(Fic) Chasing Lu - Friday - Part 3 - sncross_bigbang
Title: Chasing Lu
Author(s):darkangelazure
Beta(s):popeiathehippoandmrstotten
Crossover: Supernatural/Constantine (movie)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!
Type: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, John Constantine, Castiel, Lilith, Ruby, Papa Midnite, Angela Dodson, Chas Kramer, Ellen, Bobby, Beeman, Father Hennessy, Lu aka Lucifer.
Warnings: Strong Language, Consensual Incest, Sex, Violence, Gore, Death. Spoilers: Spoiler through Season 4
Artist:
davincis_girl
Link to Art: Master Art Post
Summary: The Winchester brothers are in LA, with another seal on the verge of breaking. Sam and Dean have to find out how a serious of demonic murders might point them on the right track and how Dean can finally realize his role.
Author’s Notes: Massive Thank you's to
davincis_girlfor the brilliant and very breath taking art work she has done for this story, without her replies and her effort this wouldn't have been half the story I think it is right now. Thank you topopeiathehippoif she hadn't pulled out all her stops and devoted her valuable time there'd be so many typos and grammar mistakes nobody would be able to read! Thank you tomrstottenwith her advise and suggestions I wouldn't have come up with most of my ideas thank you. This story was written forsncross_bigbangthis has been a great way to get me back into my writing thank you.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Light threads through the curtains, but it’s dirty, orange and muted mauve as
Dean stretches out, feeling the shudder of his muscles ache in all the wrong ways as he groans past the stinging in his neck.
He knows his scratches are bleeding, his pillow stippled red; the room glows
and dust plumes sparkle where the light beams through the gaps of the
curtains.
“Hey.” He hears it from his left, it’s watery and weak, but the deepness seems to
carry, and when Dean turns, Sam’s sat on the edge of his bed, knees bent out and head in his hands. There’s so much blood on his shirt that Dean’s heart lurches.
“Hi” he offers and scrubs a hand across the peppered stubble around his
mouth. Stifling a yawn, he watches Sam card a hand through his own hair, a
few strands straying and curling around his eyes as he looks at Dean.
“You okay?” Sam asks, and it’s genuine as his eyes widen, searching Dean, like he can see through his tattered suit and the blood dribbling into the back of his collar, see the bruising on his ribs, even the sickly yellow that still decorates parts of him from Alistair.
“I’m peachy, s’not like I haven’t taken a beating before. What about you?” And it’s
the way Dean meets Sam’s eyes that makes Sam’s jaw twitch, clearing through
sleep and sharpening, pushing as Dean’s lips set in a hard line.
“I’m fine.” And the tone, hard and grating, makes Dean’s lip pull in a faux
smirk, a curling, cruel line, as Sam peels off his shirt. It sticks against his
skin, leaving shadows when he throws it to the floor.
“Really? I wouldn’t class turning into a demonic junkie as “fine”, but whatever,
s’not like me being kept in the loop matters” Dean snipes, the crispness cutting
through like a blade.
Sam’s face pales a little, but he quickly recovers enough to mumble back “I don’t know what you’re talking about”.
Dean’s laugh is dry like brushfire fodder.
“Oh no, because drinking demon blood on a regular basis isn’t wrong at all.”
Sarcasm coats the words as Dean’s plastic smile drops from his face.
“I don’t drink it for thrills, Dean! It-it makes me stronger, it’s gonna make me
strong enough to end this war” Sam grinds out; he stands and Dean can see
his brother stumble a little. “Oh yeah, ‘cause you look so fucking strong right now. No, it ain’t making you strong enough - you’re so strung out you walked into a goddamn trap!” Dean seethes, standing to meet his brother’s gaze. “Stop trying to make it in some sort of-of drug problem!” Sam snaps, stamping into the bathroom, the fluorescent light flickering on.
“If the glove fits!” Dean follows him, standing in the doorway.
“How dare you judge me!” Sam sneers, and then he advances, his features thundered over, towering over Dean, the broad of his chest still stained with blood as he crowds Dean up against the doorframe.
“ So, right now, you ain’t thinking about your next fix, about when you can call Ruby again and set up the next deal, because you’re in such fucking control” Dean sneers, jutting his chin out defiantly. Sam doesn’t even flinch and Dean feels his heart skip a terrifying beat at the dark, almost-black of Sam’s eyes.
