SPN Fic. In Your Eyes Awaits The Tireless Hunger - 1/2
Title: In Your Eyes Awaits The Tireless Hunger - 1/2
Author: Blueeyedliz
Rating: NC/17 for dark subject matter. Please note this story contains non/con, underage and wincest.
Word Count: 2,405 (this part)
Summary: Sam’s broken but Dean will always find a way to mend the shattered pieces. Teenchesters.
Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing; this is written for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: This story is based on the prompt, ‘blindfold.’ Devon99 this one is especially for you as promised - I hope you like it, it started out as a simple one-shot of Sam/Dean porn and somehow ended up as this. Huge hugs to my buddy Joe for the title.
In Your Eyes Awaits The Tireless Hunger - Part One
“This is so fucking ridiculous.” Sam groans, one hand poking at the bandana which is currently acting as a blindfold and completely obscuring his vision. “This sucks.”
“Like Grandma without her false teeth.” Dean grins, entirely for his own benefit of course because Sam can’t see much save for a whole steaming pile of nothing. “It might suck but do you know what sucks even more, Sammy?” Dean pauses for dramatic effect. “Your aim.” His voice is loud, verging on shouting and coming from directly next to Sam’s right ear.
Sam jumps, he can’t help himself. He turns his head and aims a scowl at where he guesses Dean might be standing. Then he takes a deep breath and tries to remain perfectly still, just listening.
He manages to slow his racing heart down until he’s at a point where he can hear the distant rumble of traffic on the highway across the fields, far from where they are standing on the edge of the vast Fort Robinson State Park.
There are other sounds too which slowly start to filter their way into Sam’s awareness. The droning hum of crickets chirping, the ghostly indistinct whispers of the wind as a faint breeze blows over his bare forearms bringing them out in tiny goose pimples. His own heartbeat, a rhythmic thumping which echoes up from his chest into his ears. Dean’s steady breaths, warm and wet against the back of his neck.
Sam’s tongue licks across his dry lips, tasting a faint hint of sugar from the jelly donuts they ate in town a few hours ago by way of a Winchester style breakfast. They devoured three donuts each, washing them down with bucket sized cups of cherry flavored slushee from the local 7-Eleven. “Steady, Sammy.” Dean’s voice says, still too close to Sam’s eardrum but he’s at least a little quieter now.
Sam tries for a second time to put a hand to his covered eyes but Dean grips his wrist and tugs it away. For the briefest of moments Dean’s fingers keep hold of Sam’s hand, sliding down so that the calloused pad of his thumb can run a slow circle around the centre of Sam’s palm. It tickles, a feather-light touch and Sam smiles hesitantly. He suddenly doesn’t feel quite so bad anymore.
“You think I’m a sloppy hunter?” Sam asks, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s doing that thing he does, again. The thing where he repeatedly runs one hand through his hair until his fingers are tangled and then he ends up trying to tug them free like he’s aiming to tear out a chunk right from the root. It’s something he does when he’s either talking to Dad or about Dad. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it either but Dean sure as hell does.
“Do you think I’m the sort of sloppy hunter who needs to work harder at honing his senses?” Sam asks again, doing quoty fingers when he repeats word for word what John had indeed told him only the night before. It’s not the first time today that Sam has tried to engage Dean in conversation about it.
Sam untangles his hand from his hair and waves it around in front of him, fingers twitching as he tries to find Dean. An anchor for the disorientating world of darkness he’s been trust into.
“It’s Dad’s orders. You let the bad guy get the drop on you last night. Nearly got your head stoved in too. That fugly demon possessed dude was swinging at you like he thought it was his birthday and you were a piñata.” Dean says, not really answering the question as though Dad’s orders eliminate Dean’s need to make a conscious decision of his own.
“Man, that demon picked one heck of a goofy looking guy to possess. Do you think he purposely went around searching for someone who was a PeeWee Herman lookalike?” Dean laughs but it’s half-hearted and very short-lived and more for appearances sake than anything else. He doesn’t want to relive last night’s hunt or any hunt where Sam is the one who ends up bleeding. He doesn’t even care if it’s only from a fucking paper cut. Anyway, Dean feels justified keeping tabs on his brother more so today than usual; Sam could have died last night.
