
"And you know what else?" Dean's voice is whisper-quiet, secretive and delighted. "It’s even stronger now that you know what I am."
Anything that Sam might have to say in his defense gets lost when Dean turns just the right way to wedge himself between Sam's legs, sheets somehow lost in the shuffle so that there's only a thin layer of cotton boxers that don't belong to him to protect him from the rough friction of denim. It's the contact that gets him hard, that thick-textured drag pressed mercilessly between his legs. The look on Dean's face is enough to know he thinks it's all about him though. As if Sam could ever possibly want... want a... damn it's hard to think when he rubs against Sam like that.
"Such a bad, bad boy, Sammy," feathers at Sam's throat before Dean wipes it away with a set of soft, blunt-toothed nips to Sam's Adam's apple. He tries to duck his chin to cover himself a little but Dean's fingers find a hold in Sam's hair and keep him in place. "What would daddy dearest say if he knew you had a hard-on for a vampire?”
“Get over yourself.” The groan Sam loses as he says it doesn’t really help the effect. Stupid Dean and his stupid awesome hip-rolly thing making Sam’s IQ drop.
“Rather get all over you,” Dean grins with another nip to Sam's chin. It's cheesy as hell but then his hips are bucking at the same time, rubbing Sam just close enough to the right way to short out his brain.
“Ngh,” is the brilliant retort he comes up with. Seems to be good enough for Dean because then it’s Sam’s bottom lip he’s nipping at, teeth still a dull, human lie. His tongue wiggles at the center of Sam’s lip, up to slot between the top and bottom to tease at Sam’s teeth instead.
He could blame it on the weird, sexy-hot figure 8 Dean’s doing with his pelvis or the fact that Sam hasn’t had a lot of time alone the last few days to take care of business or some heretofore unknown power of the Freaky Vampire persuasion but what it comes right to down to is this: Sam opens his mouth.
The second he does Dean lets out this pleased, not entirely human hum and darts his tongue inside, shoving immediately at Sam’s like he’s trying to goad it into a fight. Works too, like a fucking charm, Sam’s tongue curling and twisting at the bizarre, blank taste of him, kissing back without a scrap of the style he’s never actually been with anyone long enough to cultivate. Dean goes with it, whether because he just doesn’t care or is actually into it, who knows, but he meets all of Sam’s fumbling, unsteady fierceness with his own.
His jacket rucks up under Sam’s fingers as he paws blindly at Dean, a puff of air hitting him in the face with the scent of leather and gun powder and nothing else because Dean’s not alive to have a smell. Dean’s just this, all young and hot and badass, this secret, tortured thing in the dark, by himself, and it says like eight zillion different things about Sam that out of all the people he’s ever known, he’s never related to anyone more.
“Whatever you want, Sam,” gets smeared across Sam’s mouth over onto that spot on his cheek where his dimples dig in. Dean mounds the flesh between his teeth - not quite so blunt anymore, but not breaking the skin either - and licks at it before pulling off, pushing back in again to nose at the spit-shine. “All you gotta do is ask and I’ll give it to you. All you have to do is say the words.”
Breathing wasn’t exactly coming easy and natural a second ago but now it’s just stopped completely like somebody shoved a cork down Sam’s throat. It’s the first moment since the word ‘vampire’ clicked in his head last night that Sam’s actually considered what’s on the table here. Chances are that Dean didn’t mean anything when he said anything, chances are he just meant getting naked and screwing around - which, ok, is more than enough at the rate things are going - but then, yesterday, chances were that Dean was a human being, so chance can pretty much eat it. Because there’s this look in Dean’s eyes - weird slices and flecks of green and gold confettied into a wide circle of midnight - that feels like anything is anything and the thought is stuck fluttering around in Sam’s head with lacy razor wings.
He ends up blurting the first thing that pops into his head. “God, just touch me.”
“I am touching you.” The tease is obvious in Dean’s voice, rubbing the wrong way along Sam’s nerves when instead of pushing forward Dean pulls back, just enough to steal a little of the sweet pressure against Sam’s dick.
“No just,” frustrated, he fumbles for Dean’s hand, no real resistance behind it when he tugs it between their bodies to press tight over his cock. That extra bit of weight molded against him makes Sam’s mouth run dry.
“Yeah?” Dean tongues up the underside of Sam’s chin when his head tips back from the pleasure, “That all you want? Just rut up against my hand until you nut yourself like a kid?” This time when his teeth catch of the wing of Sam’s jaw - he’s got some kind of a fixation, clearly - they leave tiny sparks of pain behind, bright little points that destroy Sam’s focus and crank his heartbeat. “‘Cause I’d give you more. Let you have my hand, my mouth. My ass.” He’s worked his way around to Sam’s ear again, breathing the words into it and chasing the shivers they send down Sam’s body with a roll of his own. “Unless you want it the other way ‘round.”
Sam moans. Doesn’t mean to and hasn’t got a shot at stopping it because yes, that, all of that. Several times, maybe, assuming he can decide on which one to do first.
Sounds like Dean’s ready to help out with that too, though, because then he’s saying - fucking purring - “You wanna bounce on my cock, baby boy? Sounds like it. Sounds like you’re just begging for something deep up inside you.”
That’s… ok, a little scary. Definitely a big leap from that one time with a girl in the back of his dad’s truck to this. But then again, making out with a male hunter/vampire in the cellar of an abandoned house is kind of a big leap too and he managed that one just fine. To be fair, he’s also not being much help with the suggestions unless vampires come with some kind of internal translator for breathy grunts and sighs so it’s not like he can blame Dean for opting for the choice that gets his dick ridden.
An anvil of flash-fire heat falls out of the sky and lands directly on Sam’s head at the thought and ok, well there’s something he didn’t know about himself. Evidently there are several really integral parts of him that think mounting up and riding Dean like a pony is an awesome idea. Thanks for the heads-up, body.
“Yeah,” he finally manages to choke out; Dean is amazing with his hands. And his mouth. And the hard push of his dick up tight against Sam’s. “Yeah, ok, do it. Do it.”
For just a fraction of a second it feels like Dean freezes but it’s over and done so quick Sam’s not sure he didn’t just imagine it. That fast all over again Sam’s blinded as the shirt hanging off of him gets tugged unceremoniously over his head, the insides of his arms stinging with friction burn. The boxers are the same story, second chapter; slowed down just enough to at least make sure his junk is clear and unharmed before the cloth gets torn down his legs and flung all the way across the room to smack softly against the opposite wall.
Alright, Sam may have been underestimating the whole vampire aspect of the sex-with-a-vampire somewhat. Between the manhandling and the way Dean just stands there at the end of the bed for a second eyeing him up like a juicy piece of steak, he honestly can’t decide if he’s more freaked out or turned on.
Not that he expects he’s going to be getting a lot of opportunities to waffle on the matter.
Shockingly, Dean gets his own clothes off even faster than he did Sam’s, so fast that the process is more of a blur accompanied by the whump of fabric hitting the ground. By the time he gets his head together enough to really account for all of that, Dean’s back on the bed, kneeing the spread of Sam’s legs wider to fit himself between them.
He’s not sure why he’s surprised, all things considered, that Dean’s not particularly concerned about the nuances of consent but a part of him was still expecting an ‘are you sure?’. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get anything but his knees shoved up close to his chest and a dark, predatory look from Dean.
