Fic: The Only Thing (Dean/Sam) - Blindfold Fill #2
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 2,000
Warnings: EXTREME UNDERAGE (Sam is 10) - there is no nudity or penetration of any kind - frottage, nipple play, mild dub-con, mild somnophilia
Notes: I was kind of hesitant to claim this one, but what the hell, I'm going for it. If you do not like, are triggered or squicked by underage, please do not read, it is not my goal to offend you or give you an unpleasant experience. That said, because of the situation and the characters, I as the writer feel that it is consensual and I will not stand for being called a pedo, ok? Ok. For the prompt:When Sammy's had a bad dream or in need of a little comfort, Dean lets him suck his nipples. It's just something that they've always done because it soothes Sam and it soothes Dean--and Dean also gets off on it (he feels kind of guilty about it but who are they hurting? And Sam likes it).Dean 13-14, Sam 9-10. Sam sucking on one of Dean's nipples while his hand squeezes the other. Dean slowly grinds against Sam, trying not to disturb him but also trying to get himself off.
Summary: Ok, look, there’s not a delicate way to say it; Sammy sucks Dean’s nipples.
Dean is long past the age where he can pretend it’s ok. It’s not. It’s not even a little ok. It’s also years too late to try and stop now. Even if he wanted to - and he can only wish he did - Sam depends on it when the nightmares get bad or Dad’s been gone longer than he promised he would. It’s just… well…
Ok, look, there’s not a delicate way to say it; Sammy sucks Dean’s nipples.
It isn’t as weird as it sounds.
See, Dean’s been in charge of Sam since Mom… just since, ok? Practically forever. And that hasn’t always been easy. When he was a baby, Sam didn’t cope so well with life on the road. He’d cry if he wasn’t being held, was fussy even then, had to have a pacifier or there’d be no sleeping at all.
Dean was a little kid then, so he can’t really be blamed for making a connection that nobody should ever make. He just wanted so bad to make it better somehow, and he remembered how his Mom used to do it, pick little Sammy up and hold him to her chest, how he’d calm right down and make those quiet, happy baby noises, fall asleep in her arms. So he tried it and Sam seemed to like it and it just worked for them.
Eventually their Dad found out about it, yelled and screamed and forbid Dean from doing it anymore. For the most part, Dean tries to do what his father tells him to, it’s usually important and he only wants what’s best for the family, but sometimes… Sometimes Dad’s just wrong. And what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
Now Dean’s old enough to get what was with the freak out. Even for a life as far out in left field as theirs, letting your little brother suck on your chest to feel better is not acceptable, especially when your little brother’s age has hit the double digits. Especially when your little brother’s tiny pink mouth sucking your nipples raw gets you hard enough to ache. That doesn’t really make it any easier to stop.
Dean’s woken up so many times to the sensation of Sam’s nose rooting at him, getting his nipple hard enough to latch onto, that it doesn’t startle him fully awake. Instead he stays floating in that middle space, drowsy and relaxed, spreads himself out so Sam can snuggle up closer to his side, scrawny little bird-leg hitched over Dean’s
The huff of his breath is warm against Dean’s skin, too fast, the frantic beat of his heart against the curve of Dean’s ribs to say that it’s a nightmare that’s got him up in the middle of the night. They’ve always communicated just fine with their bodies - better, sometimes, than they can manage with words - and the need in Sam’s touch is all he has to know anyway; has always been more than enough reason.
Just a little pressure on the back of Sam’s head and it’s his mouth rubbing over Dean’s nipple instead, dry lips lighting up his nerves before they part and it all goes hot and wet.
Dean’s dick has been awake since before he was and the slick, sweet touch of Sam’s tongue on him is all it takes to get him leaking into his underwear.
Sam starts out fast, insistent little sucks like he’s expecting to get more than the taste of skin out of it. His mouth grinds at Dean’s chest, hand coming up to palm at the other side, mound it like Dean did to Rebecca Morrisey under the bleachers at his last school. Like a tit, his brain whispers, and the inside of his boxers get smeared wet.