Sam twists his head first one way and then the other, trying to pinpoint exactly where his brother is standing. He almost yells out, when he feels the brush of Dean’s soft lips against the outer-rim of his ear. “I’m right here, Sammy.”
Dean can tell that Sam’s unhappy with Dad’s latest form of training exercise; it’s an exercise in humiliation after all but as Dean understands only too well, a pissed off Sam is a hell of a lot more preferable to a dead one. If Dean’s honest with himself he knows today’s training could have been much worse because Dad was pissed to hell with Sam last night. Sam’s being a whiny bitch but he could be doing a twenty mile hike with a pack the size of New Jersey on his back right now.
Sam blows out his cheeks, stomps his feet on the ground. He’s trying to gain some decent footing on the slippery mud beneath his boots but he’s also trying to distract himself from the way his dick is stirring, the way even a ghost of a touch from Dean can make his cock thrust against the soft cotton of his boxers and the firm denim of his jeans as though they were prison walls. “Okay, I’m ready.” Sam says as he lifts his shotgun and waits.
Dean stares at his brother, taking his time to drink in the long unwieldy coltish limbs which Sam hasn’t quite gotten a handle of yet. Dad’s probably right, the kid is a daydreamer and a little on the clumsy side, some of the time...most of the time. But every now and then Dean sees flashes of the inherent grace which Sam is blessed with. A grace which he will grow into, eventually.
But for now, Sam is seventeen. Face flushed red with the embarrassment of being made to train wearing a blindfold and an enduring anger which seems to have taken up permanent residence. It’s something Dean can only hope stems from Sam being a rebellious teenager, a simple passing phase. Sam’s always pushing of late, straining against the invisible bonds which hold him down, hold him back.
Dean isn’t quite ready to let Sam push his way to freedom just yet.
It’s rare that Dean has an opportunity like this to study his brother undisturbed because if Sam ever catches him staring he’ll either stalk away or slump his shoulders, start trying to curl in on himself as though he thinks he isn’t worth looking at. As though, he thinks he doesn’t deserve to garner such attention. Dean knows bullshit when he smells it.
Dean doesn’t write poetry. He isn’t inspired by stunning scenery or moved by fine pieces of classical music but Sam is beautiful...and Sam is his brother. Just thinking about it always causes a strange ache to well in Dean’s chest. An ache which he doesn’t want to put a name to.
Dean watches as several strands of wild dark hair stir in the light wind and he resists the urge to tuck them behind his brother’s ear. Sam’s face is still filled with a blush the colour of the cherry slushees they drank this morning.
“Dean?” Sam asks uncertainly, the shotgun resting awkwardly against the sharp jut of his hip bone. Sam scratches absently at his stomach causing his t-shirt to ride up and reveal a sliver of perfect hazelnut-tanned skin.
“Let’s do this.” Dean tears his gaze away and reaches down to pick up one of the many empty beer bottles lined up at his feet, he lifts his arm and throws it up into the sky. “FIRE!”
~0~
“Fuck this, I’m taking it off.”
“No, you’re not.” Dean slaps Sam’s hand away as his brother again reaches up to untie the blindfold knotted behind the back of his head. “You haven’t finished training yet.”
“Yes I have. I hit four targets, Dean. Four. ”
Sam is slouching on the ratty moth-eaten couch in the main living room of their tiny cabin which also doubles as the cabin’s sleeping area and kitchen. There are two foldaway beds in the corner. They’re uncomfortable as all hell but still better than the couch, which Dad always takes. Dean throws a bottle of water in Sam’s direction and chortles when it lands in Sam’s lap with a soft whump. He’s rewarded with a disgruntled startled yell.
“You heard what Dad said when he left this morning; he said to keep it on for the rest of the day. That means until midnight.”
“Fucking Christ. Dad’s not here, Dean.” Sam frowns but he doesn’t make another move to try and take it off.