Yeah, predatory. That’s it, dead on, just like Dean said. He’s a predator, made for it, and in the world he lives in, Sam is prey.
And again with the dick twitching. Seriously, when did this shit happen and why did he not get a memo that this is what he’s into?
“Hold those,” Dean commands with one more pointed shove at the hollows of Sam’s knees.
Thank God he’s used to following orders - never thought he’d think that - because his body just does it, hands reaching up to hold his legs where Dean put them, while his mind is still bumbling over an underdeveloped question mark. It’s just as well because once Dean grabs Sam’s hips and lifts him straight off the bed up to his mouth, Sam’s ass to his mouth, and digs in with wet, slick abandon, Sam hasn’t got the dexterity, let alone the brain power to do anything but hang on and take it.
There’s a noise at the first touch of Dean’s lips there, this needy, whimpery thing like a starved animal and Sam has no actual clue which one of them it comes from nor does he even begin to care because wow. Tongue. Tongue right there. Tongue in his ass. Sam has a new mission in life and it’s to do this, all the time, forever.
The next sound is definitely Dean because Sam can feel it tremble all the way up his spine where Dean’s mouth is pressed to him. He’s alternating between sucking softly at the skin and pushing his tongue up inside to do completely insane things. It’s sweet and slick and he’d just as soon never admit this out loud, but maybe possibly better than having his dick inside a girl. There’s this constant pressure, though, this slightly weird push against the delicate skin right around his hole that borders on sharp and Sam can’t help but be aware of it. Because they’re fangs, they’re Dean’s deadly, vicious vampire fangs and it wouldn’t take anything at all for them to break skin.
It ought to freak Sam out - a lot of this ought to freak Sam out - but instead it just gets him wondering. Can Dean taste it, all that blood humming so close to the skin? Does it tempt him, make him hungry, make him want? Or was feeding last night enough to keep him sated, all of his focus on getting Sam’s body to open up and take care of other drives?
Sam gasps at the feel of a thick, rough-padded thumb pushing into him, tugging at the rim to let Dean’s tongue in even deeper. He can feel saliva running down his ass up to the small of his back where Dean’s holding the lower half of his body up with one hand, not even the decency to shake a little like it’s an effort. Every time his tongue fucks in Sam’s cock jerks, a little racing stripe of slick painting his belly, and it’s got him anxious to know what more will feel like.
Dean keeps him waiting, single minded in his focus like this all he really had planned, digging in to Sam like there’s toy prize hidden in him somewhere and Dean’s got to find it with his tastebuds. Doesn’t stop until Sam’s squirming between the hold he has on his own legs and Dean’s; until, sudden and breath-stealing, Dean bites a warning into the softness of Sam’s inner thigh. Tiny pinpricks of blood well up against the stark white of Dean’s fangs, the skin barely broken but stunning nonetheless. Sam’s blood on Dean’s teeth, on his tongue when he swipes it across them to clean it away.
Dean would almost pull off that bullshit, ‘could care less’ vibe about it if his entire frame didn’t shudder like he’s in the world’s most localized earthquake.
“Like that, huh?” Sam asks pointlessly. He could have guessed the answer before now but something about seeing the naked want on Dean’s face is a whole other level altogether.
The very last thing in all of creation that Sam should do is lift his leg up to Dean’s mouth again, flaunting the little red pearls that have formed at the small wounds, but by the time his sex-fuzzy brain gets around to relaying that information he’s already left a crimson smear across Dean’s cheek.
“Don’t push me, Sam,” only comes across as words because Sam was looking for them. Mostly it sounds like Dean got punched in the gut in the middle of a growl. There’s a muscle along the side of his nose that keeps spasming that makes Sam think of a dog showing its teeth. He wonders if that’s what Dean’s fighting and the thought sends a thrill through him like a shot of whiskey set on fire.
“What if I want to?” is a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say. Then again, Sam can’t think of a single thing he’s said since he woke up that wasn’t. “What are you gonna do about it?”
The giddy frisson that shoots through his veins ignites when Dean lets him drop only to surge up and cover him entirely, right up in Sam’s face before he even has a chance to bounce against the mattress.
“You are way too smart not to know the answer to that.” Dean’s hands are fists in Sam’s hair, holding him steady while Dean loses these choppy snarls against his lips. Dean’s right, he knows better, but his train of thought is still busy chugging down the track that leads to filthy sex and orgasms and it doesn’t seem particularly deterred by an unscheduled stopover in Biteville. Obviously there’s something about Dean that leads him to really shitty decision making.
“Would you kill me?” he asks, baldly because it’s the only question that matters right at this moment.
Dean doesn’t hesitate before he snaps back, “No!” almost insulted.
“Then do it.” It seems like his voice should be shaking, God knows his insides are, but it comes out as calm as his mind feels even with his heart is zipping around like a pinball in his chest. “Fuck me and bleed me. Give me the whole broody vampire experience.”
“Sam,” Dean barks out on the ghost of a laugh that got murdered in a back alley somewhere. He looks like Sam just asked him to do something horrible. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Again he’s stuck waiting for a question that doesn’t come, some chance to back out that he’s got no intention of taking. He can see it there on Dean’s lips but it doesn’t quite make it free. Nothing does except, “Sammy,” and at some point they’re going to have to have a discussion about not calling Sam shitty little kid names but this doesn’t really seem like the time.
“Do it.”
He tries to make it sound like a dare and maybe he succeeds because Dean lurches forward, taking deep, deep drags of air against Sam’s neck. Which is maybe how Sam misses what’s going on downstairs until he feels something blunt and wet nudge up against him and in that same moment, push in.
Fuck!
Ok, pain? Not totally unexpected. They’re putting something in what is specifically designed to be an out door and it’s not exactly a small something either, so in the abstract, yeah, Sam had expected some pain. That’s fine, he can deal, he’s a born and bred hunter, pain is run of the mill fare. This is just maybe a little more pain than he’d actually been anticipating, topped off with a heaping helping of weird. It’s nothing at all like the slick, yielding push of Dean’s tongue in him. This is hard and unforgiving and long - like seriously, he can’t be growing more of it, can he? Because this seems like a lot more cock than when Sam was just looking at it a minute ago.
This all seemed like a much better idea when there was a lot more rubbing and licking.
It isn't until Dean shushes him that Sam even realizes he's been making embarrassing, pained little sounds. "That's it, you've got it. So good, Sammy," he murmurs, dusting the curve of Sam's neck with tiny kisses that make him flinch and brace. "Christ, tightest little thing, feels so good. So fucking warm. Fuck."
Dean's hips buck, a small, sudden push that comes off as a reflex. A groan punches out of Sam when there's not enough room for both it and Dean’s cock inside of him, Dean this huge, thick weight stealing all of his focus. His hands are plastered to Dean's back, digging in hard enough to bruise a human being and he wonders if it will leave a mark on Dean too, something he could touch later assuming he somehow survives this.
The sting is mellowing out to a heavy ache, this blurry-edged throb that he catches himself clutching at, feeling it up from the inside like when he was a kid with a loose tooth, unable to leave it alone. Dean shivers when Sam shifts around him, giving another one of those knee-jerk thrusts. It's not exactly good, but it's not really bad either, so Sam moves with it, muscles rippling on a slow wave.