“You’re not strong enough, Dean, not anymore. You weren’t there, so now I’m going to end it, by any means necessary.” Sam’s voice holds no room to move, the smell of sweat and blood and something deeper coming off him, and Dean feels so off balance with it. The rage boils up in him and spills out onto all the jagged raw edges of him as he takes a swing at Sam.
It’s almost like slow-motion, the way Sam’s hand catches his fist, swallowing it up in his big calloused palm. Dean panics and swings up his other arm, but Sam can read him, and it seems so simple for Sam to pin Dean’s hands above his head, pressing them into the edges of the doorframe, digging into the soft creases of his knuckles.
“Stop fighting me!” Sam pleads Dean; it’s low and the way Sam’s eye implore just make Dean’s guts twist on themselves.
“Get off me!” Dean snaps, fighting Sam’s grip, bucking and writhing, but it’s like Sam’s made of concrete and stone, unmoving like the earth. “I did this for you!” he finally roars, slamming Dean’s hands against the door jam. “You were in hell, Dean. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t live with knowing that, so I-I started. I wanted to pull you out; I wanted to bring you back.” Sam is whispering now, slumping his own weight against Dean.
The pressure is not enough to force the air out of his lungs, but enough to pin him down, like the ground’s going to swallow him back up if Sam doesn’t have a hold of him.
“Sam.” The declaration rips through him like a freight train, the guilt pressing against the insides of his brain as he thinks I started all this.
“You kept me human, Dean, I needed you back. You gotta understand that.” Sam breathes it straight into Dean’s ear, his breath hot, and the desperation seems to leak onto Dean’s skin. “I woulda walked into hell for you, man.” Sam pulls back, looks Dean straight in the eyes, and it’s so open, the tear that Dean’s death left in Sam and the desperation it fueled.
“I was-I’m not worth this, Sam” Dean whispers. He tries to look away, but he sees into Sam, can hear the audible snap of something in his brother and it’s almost a shock to feel lips on his own.
Dean grunts and tries to twist, but Sam’s lips are soft against his, his grip tight as he seamlessly transfers both of Dean’s wrists to one hand. Dean feels Sam’s fingers curl against his jaw, tilting, and then Sam pulls off and peppers kisses, short and panicked, across his face, the high bones of his cheeks, fanned against his eyelids, nipping at the edge of his jaw, and it feels like being stripped down to the bone as Sam whispers in between.
Don’t leave me.
Not again.
Please, Dean.
Love you, God, I love you.
“I’m here.” And it’s all Dean can seem to spill out of himself, because everything else sounds like bullshit as he feels the crushing weight of his guilt, like he did this to Sam. The push-pull of Sam’s hands on the buttons of his shirt makes Dean panic, like he’s only just clued in on how much Sam needs this, needs pieces of him that Dean doesn’t want Sam to see.
“We can’t.” Dean trips over the words as Sams presses his own chest up against Dean’s. It seems like an age since he’s had this real skin-on-skin contact, the curl of fingers at his fly. “We can, we can-“ Sam just keeps repeating as he chases the words onto Dean’s lips, nipping at his swollen bottom lip; asking, a pleading gesture for Dean to open up for him. And he feels the way Sam kisses as he opens his mouth, searching every corner, curling and teasing, like Dean’s worth the sin. Sam’s hand presses against the mottling bruising on his abs, and Dean grunts at the dull ache of his ribcage, the dig of the door jam against the cage of his ribs, the sharp grind of Sam’s fingers around his wrists as Sam pulls away.
“Sorry.” It’s the sheepish tone, the genuine small ‘aw-shucks’ curl to Sam’s lips that finally hits home at what he’s letting happen, at what they’re doing.
“Sam.” And Dean can’t figure out what he’s trying to convey, apart from the clawing need that’s twisted up his insides, pretending that Sam’s fingers dancing around the ink of his tattoo doesn’t make him think of the phantom ache of the needle.
“Are you going to pull bullshit excuses, Dean? Because it isn’t going to work. You can’t tell me you don’t want this to happen” Sam shoots back. The room’s dark apart from the flooding of fluorescent light that spills onto them both and the dulled night lights of the city around them.
“It’s not bullshit, Sam. You’re my brother!” Dean feels too stripped, too exhausted, but damn him if he isn’t going to fight for the last word.