Fingers carding through Sam’s hair find his scalp a little damp, the comforting smell of clean heat when Dean presses his cheek to the stop of Sam’s head. This is the toughest part in a way, the best in another, the snail trail of time where there’s nothing he can do but be here and let Sam take what he needs. He feels helpless, powerless against whatever’s in Sam’s head the way he hasn’t been against real life monsters in years, the only thing in the world he’s got no shot at protecting Sam from.
At the same time, it does things to him; the draw of pressure where he’s already sensitive dragging blood up close to the surface. Tomorrow he’ll probably have a mark there, this fuzzy-edged imprint of Sammy’s mouth that’ll throb when he presses at it and shoot out little sparks of what should be pain but isn’t when his shirt rubs against it.
Like he’s owned.
That’s the kind of stuff that’s been going through his head lately. Whispers of the idea crawling around in his skull like the draft in that apartment they rented in Omaha, always there but never strong enough to figure out where it came from and plug up the leak. Feather-tickles of it that start in his head and sneak down his spine to curl up in places that thoughts about his brother don’t belong. Anytime, all the time, and more than any other, when they do this.
As he calms down, Sammy eases up, suckles going softer, wetter, hot swipes of tongue here and there that bunch Dean’s toes up in the sheets. He kneads at Dean like a kitten, hand and mouth, quiet breaths out of his nose chuffing on Dean’s skin. They heat Dean’s fingers when he traces down the curve of Sam’s jaw, skates around the slick pout of lips against his chest, maps out the shape of teeth in the rhythmic hollow of Sam’s cheek. Eyelashes flutter against him in a butterfly kiss, just close enough to graze him as Sam makes a noise, something tired and half-formed, content.
Maybe the worst thing about this - worse even than getting off on it - is how much it comforts Dean. Even with his belly tight with sick heat and the space between his thighs thudding in time with his pulse, there’s a part of him that wants to do this, just this, forever. Everything feels better like this, safe and secure, the soft pull of Sam’s mouth rolling him under like those machines people have to make ocean noises when they fall asleep.
He’s far enough into the thrall of it not to notice at first that his hips are moving. An agitated grunt from Sam, the sudden, brief uptick in the tempo of his mouth before it slacks off again, is what draws Dean’s attention to it. Then it’s all he can feel, the way his dick scrapes against Sam’s leg if he moves just so, a sharp, bright pulse melting into the soreness radiating out from Sam’s mouth and his groping little palm.
Sam can’t be oblivious to it, not out for the count yet, though the steadiness of his breathing means he must be close. He goes to public school and spends the rest of his time with Dean - he knows what a boner is even if he doesn’t get them yet. And he’s never seemed to mind it before.
Not that Dean does it on purpose or anything, but they share a bed a lot and Sammy’s kind of snuggly and Dean really can’t help it if his body gets confused about that when he has dreams about his sixth grade Earth Science teacher and Kimmie Proctor from a couple of states ago making out in the Impala. As far as he can tell, Sam doesn’t really care. He’ll grumble a little but as long as Dean doesn’t get any jizz on him, he’s usually pretty cool about it.
So maybe it’s not the end of the world if Dean does it now.
Automatically, his fingers start to circle in Sam’s hair - it’s going to be a hopeless mess of knots in the morning, but he’ll deal with that then - as his other hand slips low to pull Sam’s leg into a better position, trying to balance out all the jostling by scratching gently at Sam’s scalp the way he likes. His brother lets out a long sigh with the faintest hum of a moan in it, tingling against Dean’s overworked nerves.
It goes easier when Dean shifts a little, not quite putting them on their sides, but closer to it so Sam can relax back and still suck, his head cradled by Dean’s arm. From this position it’s not as awkward to thrust, cautious rolls of his hips falling slowly into time with the motion of Sam’s mouth.
Almost instantly the temperature in Dean’s body cranks up to a boil. Shocky starbursts of goodness pummel him every time he pushes himself against Sam. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end from it, his breath all torn up like paper-napkin confetti in his lungs. He tries to strangle the sounds that want to come out, ends up muffling most of them in the pillow instead as Sam shifts fitfully and settles again. Something that might have been a word is mushed to nothing against Dean’s abused nipple before he starts sucking again, sloppy-soft now, so wet Dean feels crazy with it.