That's about as much as Dean can stand, apparently, his next shove in marked with intent. Surprisingly, it's better like that, the freaky internal brush bottoming Sam's stomach out roller-coaster fast. Hitching his legs up around Dean's hips skews the whole operation just enough that the next time Dean sinks in bliss crackles across the inside of Sam's skin like sheet-lightning. Oh hell yes. That's the stuff.
"Fuck yeah," Dean moans, picking up the pace. He's sucking haphazardly at Sam's neck and shoulder, careless enough with the fangs that Sam can feel itchy, skin-deep cuts at random intervals. That shouldn't make it hotter but it does, knowing Dean's tasting him, feeling that want pull his body taut under Sam's arms.
He's not expecting it in the least when Dean's hand fastens at his chin, forcing his head back and to the side with a sharp twinge. The harsh, quick thrusts don't let up as he pants into Sam's skin, "Gonna cream you so fucking deep you'll smell like me for a week. Everybody's gonna know who you gave it up to. Know you spread your legs and opened up a vein for me, all for me. Good little hunter's a slut for my dick."
Shame curls with the need coiled tight in the pit of his stomach, but somehow all it does is wind him up tighter. He doesn't know if it's true or not, if the next thing they go looking for or the one after that will be able to tell that Sam let a vampire bend him over, but they might. He's seen stranger things. Either way he's going to have to meet up with his dad soon now that the hunt's over and the odds are good that he's still going to be feeling this when he does .
Precome blurts thickly where Sam's cock is trapped against his belly. The only place he has to muffle his choked whine is the meat of Dean's shoulder, a sharp reciprocal bite.
Dean's hiss is loud against Sam's ear, heads knocking together slightly when Dean fucks in harder, abandoning his rhythm for rough, gritty strokes.
"Yeah, like that. Just like that," he gasps, one palm to the back of Sam's skull to hold him where he is.
Something wild and heady floods Sam's system as he does as he's told, sucking at the odd, saltless cool of Dean's skin before sinking his teeth deeper on the next bite.
As far as he knows, vampires don't breathe for anything more than appearances but Dean is huffing against him, chest gliding against Sam's through a slick of sweat. His stomach is exactly the right kind of solid for Sam to rub against, gaining himself friction ins fits and starts. He's still going to come any damn second, all over himself and out of his fucking mind with the way Dean feels inside of him; invasive and violently intimate. Shannon McCullough isn't even in the same league.
Helpless to do anything else, Sam moans and bites down again, torqueing his hips up to get that wild electric pulse skittering over his nerves. He watches his hands grab at Dean’s shoulders for leverage, the way his fingers frame and press at the teeth marks he left behind like it all belongs to someone else.
Sam Winchester would never be here, would never be stupid enough to splay himself wide open and defenseless against something that survives in the shadows and reeks of death. Sam Winchester knows too well, was raised too well, to do anything but shoot first, ask questions later and burn whatever’s left. Sam Winchester would never arch his back and bare his neck, offering up the blood pounding a war drum beat in his head to something that could drain him dry because he wants to feel the sting when he comes.
And really, fuck Sam Winchester anyway, who needs that shit?
He’s expecting it to feel like getting stabbed, that punch of pressure that steals the air before the pain even hits, but it’s not. Instead it’s like a heavy-gauge syringe, a smooth localized burn that melts into his flesh like butter. Not where he expected either, right above his collarbone, the stray, ticklish trails of it that Dean misses forming a makeshift cup out of the dip of his throat. The sucking is exactly what he’d thought it would be, though; red-hot pressure that feels like it’s drawing straight up from the soles of his feet, dissipating so fast with each swallow that he shivers with it.
Somewhere along the way Sam’s body went and got it’s signals seriously crossed because he cannot fucking convince it that it’s not his dick Dean is sucking on even when he can feel the soft prickle of Dean’s hair against his neck. All of which should be more than enough to let him know that he’s about to come like slamming into a brick wall but then it happens and he’s totally blindsided by it.
Sam’s mouth falls open and he’ll never know if it’s words or sounds or empty air that comes pouring out of him because as far as he knows, in that moment, he’s deaf. Raw-edged fire twists through his veins, highlighting every capillary with a sizzling, flint-spark burst of sensation as molten heat pumps out over his stomach.
It isn’t until Dean rears back, red-mouthed and black-eyed, that Sam can even process anything else, more aware of the deep, too-cool spread pulsing inside of him than the hand Dean slaps down low on his stomach like he’ll be able to feel it too.
The soft pull of Dean's cock sliding free leaves Sam fighting to cover a wince with a brain that’s about five steps behind his body. Dean might have seen anyway because once he's settled himself against Sam's side he reaches out to soothe over Sam's chest with a gentle hand. One of his fingers leaves a bright trail where it crosses over a smear of blood, leaving it to turn chilly and distracting on his skin.
“We gotta get you some protein," Dean says thoughtfully after a minute, guttural and glutted, "You taste like a shrub.” His tongue is darting out to flick at the small rusty stain trapped at the corner of his lips as he says it, so Sam's having a hard time being insulted.
He feels tired and slightly abused, that messy soreness that comes after a hunt gone right. It’s a good feeling, Sam could get used to it, but that’s a direction far too dangerous to let his thoughts go.
“I should probably call my dad. He’s bound to be flipping out I didn’t report in last night.” Sam grunts a little as he sits up, the flaring ache in his ass swept under the rug by the world sliding off-kilter. Maybe standing’s not such a hot idea. A hand at his ribs helps steady him until the warm rush of adrenaline has washed out a little.
The blood on his throat is tacky when he touches a hand to it and a careful probing can’t find the wound. Now that’s fascinating. He wants to ask how it works but, given the circumstances, it doesn’t quite seem appropriate.
He’s got vampire come leaking out of his ass and now he starts to worry about appropriate. Yeah, Sam’s brain totally makes sense.
Dean mumbles something the Sam hasn’t got a hope in hell of deciphering, positive he wasn’t meant to anyway. Doesn’t make it any less obnoxious. Nonetheless, the noisy rifling Dean’s putting his jacket pockets through produces Sam’s phone, tossed onto the bed in the no man’s land of sex-stained sheets between them.
He can’t say he actually sees Dean flinch when he reaches for the cell, but he has sort of an impression of it anyway. Dark clouds might as well have swept in over the other side of the bed for all the thunder being shot his direction.
He hears himself barking, “What?” before he has time to think better of it. Dean’s mouth pops open, snaps closed again with an audible click. Instead of answering he turns his back on Sam, snatching up his discarded jeans off of the floor.
At least until Sam’s hand makes contact with the phone.
“Just, you know, there are other options,” he spits in a rush, not once meeting Sam’s eyes, “I mean, if you ever decide you don’t want to be daddy’s little boy forever. You’re a smart kid and a good hunter; you’d make a good partner for somebody who knows how to do more than order you around. Plenty of guys out there who could use somebody to watch their back.” The low gruff of his voice peters off toward something awkwardly reminiscent of uncertainty toward the end. “Just… just something to think about.”