Sam’s hand jams into Dean’s pants, cupping his hard dick and giving a firm stroke. “Tell me you don’t want this” Sam breathes hotly against his ear, nipping at his lobe as he jacks Dean. Piston firm strokes that leave Dean dazed and choking on curses.
“Tell me you don’t want me to carry you over to that bed and fuck you the way I know you’ll like.” There’s something dirtyhotwrong about what Sam’s voice does to Dean’s insides and it seems like a promise as he cups Dean’s balls.
Sam sucks a hickey into the rapid pulse of Dean’s throat, like he’s trying to press all over Dean, from the inside out, and then Sam’s mouth is back on his, sucking, mapping as he turns Dean’s head upside down, kissing Dean like it’s his last night on earth, stroking Dean again with those maddening strokes that leave Dean breathless, that girls can never seem to figure out how to do. But Jesus, Sam’s hand is so perfect, long fingers curled around in a tight, brilliant grip.
Sam starts to pull away and Dean lies to himself that it wasn’t a whimper that follows Sam as he steps back, the dry night air that seeps in a stark counterpoint to the hot fevered pitch of their skin on skin. For a moment, Dean nearly has time to think, Sam’s bulk not caging him in as he feels the definite ache of the hickey Sam’ left on him - but that’s before Sam’s there again, all up in his face, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of his pants and pulling him back into another blinding kiss.
Some part of Dean is raging indignantly as he’s pushed onto the bed, Sam looming over him, manipulating Dean out of his blood-sprayed shirt and suit jacket, the bracket of his thick thighs pinning Dean’s lap. Grinding down his own erection into Dean’s, which isn’t just making Dean’s breath stop and start in panic, but uncurling a new, hidden fire in his gut as his hands shoot out to claw at the thick muscle of his brother’s shoulders.
It bunches under his fingers and he tries not to finger the scar that he knows is there, from that summer when Sam was 14, when his first black dog had got past Dean and blindsided him. Sam’s first set of stitches, and it feels like Dean’s failing him again.
Sam’s babbling above, a litany that sounds like it’s just spilling out him as he nips at Dean’s jaw, pressing fast, desperate kisses against the soft hollows of his collarbone.
Beautiful.
Need this, need you.
“Dean.”
He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes, vision adjusting to the new sparse light, but he can see Sam’s eye’s hooded and dark, again almost demon-black as he nuzzles at Dean’s amulet, licking away a pearl-drop of sweat.
Dean nods dumbly; he feels too hollowed out, too bare and needy. He can’t stand the way his skin feels, stretched too tight over his bones, and the clawing need to prove he’s worth all this. Because it feel like Sam’s worshipping him as he runs his hands up and down, the dip of his abs, the pale freckle-smattered curve of his biceps, even the hollow of his elbows don’t escape Sam’s wandering touch. Sam doesn’t even need to hold Dean down, he feels blissed out. He’s too used to the sense memory of rushed blow jobs and dirty alley ruttings, and Sam just overwhelms him.
Always has, he thinks as Sam’s tongue dips into the Dean’s belly bottom, fucking into it with a promise, and Sam’s hands tug at his pants, wriggling him around to pull them off.
Boxers, too, go quickly and it’s the fresh sheen of sweat and doubt that rocks Dean as much as the shout that’s ripped from him, Sam nosing at the thatch of burnt umber above Dean’s dick.
“God, you’re so beautiful, all mine, mine, my Dean.” Sam voice is wrecked, whiskey-deep and reverent as he nips at the jut of Dean’s hipbone, fingers back to the maddening friction on his cock.
“Shit, Sam!” Dean stutters, back curving off the bed, trousers around his ankles as he spills out all over Sam’s hand, his orgasm wracking quick and strong through his bones.
A fucking surprise, in Dean’s opinion.
It’s through the post-coital haze that Dean feels Sam’s knees on either side of his waist, a thumb in his mouth and Sam’s lips against his ear, whispering blended words of worship and sex as he comes, hot strips of white that mingle with Dean’s; the chocked off, almost hurt noise that rips from Sam. He can taste the salt on his skin and breathes in the sweat, musky, blood and bleach smell of the room.