Sam’s the strangest combination of cushy and bony, enough baby fat still to keep him kind of round-edged and kiddish but starting to grow too, knees and elbows turning knobby, wrists and ankles peeking out from the cuffs of the clothes that fit him around the middle. There’s nothing about it that’s sexy, not in the way that the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are sexy or chicks in porn or that girl whose name he never remembers in his Geography class who wears the short skirts and smiles at him. There’s no curves to make his mouth water or flirty looks that make his jeans go tight. There’s just Sammy with his not-going-to-be-little-for-much-longer body, all plain and ordinary and familiar, and his tiny, hungry mouth and nothing in the whole world gets Dean hotter.
A groan punches out him with the first brutal jerk of his dick emptying out in his underwear, a full two seconds before he realizes it’s about to happen. Sam flinches against him, startled back awake, his leg pushing up at Dean’s crotch almost hard enough to hurt, making him spill again and again, scared for a heartbeat or two that he’s not going to be able to stop. Open-mouthed breath against Dean’s nipple, hot-cold-hot-cold, isn’t helping to keep Dean from digging his fingers into Sam’s hip and pull him in to grind on even harder.
He rides it out with his lips pressed into Sam’s hair, some of it getting stuck to his tongue when the air he’s getting through his nose just isn’t enough. Tries not to shake too bad as the last waves of it wash through him until he’s left boneless and hot, uncomfortably sticky and really, really worn out.
That last one, at least, it doesn’t sound like he’s alone in. Still wrapped tight around him, Sammy yawns, igniting another weak tremor through Dean’s system when his cheek brushes against Dean’s nipple. He feels hot enough to burn there, hurty-good like the used up sensation in his balls. Tomorrow’s really going to blow.
Sam’s arm settles around his waist, face tucked in close to Dean’s neck. He mutters something that doesn’t make any sense, smacks his lips together wetly and goes still once more, heavy breaths and leftover spit smearing into Dean’s throat. Dean cups a hand around the back of Sam’s head again and holds him close. The only thing he’s ever really done.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 2,000
Warnings: EXTREME UNDERAGE (Sam is 10) - there is no nudity or penetration of any kind - frottage, nipple play, mild dub-con, mild somnophilia
Notes: I was kind of hesitant to claim this one, but what the hell, I'm going for it. If you do not like, are triggered or squicked by underage, please do not read, it is not my goal to offend you or give you an unpleasant experience. That said, because of the situation and the characters, I as the writer feel that it is consensual and I will not stand for being called a pedo, ok? Ok. For the prompt:When Sammy's had a bad dream or in need of a little comfort, Dean lets him suck his nipples. It's just something that they've always done because it soothes Sam and it soothes Dean--and Dean also gets off on it (he feels kind of guilty about it but who are they hurting? And Sam likes it).Dean 13-14, Sam 9-10. Sam sucking on one of Dean's nipples while his hand squeezes the other. Dean slowly grinds against Sam, trying not to disturb him but also trying to get himself off.
Summary: Ok, look, there’s not a delicate way to say it; Sammy sucks Dean’s nipples.
Dean is long past the age where he can pretend it’s ok. It’s not. It’s not even a little ok. It’s also years too late to try and stop now. Even if he wanted to - and he can only wish he did - Sam depends on it when the nightmares get bad or Dad’s been gone longer than he promised he would. It’s just… well…
Ok, look, there’s not a delicate way to say it; Sammy sucks Dean’s nipples.
It isn’t as weird as it sounds.
See, Dean’s been in charge of Sam since Mom… just since, ok? Practically forever. And that hasn’t always been easy. When he was a baby, Sam didn’t cope so well with life on the road. He’d cry if he wasn’t being held, was fussy even then, had to have a pacifier or there’d be no sleeping at all.
Dean was a little kid then, so he can’t really be blamed for making a connection that nobody should ever make. He just wanted so bad to make it better somehow, and he remembered how his Mom used to do it, pick little Sammy up and hold him to her chest, how he’d calm right down and make those quiet, happy baby noises, fall asleep in her arms. So he tried it and Sam seemed to like it and it just worked for them.