Silence hangs on the musty air between like oxygen itself decided to transmute into its most uncomfortable form in honor of the conversation they’re dancing around having. The plastic under Sam’s fingers is starting to turn warm from his touch and tumbleweed-lonely the question of whether Dean will have heated up from him now too trips through his mind.
“Yeah,” Sam says, hand coming to rest on the cool imprint of his sweat on cotton sheets, “I’ll think about it.”
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 7,400
Warnings: Not Related!AU, underage (Sam is 17), vampire!Dean, first time, rimming, bareback, bloodplay
Notes: Ok, this wasn't actually one of my creature!boys prompts, but it got into my head and wouldn't go away and is technically creature!boys, so there! Title from "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, just because I said so.
Summary - Faster than he can blink, Sam goes from upright to flat on his back on the bed, the weird not-quite-heat of Dean’s cheek brushing softly against his own. All this time he’d just thought Dean had crappy circulation.
On AO3
The first thing Sam notices is the light. The room he wakes up in is suffused with a dusky, sienna light that doesn’t make sense. He feels like he’s slept for hours but it was dark when he- when he got knocked out. In that warehouse. With that vampire.
Fuck.
His hands grope automatically for a weapon but of course there isn’t one stashed under the soft pillow beneath his head - why would there be, it’s not his room. A barb of pain shoots through his skull when he sits up but he’s too well trained to let that throw him off much.
It’s a cellar, Sam guesses, going by the small window snug against the ceiling, all but hidden behind a set of make-shift pillowcase curtains. That explains the light, and the damp-cool air sitting on his skin like a film; the dusty, earthy scent that’s not drowned out by the natural smells of whoever set up the TV and the bed and the salt lines in front of the stairs because the person who lives here isn’t alive.
Not alive, but watching nonetheless.
He’s not even being subtle about it, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back against a rough brick column that spans from floor to ceiling in the middle of the room. Tucked around him is a leather jacket that reminds Sam of his dad’s but even more worn. Wonder if jackets help when you don’t have body heat.
The spiky tips of his ‘I just ran my hands through it and somehow it turned out perfect’ hair catch what few rays of sun filter through, just like the wet surface of his eyes. It’s impossible to make out the mossy green of them in this light, but there’s no question that they’re fixed on Sam, steady and unblinking. A quirk at the corner of his lips when Sam stares back is the only sign that he’s not just a very demented statue.
“If you were going for the creepy stalker vibe, good job.” Sam’s voice comes out rough - probably inhaled a pound of grit last night running after-from-after that damn chupacabra. The south sucks - never have to deal with chupacabra crap in Wyoming. Then there’s just vicious, blood thirsty wendigos. Correction, Sam’s life sucks.
Dean’s face splits on a smirk that Sam’s really starting to wish he wasn’t so familiar with.
“You know,” he says, swaggering over to flop down on the mattress next to Sam, “nobody says that shit when it’s Santa who sees you when you’re sleeping, but a vampire watches somebody catch a nap and it’s all scary and wrong. Double standards, man.”
So that’s how they’re going to play it, huh? Just put it all right out there like Sam hasn’t been sitting beside Dean for days on end doing research and discussing tactics and occasionally snaking a french fry out of his takeout carton. Like Sam didn’t fall for his bullshit hook, line and sinker. His dad’s going to kill him. And then Dean. Probably in that order. Assuming that Dean doesn’t take care of Sam first.
“Might have something to do with the whole eating people thing,” Sam fires back, all too aware that snapping at a freaking vampire isn’t going to be winning any Best Idea in the World prizes anytime soon but unable to stop himself anyway; sure, it’s a vampire, but it’s still Dean.
It’s only when he reaches out to hitch the covers up more that he realizes he’s in nothing but boxers and t-shirt. Neither of which are the ones he was wearing last night.
Before he can spout an accusations about that - because what the serious fuck? - Dean’s muttering, “Hey, you don’t know what Santa does on his personal time. And I don’t eat people, I eat blood. Could really care less about all the fleshy boney parts.” An idea that’s shot to shit by the way he’s plucking at the shirt collar hanging limp against Sam’s throat, tugging it aside to ogle the skin there so blatantly it prickles with the phantom touch.
Clutching at the fabric probably makes him look like a frightened maiden - made all the worse by the fact that Dean’s bigger than him in everything but height so the shirt is gapping all over the place - but considering he’s currently trapped in a basement, in a bed, with a blood-sucker, Sam decides he doesn’t really care. “Comforting.”
That gets a roll of Dean’s eyes as he slumps back against the headboard. “Dude, if I was gonna fang-rape you, I’ve had plenty of chances. For a hunter, you’re pretty shitty at keeping your guard up.”
It’s probably true - up until last night when it had become painfully obvious what the situation really was, Sam hadn’t even thought to question if Dean was anything but another hunter just like he claimed. A hunter who had a thing for jailbait boys, but whatever - Sam’s done weirder things on a case than let some perv hit on him constantly. Not that this was even technically supposed to be Sam’s hunt, but when reports of weird livestock deaths started coming in from just two towns over from the motel Dad had him stashed in this week, he’d gotten the order to go and research. He hadn’t actually expected to find the thing, let alone somebody else working the case on top of that. Which, actually, he should probably have been a little more suspicious of, in retrospect.
Sam’s, “Shut up,” comes out more sullen than he meant it to.
It’s just, he’d kind of liked Dean before he found out he was something Sam’s been brought up to exterminate. He’d been funny and relaxed and he’d treated Sam like an adult from the word go. In a couple of months, Sam’s going to be eighteen but from the way Dad and Uncle Bobby and, well, practically everybody, treats him it seems more like he’s going on eight. It had been nice to have someone who looked him in the eye when they talked instead of over his shoulder at his father. Someone he didn’t have to lie to, who he’d started to think of as an actual friend. And he’d maybe liked it a little that a guy like Dean could look at Sam and see something that he wanted.
Turns out what he really wanted was pounding through Sam’s arteries. Awesome. How the hell is he going to get out of here?
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Dean voice interrupts Sam’s mental diatribe, “You know, for totally saving your ass last night. Don’t worry, it was no trouble to kill a feral hell beast with my bare hands, pick you up and carry you all the way back to my home and then give up my bed so you could rest your dainty head, my precious princess. No trouble at all.”
He does this little wiggle that settles him deeper against the mattress as he smirks at Sam. His legs are splayed open wide enough that one thigh is pressed against Sam’s knee where he’s got his own crooked up Indian style. Between the jacket and everything else he’s still got on, Dean’s bare feet sticking out from his jeans seem strangely vulnerable; fine bones below the stretch of thin, delicate skin. Sam’s not even sure why he noticed that.
“Why?” he says, feeling out of the blue with it even as the word is curling off of his tongue.
“Gonna need a few more specifics there, tiger.” Dean’s fingers are creeping, none too subtly, over the curve of Sam’s hip. His skin flashes hot from it the way it always seems to when Dean gets handsy before he bats them away. If he wasn’t intimately familiar with how it feels to be afraid for his life, Sam would write the flutter in his chest off as that.
“All of it. Why did you help me? Why did you kill that thing? Why did you bring me back here? You obviously know what I do, so why not just let me die?”
Faster than he can blink, Sam goes from upright to flat on his back on the bed, the weird not-quite-heat of Dean’s cheek brushing softly against his own. All this time he’d just thought Dean had crappy circulation.