Dean feels Sam’s fingers rubbing idly at the patchwork bruising of his stomach, smoothing in their come. “Dude, you’re so gross” Dean murmurs, crinkling up his nose in disdain, and it’s weird how light the moment feels, sinking into sleep as Sam hums contentedly and wraps himself around Dean.
The last thing Dean seems to see is blood stains and a tattoo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean wakes to water stains and Sam’s hand wrapped around his bicep, covering up the raised angry handprint in his own dwarfing palm and spread fingers. His arm is heavy, but Dean seems to roll from underneath the bulk of Sam. It’s always been rather an absent notice of Dean’s that Sam’s bigger than him. Name-calling and jibes about it was always a way of staying comfortable with it, but now, Dean looks down at the bruises that ring his wrist, turned angry red and, in places, almost plum purple.
He doesn’t really know how his pants came off from his ankles, but it feels too intimate to think about the fact that he has no socks on, that Sam stripped him.
That’s when Dean notices it. Soaked through with black and brown dried blood, the crumpled button-down Sam was wearing lays at his feet, bathroom light still on, its light just slitting through the ill-fitted door as Dean picks up the shirt. It’s crisp and dry in his hands as he looks and tries not to think about the fact that it used to be white as he tiptoes over to the table, picking up his cell.
Dean stops as he hears Sam snuffle and groan, and waits for his breathing to even out again to a hiccupped snore before he pads into the bathroom, shirt still in hand as he opens the door enough to slip through without the light escaping too much.
He catches his reflection in the cracked mirror, the hickey sucked into his neck and the flaking come that itches on his sore belly. He looks fucked out and tired, aching bones and old bruising that’s fading into the shade of his skin.
Dean can feel it, the seep of something disjointed and angry flooding him as he looks at himself and doesn’t see the man he wanted to be.Dead once and so desperate as he flicks open the phone.
Maybe when this is all over, when Sam is his little brother again and Lilith is dead he can feel more like himself again, scars and all.
It takes a few rings, the sounds obscenely loud as he feels the prickle of the cold, chipped tiles on the soles of his feet, staring down at the ruined shirt in his hand and taking trying to breathe deep.
“Bobby- Yeah I know- listen we- we’ve got a problem.”
End
Master Art Post
Author(s):darkangelazure
Beta(s):popeiathehippoandmrstotten
Crossover: Supernatural/Constantine (movie)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!
Type: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, John Constantine, Castiel, Lilith, Ruby, Papa Midnite, Angela Dodson, Chas Kramer, Ellen, Bobby, Beeman, Father Hennessy, Lu aka Lucifer.
Warnings: Strong Language, Consensual Incest, Sex, Violence, Gore, Death. Spoilers: Spoiler through Season 4
Artist:
davincis_girl
Link to Art: Master Art Post
Summary: The Winchester brothers are in LA, with another seal on the verge of breaking. Sam and Dean have to find out how a serious of demonic murders might point them on the right track and how Dean can finally realize his role.
Author’s Notes: Massive Thank you's to
davincis_girlfor the brilliant and very breath taking art work she has done for this story, without her replies and her effort this wouldn't have been half the story I think it is right now. Thank you topopeiathehippoif she hadn't pulled out all her stops and devoted her valuable time there'd be so many typos and grammar mistakes nobody would be able to read! Thank you tomrstottenwith her advise and suggestions I wouldn't have come up with most of my ideas thank you. This story was written forsncross_bigbangthis has been a great way to get me back into my writing thank you.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Light threads through the curtains, but it’s dirty, orange and muted mauve as
Dean stretches out, feeling the shudder of his muscles ache in all the wrong ways as he groans past the stinging in his neck.
He knows his scratches are bleeding, his pillow stippled red; the room glows
and dust plumes sparkle where the light beams through the gaps of the
curtains.
“Hey.” He hears it from his left, it’s watery and weak, but the deepness seems to
carry, and when Dean turns, Sam’s sat on the edge of his bed, knees bent out and head in his hands. There’s so much blood on his shirt that Dean’s heart lurches.
“Hi” he offers and scrubs a hand across the peppered stubble around his
mouth. Stifling a yawn, he watches Sam card a hand through his own hair, a
few strands straying and curling around his eyes as he looks at Dean.
“You okay?” Sam asks, and it’s genuine as his eyes widen, searching Dean, like he can see through his tattered suit and the blood dribbling into the back of his collar, see the bruising on his ribs, even the sickly yellow that still decorates parts of him from Alistair.