Eventually their Dad found out about it, yelled and screamed and forbid Dean from doing it anymore. For the most part, Dean tries to do what his father tells him to, it’s usually important and he only wants what’s best for the family, but sometimes… Sometimes Dad’s just wrong. And what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
Now Dean’s old enough to get what was with the freak out. Even for a life as far out in left field as theirs, letting your little brother suck on your chest to feel better is not acceptable, especially when your little brother’s age has hit the double digits. Especially when your little brother’s tiny pink mouth sucking your nipples raw gets you hard enough to ache. That doesn’t really make it any easier to stop.
Dean’s woken up so many times to the sensation of Sam’s nose rooting at him, getting his nipple hard enough to latch onto, that it doesn’t startle him fully awake. Instead he stays floating in that middle space, drowsy and relaxed, spreads himself out so Sam can snuggle up closer to his side, scrawny little bird-leg hitched over Dean’s
The huff of his breath is warm against Dean’s skin, too fast, the frantic beat of his heart against the curve of Dean’s ribs to say that it’s a nightmare that’s got him up in the middle of the night. They’ve always communicated just fine with their bodies - better, sometimes, than they can manage with words - and the need in Sam’s touch is all he has to know anyway; has always been more than enough reason.
Just a little pressure on the back of Sam’s head and it’s his mouth rubbing over Dean’s nipple instead, dry lips lighting up his nerves before they part and it all goes hot and wet.
Dean’s dick has been awake since before he was and the slick, sweet touch of Sam’s tongue on him is all it takes to get him leaking into his underwear.
Sam starts out fast, insistent little sucks like he’s expecting to get more than the taste of skin out of it. His mouth grinds at Dean’s chest, hand coming up to palm at the other side, mound it like Dean did to Rebecca Morrisey under the bleachers at his last school. Like a tit, his brain whispers, and the inside of his boxers get smeared wet.
Fingers carding through Sam’s hair find his scalp a little damp, the comforting smell of clean heat when Dean presses his cheek to the stop of Sam’s head. This is the toughest part in a way, the best in another, the snail trail of time where there’s nothing he can do but be here and let Sam take what he needs. He feels helpless, powerless against whatever’s in Sam’s head the way he hasn’t been against real life monsters in years, the only thing in the world he’s got no shot at protecting Sam from.
At the same time, it does things to him; the draw of pressure where he’s already sensitive dragging blood up close to the surface. Tomorrow he’ll probably have a mark there, this fuzzy-edged imprint of Sammy’s mouth that’ll throb when he presses at it and shoot out little sparks of what should be pain but isn’t when his shirt rubs against it.
Like he’s owned.
That’s the kind of stuff that’s been going through his head lately. Whispers of the idea crawling around in his skull like the draft in that apartment they rented in Omaha, always there but never strong enough to figure out where it came from and plug up the leak. Feather-tickles of it that start in his head and sneak down his spine to curl up in places that thoughts about his brother don’t belong. Anytime, all the time, and more than any other, when they do this.
As he calms down, Sammy eases up, suckles going softer, wetter, hot swipes of tongue here and there that bunch Dean’s toes up in the sheets. He kneads at Dean like a kitten, hand and mouth, quiet breaths out of his nose chuffing on Dean’s skin. They heat Dean’s fingers when he traces down the curve of Sam’s jaw, skates around the slick pout of lips against his chest, maps out the shape of teeth in the rhythmic hollow of Sam’s cheek. Eyelashes flutter against him in a butterfly kiss, just close enough to graze him as Sam makes a noise, something tired and half-formed, content.
Maybe the worst thing about this - worse even than getting off on it - is how much it comforts Dean. Even with his belly tight with sick heat and the space between his thighs thudding in time with his pulse, there’s a part of him that wants to do this, just this, forever. Everything feels better like this, safe and secure, the soft pull of Sam’s mouth rolling him under like those machines people have to make ocean noises when they fall asleep.