“Well you do make an awfully nice air freshener,” is all but purred into his ear, the deep inhale of Dean scenting him loud and alien. Sam’s suddenly thundering heart stumbles over a beat.
“Dean!” he yelps the second he’s got the breath for it. Shoving against Dean’s shoulders isn’t going to do anything, strength of the undead and all of that, but Sam can’t help himself. He’s known since he woke up what Dean is, saw the way he moved last night, caught the flash of fangs - he’s known, but his body was still stuck on Dean, the kind of strange, kind of cool guy he’s spent a decent portion of the past week working alongside. That comforting delusion just shattered into a billion tiny pieces, shards of it cutting him up and serving him raw for exactly the kind of animal that would gobble him up with a spoon.
But instead of making a move to bite, Dean braces himself on his elbows and looks down at Sam, shaking his head. “You have some serious trust issues, you know that?”
Absently, it seems, Dean’s fingers fiddle with Sam’s hair, tiny little moments he can hear in the rustle of the sheets more than actually feel. Dean’s shooting him this look, assessing with a laser precision that makes Sam feel lit up inside, like his body could act as a nightlight for the whole dark-ass room. After everything his dad has pounded into him over the years, the knee-jerk need to measure up is still the hardest to fight.
“Look,” Dean starts, “I like you. You seem like a good kid despite being John Winchester’s offspring.” Jumps in with, “oh yeah, I know all about your dad too,” when Sam obviously fails at hiding his surprise. He’d never given Dean his real last name. “Did it ever occur to you that just because I lied about this one little thing that doesn’t mean that everything I told you was crap? Believe it or not, the fact that you lump us all into the ‘mark box D for “other”’ category, doesn’t mean all of us ‘creatures’ are BFF. Some of us are perfectly happy to take out things that go bump.”
Ok, first of all, Sam’s pretty confident that being a member of the undead is more than one little thing to have left out. Secondly… wait, what?
“You hunt your own kind?”
Dean glares like Sam just totally missed the point but apparently decides to let it go since he shrugs, “Sure, why not? It’s not exactly like I can get a day job. I’m a predator, made for it, so why not use it? Help some people, burn off a little energy, grab a snack - takes care of all my needs at once.”
Alright, once more with feeling - what?
“You drank the chupacabra?”
One side of Dean’s mouth hitches up in a grimace. “Yeah, not exactly my favorite item on the menu, but it’ll do.”
The noise Sam makes as he tries to choke back the bile rising in his throat is a few degrees removed from subtle, but hey, he's seen a chupacabra before. He's smelled one. Ugh.
“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it,” Dean replies, distracted-sounding. His eyes are locked on the pull of Sam's skin under his fingers as he traces invisible patterns or- or veins. Sam should probably put a stop to that somehow or other.
A subtle shift tells him exactly how much he is not going to be able to get up with Dean halfway on top of him. So much for all that hand-to-hand training.
“Ok, so you’re telling me you hunt things-“ tumbles out of Sam's mouth, just a little shakier than he meant it to be as slivers of hopeless plans ping-pong off the walls of his skull.
“Save people, the whole nine yards.” A mischievous smile slinks in at the corner of Dean's mouth like a noon shadow, “With a cherry on top, just ‘cause you’re special.”
Sam is entirely certain that Dean's pupils used to have some kind of an edge to them instead of this slow - don't think about bleeding - fade into the irises.
“And you, what? Squat in abandoned basements and sleep all day?”
“Or motels or whatever, basements are just more convenient." The sudden, hard flick Dean delivers to Sam's ear makes him jump. "You can wipe the judge-face off, by the way. There aint a thing on that list that doesn’t describe your life to a T," Dean drawls and for just a second, he's just Dean again. "Well, aside from being a geekboy high school virgin.”
It's familiar enough to make Sam grumble back, “Not a virgin.” Shannon McCullough totally counts - partly in is still in.
Dean inhales sharply, nose pressed right up against the soft skin under Sam’s jaw. Sam might be inclined to call his, “Whatever you say, kiddo,” breathless if vampires, you know, breathed.
“And I don’t drink monster blood,” he adds, because that was actually the important part. Much moreso than his in-no-way-questionable-regardless-of-what-Shannon-said virginity.
Dean waves it off. “Everybody’s got to eat. ‘Cept maybe dullahans. Never really figured out how that one works.”
Actually Sam's read some lore that suggests-
Not the point. Really not the point. The point was... the point is... Look, he was really excited, ok? And Shannon's the one who wanted to spend like an hour making out first and Sam's just a guy, he can't help it that tight wet things feel good around his dick and he is so not a virgin, ok?
The smug twist of Dean's lips is obnoxious. Like he knows what Sam's thinking even though there's no way he does - there is no documented evidence that vampires can actually do that - and he couldn't possibly smell Sam's not-virginity anyway. It's not even a thing, it doesn't have a smell.
“Isn’t it all kind of cliche?" he clips out, reveling in the way the self-satisfaction melts off of Dean's face. "I mean the whole I’m a broody emo vampire, watch me be all hot and enigmatic in my shitty condemned lair deal is kind of played out, don’t you think? Get a new shtick, Spike.”
Except that smile hasn’t actually made itself scarce, more like it retreated for reinforcements.
“Hot, huh?” Dean's flat-out grinning.
Shit. Slip of the tongue. And not a Freudian one, just like... like a slippy one. “Dean,” he says sternly, straight-up channeling his dad.
Evidently, Dean is unimpressed with the John Winchester patented powers of austerity.
“Hot, huh?” he pushes, edging embarrassingly close to gleeful. His badass points are going down the tube as they speak. His hands, however, are going just about everywhere else, specifically places on Sam that are not ok for strangers, particularly evil blood-sucking strangers, to touch.
“I’m serious, cut it out,” Sam does not whine as he slaps away Dean's fingers where they're trying to slip underneath Sam's - Dean's - whoever's shirt. Vampires only have two hands, right? How the hell is he covering so much acreage?
“What if I don’t?" It's not even like Dean speaks it> It’s more like he pours it into Sam's ear, all smoky-deep and close enough that every single hair on Sam's body stands up. Because he's a vampire, obviously, and Sam's body has excellent self-preservations instincts even if his brain's suck. "What if I like how you look in my bed, hmm? Spread out all innocent and pretty all over my sheets. What exactly are you going to do about it, Sammy?”
The answer’s as obvious as it is inexorable - nothing; he’s not going to do one damn thing because there’s nothing he can do. He hasn’t got a weapon, not nearly strong enough to fight his way free, and how screwed up is it that thinking about it makes his dick twitch?
“You think I haven’t smelled it all this time? That I can’t tell you’re turned on right now? It comes off of you so thick I can barely breathe it, just wanna lick it right off of your skin." Words to actions, Dean's tongue rasps wet and not warm enough across the bolt of Sam's jaw. A matching tingle laves down the inside of Sam's spine.
"And you know what else?" Dean's voice is whisper-quiet, secretive and delighted. "It’s even stronger now that you know what I am."