“I’m peachy, s’not like I haven’t taken a beating before. What about you?” And it’s
the way Dean meets Sam’s eyes that makes Sam’s jaw twitch, clearing through
sleep and sharpening, pushing as Dean’s lips set in a hard line.
“I’m fine.” And the tone, hard and grating, makes Dean’s lip pull in a faux
smirk, a curling, cruel line, as Sam peels off his shirt. It sticks against his
skin, leaving shadows when he throws it to the floor.
“Really? I wouldn’t class turning into a demonic junkie as “fine”, but whatever,
s’not like me being kept in the loop matters” Dean snipes, the crispness cutting
through like a blade.
Sam’s face pales a little, but he quickly recovers enough to mumble back “I don’t know what you’re talking about”.
Dean’s laugh is dry like brushfire fodder.
“Oh no, because drinking demon blood on a regular basis isn’t wrong at all.”
Sarcasm coats the words as Dean’s plastic smile drops from his face.
“I don’t drink it for thrills, Dean! It-it makes me stronger, it’s gonna make me
strong enough to end this war” Sam grinds out; he stands and Dean can see
his brother stumble a little. “Oh yeah, ‘cause you look so fucking strong right now. No, it ain’t making you strong enough - you’re so strung out you walked into a goddamn trap!” Dean seethes, standing to meet his brother’s gaze. “Stop trying to make it in some sort of-of drug problem!” Sam snaps, stamping into the bathroom, the fluorescent light flickering on.
“If the glove fits!” Dean follows him, standing in the doorway.
“How dare you judge me!” Sam sneers, and then he advances, his features thundered over, towering over Dean, the broad of his chest still stained with blood as he crowds Dean up against the doorframe.
“ So, right now, you ain’t thinking about your next fix, about when you can call Ruby again and set up the next deal, because you’re in such fucking control” Dean sneers, jutting his chin out defiantly. Sam doesn’t even flinch and Dean feels his heart skip a terrifying beat at the dark, almost-black of Sam’s eyes.
“You’re not strong enough, Dean, not anymore. You weren’t there, so now I’m going to end it, by any means necessary.” Sam’s voice holds no room to move, the smell of sweat and blood and something deeper coming off him, and Dean feels so off balance with it. The rage boils up in him and spills out onto all the jagged raw edges of him as he takes a swing at Sam.
It’s almost like slow-motion, the way Sam’s hand catches his fist, swallowing it up in his big calloused palm. Dean panics and swings up his other arm, but Sam can read him, and it seems so simple for Sam to pin Dean’s hands above his head, pressing them into the edges of the doorframe, digging into the soft creases of his knuckles.
“Stop fighting me!” Sam pleads Dean; it’s low and the way Sam’s eye implore just make Dean’s guts twist on themselves.
“Get off me!” Dean snaps, fighting Sam’s grip, bucking and writhing, but it’s like Sam’s made of concrete and stone, unmoving like the earth. “I did this for you!” he finally roars, slamming Dean’s hands against the door jam. “You were in hell, Dean. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t live with knowing that, so I-I started. I wanted to pull you out; I wanted to bring you back.” Sam is whispering now, slumping his own weight against Dean.
The pressure is not enough to force the air out of his lungs, but enough to pin him down, like the ground’s going to swallow him back up if Sam doesn’t have a hold of him.
“Sam.” The declaration rips through him like a freight train, the guilt pressing against the insides of his brain as he thinks I started all this.
“You kept me human, Dean, I needed you back. You gotta understand that.” Sam breathes it straight into Dean’s ear, his breath hot, and the desperation seems to leak onto Dean’s skin. “I woulda walked into hell for you, man.” Sam pulls back, looks Dean straight in the eyes, and it’s so open, the tear that Dean’s death left in Sam and the desperation it fueled.
“I was-I’m not worth this, Sam” Dean whispers. He tries to look away, but he sees into Sam, can hear the audible snap of something in his brother and it’s almost a shock to feel lips on his own.
Dean grunts and tries to twist, but Sam’s lips are soft against his, his grip tight as he seamlessly transfers both of Dean’s wrists to one hand. Dean feels Sam’s fingers curl against his jaw, tilting, and then Sam pulls off and peppers kisses, short and panicked, across his face, the high bones of his cheeks, fanned against his eyelids, nipping at the edge of his jaw, and it feels like being stripped down to the bone as Sam whispers in between.