He’s far enough into the thrall of it not to notice at first that his hips are moving. An agitated grunt from Sam, the sudden, brief uptick in the tempo of his mouth before it slacks off again, is what draws Dean’s attention to it. Then it’s all he can feel, the way his dick scrapes against Sam’s leg if he moves just so, a sharp, bright pulse melting into the soreness radiating out from Sam’s mouth and his groping little palm.
Sam can’t be oblivious to it, not out for the count yet, though the steadiness of his breathing means he must be close. He goes to public school and spends the rest of his time with Dean - he knows what a boner is even if he doesn’t get them yet. And he’s never seemed to mind it before.
Not that Dean does it on purpose or anything, but they share a bed a lot and Sammy’s kind of snuggly and Dean really can’t help it if his body gets confused about that when he has dreams about his sixth grade Earth Science teacher and Kimmie Proctor from a couple of states ago making out in the Impala. As far as he can tell, Sam doesn’t really care. He’ll grumble a little but as long as Dean doesn’t get any jizz on him, he’s usually pretty cool about it.
So maybe it’s not the end of the world if Dean does it now.
Automatically, his fingers start to circle in Sam’s hair - it’s going to be a hopeless mess of knots in the morning, but he’ll deal with that then - as his other hand slips low to pull Sam’s leg into a better position, trying to balance out all the jostling by scratching gently at Sam’s scalp the way he likes. His brother lets out a long sigh with the faintest hum of a moan in it, tingling against Dean’s overworked nerves.
It goes easier when Dean shifts a little, not quite putting them on their sides, but closer to it so Sam can relax back and still suck, his head cradled by Dean’s arm. From this position it’s not as awkward to thrust, cautious rolls of his hips falling slowly into time with the motion of Sam’s mouth.
Almost instantly the temperature in Dean’s body cranks up to a boil. Shocky starbursts of goodness pummel him every time he pushes himself against Sam. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end from it, his breath all torn up like paper-napkin confetti in his lungs. He tries to strangle the sounds that want to come out, ends up muffling most of them in the pillow instead as Sam shifts fitfully and settles again. Something that might have been a word is mushed to nothing against Dean’s abused nipple before he starts sucking again, sloppy-soft now, so wet Dean feels crazy with it.
Sam’s the strangest combination of cushy and bony, enough baby fat still to keep him kind of round-edged and kiddish but starting to grow too, knees and elbows turning knobby, wrists and ankles peeking out from the cuffs of the clothes that fit him around the middle. There’s nothing about it that’s sexy, not in the way that the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are sexy or chicks in porn or that girl whose name he never remembers in his Geography class who wears the short skirts and smiles at him. There’s no curves to make his mouth water or flirty looks that make his jeans go tight. There’s just Sammy with his not-going-to-be-little-for-much-longer body, all plain and ordinary and familiar, and his tiny, hungry mouth and nothing in the whole world gets Dean hotter.
A groan punches out him with the first brutal jerk of his dick emptying out in his underwear, a full two seconds before he realizes it’s about to happen. Sam flinches against him, startled back awake, his leg pushing up at Dean’s crotch almost hard enough to hurt, making him spill again and again, scared for a heartbeat or two that he’s not going to be able to stop. Open-mouthed breath against Dean’s nipple, hot-cold-hot-cold, isn’t helping to keep Dean from digging his fingers into Sam’s hip and pull him in to grind on even harder.
He rides it out with his lips pressed into Sam’s hair, some of it getting stuck to his tongue when the air he’s getting through his nose just isn’t enough. Tries not to shake too bad as the last waves of it wash through him until he’s left boneless and hot, uncomfortably sticky and really, really worn out.
That last one, at least, it doesn’t sound like he’s alone in. Still wrapped tight around him, Sammy yawns, igniting another weak tremor through Dean’s system when his cheek brushes against Dean’s nipple. He feels hot enough to burn there, hurty-good like the used up sensation in his balls. Tomorrow’s really going to blow.
Sam’s arm settles around his waist, face tucked in close to Dean’s neck. He mutters something that doesn’t make any sense, smacks his lips together wetly and goes still once more, heavy breaths and leftover spit smearing into Dean’s throat. Dean cups a hand around the back of Sam’s head again and holds him close. The only thing he’s ever really done.