Anything that Sam might have to say in his defense gets lost when Dean turns just the right way to wedge himself between Sam's legs, sheets somehow lost in the shuffle so that there's only a thin layer of cotton boxers that don't belong to him to protect him from the rough friction of denim. It's the contact that gets him hard, that thick-textured drag pressed mercilessly between his legs. The look on Dean's face is enough to know he thinks it's all about him though. As if Sam could ever possibly want... want a... damn it's hard to think when he rubs against Sam like that.
"Such a bad, bad boy, Sammy," feathers at Sam's throat before Dean wipes it away with a set of soft, blunt-toothed nips to Sam's Adam's apple. He tries to duck his chin to cover himself a little but Dean's fingers find a hold in Sam's hair and keep him in place. "What would daddy dearest say if he knew you had a hard-on for a vampire?”
“Get over yourself.” The groan Sam loses as he says it doesn’t really help the effect. Stupid Dean and his stupid awesome hip-rolly thing making Sam’s IQ drop.
“Rather get all over you,” Dean grins with another nip to Sam's chin. It's cheesy as hell but then his hips are bucking at the same time, rubbing Sam just close enough to the right way to short out his brain.
“Ngh,” is the brilliant retort he comes up with. Seems to be good enough for Dean because then it’s Sam’s bottom lip he’s nipping at, teeth still a dull, human lie. His tongue wiggles at the center of Sam’s lip, up to slot between the top and bottom to tease at Sam’s teeth instead.
He could blame it on the weird, sexy-hot figure 8 Dean’s doing with his pelvis or the fact that Sam hasn’t had a lot of time alone the last few days to take care of business or some heretofore unknown power of the Freaky Vampire persuasion but what it comes right to down to is this: Sam opens his mouth.
The second he does Dean lets out this pleased, not entirely human hum and darts his tongue inside, shoving immediately at Sam’s like he’s trying to goad it into a fight. Works too, like a fucking charm, Sam’s tongue curling and twisting at the bizarre, blank taste of him, kissing back without a scrap of the style he’s never actually been with anyone long enough to cultivate. Dean goes with it, whether because he just doesn’t care or is actually into it, who knows, but he meets all of Sam’s fumbling, unsteady fierceness with his own.
His jacket rucks up under Sam’s fingers as he paws blindly at Dean, a puff of air hitting him in the face with the scent of leather and gun powder and nothing else because Dean’s not alive to have a smell. Dean’s just this, all young and hot and badass, this secret, tortured thing in the dark, by himself, and it says like eight zillion different things about Sam that out of all the people he’s ever known, he’s never related to anyone more.
“Whatever you want, Sam,” gets smeared across Sam’s mouth over onto that spot on his cheek where his dimples dig in. Dean mounds the flesh between his teeth - not quite so blunt anymore, but not breaking the skin either - and licks at it before pulling off, pushing back in again to nose at the spit-shine. “All you gotta do is ask and I’ll give it to you. All you have to do is say the words.”
Breathing wasn’t exactly coming easy and natural a second ago but now it’s just stopped completely like somebody shoved a cork down Sam’s throat. It’s the first moment since the word ‘vampire’ clicked in his head last night that Sam’s actually considered what’s on the table here. Chances are that Dean didn’t mean anything when he said anything, chances are he just meant getting naked and screwing around - which, ok, is more than enough at the rate things are going - but then, yesterday, chances were that Dean was a human being, so chance can pretty much eat it. Because there’s this look in Dean’s eyes - weird slices and flecks of green and gold confettied into a wide circle of midnight - that feels like anything is anything and the thought is stuck fluttering around in Sam’s head with lacy razor wings.
He ends up blurting the first thing that pops into his head. “God, just touch me.”
“I am touching you.” The tease is obvious in Dean’s voice, rubbing the wrong way along Sam’s nerves when instead of pushing forward Dean pulls back, just enough to steal a little of the sweet pressure against Sam’s dick.
“No just,” frustrated, he fumbles for Dean’s hand, no real resistance behind it when he tugs it between their bodies to press tight over his cock. That extra bit of weight molded against him makes Sam’s mouth run dry.
“Yeah?” Dean tongues up the underside of Sam’s chin when his head tips back from the pleasure, “That all you want? Just rut up against my hand until you nut yourself like a kid?” This time when his teeth catch of the wing of Sam’s jaw - he’s got some kind of a fixation, clearly - they leave tiny sparks of pain behind, bright little points that destroy Sam’s focus and crank his heartbeat. “‘Cause I’d give you more. Let you have my hand, my mouth. My ass.” He’s worked his way around to Sam’s ear again, breathing the words into it and chasing the shivers they send down Sam’s body with a roll of his own. “Unless you want it the other way ‘round.”
Sam moans. Doesn’t mean to and hasn’t got a shot at stopping it because yes, that, all of that. Several times, maybe, assuming he can decide on which one to do first.
Sounds like Dean’s ready to help out with that too, though, because then he’s saying - fucking purring - “You wanna bounce on my cock, baby boy? Sounds like it. Sounds like you’re just begging for something deep up inside you.”
That’s… ok, a little scary. Definitely a big leap from that one time with a girl in the back of his dad’s truck to this. But then again, making out with a male hunter/vampire in the cellar of an abandoned house is kind of a big leap too and he managed that one just fine. To be fair, he’s also not being much help with the suggestions unless vampires come with some kind of internal translator for breathy grunts and sighs so it’s not like he can blame Dean for opting for the choice that gets his dick ridden.
An anvil of flash-fire heat falls out of the sky and lands directly on Sam’s head at the thought and ok, well there’s something he didn’t know about himself. Evidently there are several really integral parts of him that think mounting up and riding Dean like a pony is an awesome idea. Thanks for the heads-up, body.
“Yeah,” he finally manages to choke out; Dean is amazing with his hands. And his mouth. And the hard push of his dick up tight against Sam’s. “Yeah, ok, do it. Do it.”
For just a fraction of a second it feels like Dean freezes but it’s over and done so quick Sam’s not sure he didn’t just imagine it. That fast all over again Sam’s blinded as the shirt hanging off of him gets tugged unceremoniously over his head, the insides of his arms stinging with friction burn. The boxers are the same story, second chapter; slowed down just enough to at least make sure his junk is clear and unharmed before the cloth gets torn down his legs and flung all the way across the room to smack softly against the opposite wall.
Alright, Sam may have been underestimating the whole vampire aspect of the sex-with-a-vampire somewhat. Between the manhandling and the way Dean just stands there at the end of the bed for a second eyeing him up like a juicy piece of steak, he honestly can’t decide if he’s more freaked out or turned on.
Not that he expects he’s going to be getting a lot of opportunities to waffle on the matter.
Shockingly, Dean gets his own clothes off even faster than he did Sam’s, so fast that the process is more of a blur accompanied by the whump of fabric hitting the ground. By the time he gets his head together enough to really account for all of that, Dean’s back on the bed, kneeing the spread of Sam’s legs wider to fit himself between them.
He’s not sure why he’s surprised, all things considered, that Dean’s not particularly concerned about the nuances of consent but a part of him was still expecting an ‘are you sure?’. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get anything but his knees shoved up close to his chest and a dark, predatory look from Dean.
Yeah, predatory. That’s it, dead on, just like Dean said. He’s a predator, made for it, and in the world he lives in, Sam is prey.
And again with the dick twitching. Seriously, when did this shit happen and why did he not get a memo that this is what he’s into?