Sam can hear Dean clattering pots and pans in the kitchenette, making a show of getting something thrown together for their lunch. He hears the spark of the gas hob on the old stove ignite and the sound of a can opener being used.
“I don’t get why you’re sulking about having to wear a freakin’ blindfold, it’s only for a few hours.” Dean says from his place over by the sink. Sam shuffles on the couch and his back stiffens when Dean’s hand unexpectedly settles on his shoulder. “You’re shaking?” Dean says questioningly, his voice carrying an accusing tone.
Sam shuffles again, away from Dean’s touch. He strokes a finger against the soft material covering his eyes. “He used a blindfold.”
“Who?” Dean’s voice has changed again. Now it’s threaded with concern which is so blatant the entire room feels suddenly chock-full of tension. “Who’s he, Sam?”
“The incubus...the one in Michigan.”
“Last year?” Dean’s face clouds over; he doesn’t know why he’s asking when he already knows all too well what Sam is talking about.
~One Year Earlier~
Sam had gone to sleep that night in a small motel room in the middle of nowhere, Michigan. For once the “I need to study” excuse had worked in his favor and Dad had agreed to let him stay behind to brush up on William Golding-instead of forcing him to tag along with his family to brush up on the best accelerants for burning a decomposing corpse.
Revelling in the chance to have the motel room to himself, Sam had hit the books hard and long and had finally rolled into bed at somewhere close to 2 am. Dad and Dean still weren’t back but Dad had said the salt and burn they had planned for old Bartholomew Hornby’s remains might be difficult considering his body was buried on the grounds of the prestigious Hornby family estate.
It’s pitch black when Sam wakes up, darkness covering him like a blanket. There’s not even the sallow glow from the flashing neon motel ‘vacancies’ sign shining in through the window which had been present when Sam climbed into bed. Sam might only be sixteen but his hunter’s instincts are already telling him that something is wrong, something is very wrong.
The air feels heavy, tastes thick and stale when he opens his mouth to speak. Dean? Before he can get any words out a cough catches in his throat and he rolls onto his side, hacking, sucking in more of the mildew rich air with each deep inhalation. Why is it so goddamn dark? He scrabbles around until he’s sitting upright, feeling some type of rough stone wall behind him he leans against it, desperately struggling to find his bearings.
He’s startled when a hand grips his chin and tilts his head upwards with one forceful movement. It’s a large hand but by no means familiar. Not Dad, not Dean. “Mine.” A rasping voice whispers into his ear. The mouth so close that Sam can feel lips sweep against his cheek, ones which feel brittle and bone-dry like centuries old parchment.
Sam tries to jerk away but finds he can’t, whoever is holding his head immobile is strong and unrelenting. He still can’t see a single thing. He lifts his hands to his face and finds his eyes, incredibly relieved to discover that he isn’t blind but rather that his eyes are covered with a material which feels like burlap, coarse underneath his trembling fingertips. He pulls at the material, trying to let some form of light into his world. But the hand which holds his chin shifts upwards to grasp both of Sam’s slim wrists tightly in one large hand. “Who are you?” Sam asks, coughing again against the dry tickle in his throat.
“Master.” The voice says and while it’s scratchy and somewhat hard to understand it is most definitely not human. Sam squirms and tries to lash out when he feels a warm wet tongue lick up the length of his throat and over his cheek but his wrists are held painfully tight.
Those same immeasurably strong hands push him down until he’s splayed out flat on his stomach, one cheek forced to press into what feels like sodden earth and carries the same musty smell which Sam associates with a crypt.
The hands move to his clothes, starting to tear at the thin grey sweatpants which Sam had gone to bed in. One hand closes around his crotch, cupping his balls and fondling his limp cock as Sam hisses through clenched teeth. No fucking way. Sam kicks out, hears a satisfying crunch when his foot hits something pliant but then a brutally hard blow to the head sends him tumbling into a deeper darkness. One which smothers all of his remaining senses and Sam knows nothing for awhile.
~TBC~