“Hold those,” Dean commands with one more pointed shove at the hollows of Sam’s knees.
Thank God he’s used to following orders - never thought he’d think that - because his body just does it, hands reaching up to hold his legs where Dean put them, while his mind is still bumbling over an underdeveloped question mark. It’s just as well because once Dean grabs Sam’s hips and lifts him straight off the bed up to his mouth, Sam’s ass to his mouth, and digs in with wet, slick abandon, Sam hasn’t got the dexterity, let alone the brain power to do anything but hang on and take it.
There’s a noise at the first touch of Dean’s lips there, this needy, whimpery thing like a starved animal and Sam has no actual clue which one of them it comes from nor does he even begin to care because wow. Tongue. Tongue right there. Tongue in his ass. Sam has a new mission in life and it’s to do this, all the time, forever.
The next sound is definitely Dean because Sam can feel it tremble all the way up his spine where Dean’s mouth is pressed to him. He’s alternating between sucking softly at the skin and pushing his tongue up inside to do completely insane things. It’s sweet and slick and he’d just as soon never admit this out loud, but maybe possibly better than having his dick inside a girl. There’s this constant pressure, though, this slightly weird push against the delicate skin right around his hole that borders on sharp and Sam can’t help but be aware of it. Because they’re fangs, they’re Dean’s deadly, vicious vampire fangs and it wouldn’t take anything at all for them to break skin.
It ought to freak Sam out - a lot of this ought to freak Sam out - but instead it just gets him wondering. Can Dean taste it, all that blood humming so close to the skin? Does it tempt him, make him hungry, make him want? Or was feeding last night enough to keep him sated, all of his focus on getting Sam’s body to open up and take care of other drives?
Sam gasps at the feel of a thick, rough-padded thumb pushing into him, tugging at the rim to let Dean’s tongue in even deeper. He can feel saliva running down his ass up to the small of his back where Dean’s holding the lower half of his body up with one hand, not even the decency to shake a little like it’s an effort. Every time his tongue fucks in Sam’s cock jerks, a little racing stripe of slick painting his belly, and it’s got him anxious to know what more will feel like.
Dean keeps him waiting, single minded in his focus like this all he really had planned, digging in to Sam like there’s toy prize hidden in him somewhere and Dean’s got to find it with his tastebuds. Doesn’t stop until Sam’s squirming between the hold he has on his own legs and Dean’s; until, sudden and breath-stealing, Dean bites a warning into the softness of Sam’s inner thigh. Tiny pinpricks of blood well up against the stark white of Dean’s fangs, the skin barely broken but stunning nonetheless. Sam’s blood on Dean’s teeth, on his tongue when he swipes it across them to clean it away.
Dean would almost pull off that bullshit, ‘could care less’ vibe about it if his entire frame didn’t shudder like he’s in the world’s most localized earthquake.
“Like that, huh?” Sam asks pointlessly. He could have guessed the answer before now but something about seeing the naked want on Dean’s face is a whole other level altogether.
The very last thing in all of creation that Sam should do is lift his leg up to Dean’s mouth again, flaunting the little red pearls that have formed at the small wounds, but by the time his sex-fuzzy brain gets around to relaying that information he’s already left a crimson smear across Dean’s cheek.
“Don’t push me, Sam,” only comes across as words because Sam was looking for them. Mostly it sounds like Dean got punched in the gut in the middle of a growl. There’s a muscle along the side of his nose that keeps spasming that makes Sam think of a dog showing its teeth. He wonders if that’s what Dean’s fighting and the thought sends a thrill through him like a shot of whiskey set on fire.
“What if I want to?” is a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say. Then again, Sam can’t think of a single thing he’s said since he woke up that wasn’t. “What are you gonna do about it?”
The giddy frisson that shoots through his veins ignites when Dean lets him drop only to surge up and cover him entirely, right up in Sam’s face before he even has a chance to bounce against the mattress.
“You are way too smart not to know the answer to that.” Dean’s hands are fists in Sam’s hair, holding him steady while Dean loses these choppy snarls against his lips. Dean’s right, he knows better, but his train of thought is still busy chugging down the track that leads to filthy sex and orgasms and it doesn’t seem particularly deterred by an unscheduled stopover in Biteville. Obviously there’s something about Dean that leads him to really shitty decision making.
“Would you kill me?” he asks, baldly because it’s the only question that matters right at this moment.
Dean doesn’t hesitate before he snaps back, “No!” almost insulted.
“Then do it.” It seems like his voice should be shaking, God knows his insides are, but it comes out as calm as his mind feels even with his heart is zipping around like a pinball in his chest. “Fuck me and bleed me. Give me the whole broody vampire experience.”
“Sam,” Dean barks out on the ghost of a laugh that got murdered in a back alley somewhere. He looks like Sam just asked him to do something horrible. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Again he’s stuck waiting for a question that doesn’t come, some chance to back out that he’s got no intention of taking. He can see it there on Dean’s lips but it doesn’t quite make it free. Nothing does except, “Sammy,” and at some point they’re going to have to have a discussion about not calling Sam shitty little kid names but this doesn’t really seem like the time.
“Do it.”
He tries to make it sound like a dare and maybe he succeeds because Dean lurches forward, taking deep, deep drags of air against Sam’s neck. Which is maybe how Sam misses what’s going on downstairs until he feels something blunt and wet nudge up against him and in that same moment, push in.
Fuck!
Ok, pain? Not totally unexpected. They’re putting something in what is specifically designed to be an out door and it’s not exactly a small something either, so in the abstract, yeah, Sam had expected some pain. That’s fine, he can deal, he’s a born and bred hunter, pain is run of the mill fare. This is just maybe a little more pain than he’d actually been anticipating, topped off with a heaping helping of weird. It’s nothing at all like the slick, yielding push of Dean’s tongue in him. This is hard and unforgiving and long - like seriously, he can’t be growing more of it, can he? Because this seems like a lot more cock than when Sam was just looking at it a minute ago.
This all seemed like a much better idea when there was a lot more rubbing and licking.
It isn't until Dean shushes him that Sam even realizes he's been making embarrassing, pained little sounds. "That's it, you've got it. So good, Sammy," he murmurs, dusting the curve of Sam's neck with tiny kisses that make him flinch and brace. "Christ, tightest little thing, feels so good. So fucking warm. Fuck."
Dean's hips buck, a small, sudden push that comes off as a reflex. A groan punches out of Sam when there's not enough room for both it and Dean’s cock inside of him, Dean this huge, thick weight stealing all of his focus. His hands are plastered to Dean's back, digging in hard enough to bruise a human being and he wonders if it will leave a mark on Dean too, something he could touch later assuming he somehow survives this.
The sting is mellowing out to a heavy ache, this blurry-edged throb that he catches himself clutching at, feeling it up from the inside like when he was a kid with a loose tooth, unable to leave it alone. Dean shivers when Sam shifts around him, giving another one of those knee-jerk thrusts. It's not exactly good, but it's not really bad either, so Sam moves with it, muscles rippling on a slow wave.
That's about as much as Dean can stand, apparently, his next shove in marked with intent. Surprisingly, it's better like that, the freaky internal brush bottoming Sam's stomach out roller-coaster fast. Hitching his legs up around Dean's hips skews the whole operation just enough that the next time Dean sinks in bliss crackles across the inside of Sam's skin like sheet-lightning. Oh hell yes. That's the stuff.
"Fuck yeah," Dean moans, picking up the pace. He's sucking haphazardly at Sam's neck and shoulder, careless enough with the fangs that Sam can feel itchy, skin-deep cuts at random intervals. That shouldn't make it hotter but it does, knowing Dean's tasting him, feeling that want pull his body taut under Sam's arms.
He's not expecting it in the least when Dean's hand fastens at his chin, forcing his head back and to the side with a sharp twinge. The harsh, quick thrusts don't let up as he pants into Sam's skin, "Gonna cream you so fucking deep you'll smell like me for a week. Everybody's gonna know who you gave it up to. Know you spread your legs and opened up a vein for me, all for me. Good little hunter's a slut for my dick."
Shame curls with the need coiled tight in the pit of his stomach, but somehow all it does is wind him up tighter. He doesn't know if it's true or not, if the next thing they go looking for or the one after that will be able to tell that Sam let a vampire bend him over, but they might. He's seen stranger things. Either way he's going to have to meet up with his dad soon now that the hunt's over and the odds are good that he's still going to be feeling this when he does .
Precome blurts thickly where Sam's cock is trapped against his belly. The only place he has to muffle his choked whine is the meat of Dean's shoulder, a sharp reciprocal bite.
Dean's hiss is loud against Sam's ear, heads knocking together slightly when Dean fucks in harder, abandoning his rhythm for rough, gritty strokes.
"Yeah, like that. Just like that," he gasps, one palm to the back of Sam's skull to hold him where he is.
Something wild and heady floods Sam's system as he does as he's told, sucking at the odd, saltless cool of Dean's skin before sinking his teeth deeper on the next bite.
As far as he knows, vampires don't breathe for anything more than appearances but Dean is huffing against him, chest gliding against Sam's through a slick of sweat. His stomach is exactly the right kind of solid for Sam to rub against, gaining himself friction ins fits and starts. He's still going to come any damn second, all over himself and out of his fucking mind with the way Dean feels inside of him; invasive and violently intimate. Shannon McCullough isn't even in the same league.
Helpless to do anything else, Sam moans and bites down again, torqueing his hips up to get that wild electric pulse skittering over his nerves. He watches his hands grab at Dean’s shoulders for leverage, the way his fingers frame and press at the teeth marks he left behind like it all belongs to someone else.
Sam Winchester would never be here, would never be stupid enough to splay himself wide open and defenseless against something that survives in the shadows and reeks of death. Sam Winchester knows too well, was raised too well, to do anything but shoot first, ask questions later and burn whatever’s left. Sam Winchester would never arch his back and bare his neck, offering up the blood pounding a war drum beat in his head to something that could drain him dry because he wants to feel the sting when he comes.
And really, fuck Sam Winchester anyway, who needs that shit?
He’s expecting it to feel like getting stabbed, that punch of pressure that steals the air before the pain even hits, but it’s not. Instead it’s like a heavy-gauge syringe, a smooth localized burn that melts into his flesh like butter. Not where he expected either, right above his collarbone, the stray, ticklish trails of it that Dean misses forming a makeshift cup out of the dip of his throat. The sucking is exactly what he’d thought it would be, though; red-hot pressure that feels like it’s drawing straight up from the soles of his feet, dissipating so fast with each swallow that he shivers with it.
Somewhere along the way Sam’s body went and got it’s signals seriously crossed because he cannot fucking convince it that it’s not his dick Dean is sucking on even when he can feel the soft prickle of Dean’s hair against his neck. All of which should be more than enough to let him know that he’s about to come like slamming into a brick wall but then it happens and he’s totally blindsided by it.
Sam’s mouth falls open and he’ll never know if it’s words or sounds or empty air that comes pouring out of him because as far as he knows, in that moment, he’s deaf. Raw-edged fire twists through his veins, highlighting every capillary with a sizzling, flint-spark burst of sensation as molten heat pumps out over his stomach.
It isn’t until Dean rears back, red-mouthed and black-eyed, that Sam can even process anything else, more aware of the deep, too-cool spread pulsing inside of him than the hand Dean slaps down low on his stomach like he’ll be able to feel it too.
The soft pull of Dean's cock sliding free leaves Sam fighting to cover a wince with a brain that’s about five steps behind his body. Dean might have seen anyway because once he's settled himself against Sam's side he reaches out to soothe over Sam's chest with a gentle hand. One of his fingers leaves a bright trail where it crosses over a smear of blood, leaving it to turn chilly and distracting on his skin.
“We gotta get you some protein," Dean says thoughtfully after a minute, guttural and glutted, "You taste like a shrub.” His tongue is darting out to flick at the small rusty stain trapped at the corner of his lips as he says it, so Sam's having a hard time being insulted.
He feels tired and slightly abused, that messy soreness that comes after a hunt gone right. It’s a good feeling, Sam could get used to it, but that’s a direction far too dangerous to let his thoughts go.
“I should probably call my dad. He’s bound to be flipping out I didn’t report in last night.” Sam grunts a little as he sits up, the flaring ache in his ass swept under the rug by the world sliding off-kilter. Maybe standing’s not such a hot idea. A hand at his ribs helps steady him until the warm rush of adrenaline has washed out a little.
The blood on his throat is tacky when he touches a hand to it and a careful probing can’t find the wound. Now that’s fascinating. He wants to ask how it works but, given the circumstances, it doesn’t quite seem appropriate.
He’s got vampire come leaking out of his ass and now he starts to worry about appropriate. Yeah, Sam’s brain totally makes sense.
Dean mumbles something the Sam hasn’t got a hope in hell of deciphering, positive he wasn’t meant to anyway. Doesn’t make it any less obnoxious. Nonetheless, the noisy rifling Dean’s putting his jacket pockets through produces Sam’s phone, tossed onto the bed in the no man’s land of sex-stained sheets between them.
He can’t say he actually sees Dean flinch when he reaches for the cell, but he has sort of an impression of it anyway. Dark clouds might as well have swept in over the other side of the bed for all the thunder being shot his direction.
He hears himself barking, “What?” before he has time to think better of it. Dean’s mouth pops open, snaps closed again with an audible click. Instead of answering he turns his back on Sam, snatching up his discarded jeans off of the floor.
At least until Sam’s hand makes contact with the phone.
“Just, you know, there are other options,” he spits in a rush, not once meeting Sam’s eyes, “I mean, if you ever decide you don’t want to be daddy’s little boy forever. You’re a smart kid and a good hunter; you’d make a good partner for somebody who knows how to do more than order you around. Plenty of guys out there who could use somebody to watch their back.” The low gruff of his voice peters off toward something awkwardly reminiscent of uncertainty toward the end. “Just… just something to think about.”
Silence hangs on the musty air between like oxygen itself decided to transmute into its most uncomfortable form in honor of the conversation they’re dancing around having. The plastic under Sam’s fingers is starting to turn warm from his touch and tumbleweed-lonely the question of whether Dean will have heated up from him now too trips through his mind.
“Yeah,” Sam says, hand coming to rest on the cool imprint of his sweat on cotton sheets, “I’ll think about it.”