Don’t leave me.
Not again.
Please, Dean.
Love you, God, I love you.
“I’m here.” And it’s all Dean can seem to spill out of himself, because everything else sounds like bullshit as he feels the crushing weight of his guilt, like he did this to Sam. The push-pull of Sam’s hands on the buttons of his shirt makes Dean panic, like he’s only just clued in on how much Sam needs this, needs pieces of him that Dean doesn’t want Sam to see.
“We can’t.” Dean trips over the words as Sams presses his own chest up against Dean’s. It seems like an age since he’s had this real skin-on-skin contact, the curl of fingers at his fly. “We can, we can-“ Sam just keeps repeating as he chases the words onto Dean’s lips, nipping at his swollen bottom lip; asking, a pleading gesture for Dean to open up for him. And he feels the way Sam kisses as he opens his mouth, searching every corner, curling and teasing, like Dean’s worth the sin. Sam’s hand presses against the mottling bruising on his abs, and Dean grunts at the dull ache of his ribcage, the dig of the door jam against the cage of his ribs, the sharp grind of Sam’s fingers around his wrists as Sam pulls away.
“Sorry.” It’s the sheepish tone, the genuine small ‘aw-shucks’ curl to Sam’s lips that finally hits home at what he’s letting happen, at what they’re doing.
“Sam.” And Dean can’t figure out what he’s trying to convey, apart from the clawing need that’s twisted up his insides, pretending that Sam’s fingers dancing around the ink of his tattoo doesn’t make him think of the phantom ache of the needle.
“Are you going to pull bullshit excuses, Dean? Because it isn’t going to work. You can’t tell me you don’t want this to happen” Sam shoots back. The room’s dark apart from the flooding of fluorescent light that spills onto them both and the dulled night lights of the city around them.
“It’s not bullshit, Sam. You’re my brother!” Dean feels too stripped, too exhausted, but damn him if he isn’t going to fight for the last word.
Sam’s hand jams into Dean’s pants, cupping his hard dick and giving a firm stroke. “Tell me you don’t want this” Sam breathes hotly against his ear, nipping at his lobe as he jacks Dean. Piston firm strokes that leave Dean dazed and choking on curses.
“Tell me you don’t want me to carry you over to that bed and fuck you the way I know you’ll like.” There’s something dirtyhotwrong about what Sam’s voice does to Dean’s insides and it seems like a promise as he cups Dean’s balls.
Sam sucks a hickey into the rapid pulse of Dean’s throat, like he’s trying to press all over Dean, from the inside out, and then Sam’s mouth is back on his, sucking, mapping as he turns Dean’s head upside down, kissing Dean like it’s his last night on earth, stroking Dean again with those maddening strokes that leave Dean breathless, that girls can never seem to figure out how to do. But Jesus, Sam’s hand is so perfect, long fingers curled around in a tight, brilliant grip.
Sam starts to pull away and Dean lies to himself that it wasn’t a whimper that follows Sam as he steps back, the dry night air that seeps in a stark counterpoint to the hot fevered pitch of their skin on skin. For a moment, Dean nearly has time to think, Sam’s bulk not caging him in as he feels the definite ache of the hickey Sam’ left on him - but that’s before Sam’s there again, all up in his face, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of his pants and pulling him back into another blinding kiss.
Some part of Dean is raging indignantly as he’s pushed onto the bed, Sam looming over him, manipulating Dean out of his blood-sprayed shirt and suit jacket, the bracket of his thick thighs pinning Dean’s lap. Grinding down his own erection into Dean’s, which isn’t just making Dean’s breath stop and start in panic, but uncurling a new, hidden fire in his gut as his hands shoot out to claw at the thick muscle of his brother’s shoulders.
It bunches under his fingers and he tries not to finger the scar that he knows is there, from that summer when Sam was 14, when his first black dog had got past Dean and blindsided him. Sam’s first set of stitches, and it feels like Dean’s failing him again.
Sam’s babbling above, a litany that sounds like it’s just spilling out him as he nips at Dean’s jaw, pressing fast, desperate kisses against the soft hollows of his collarbone.
Beautiful.
Need this, need you.
“Dean.”
He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes, vision adjusting to the new sparse light, but he can see Sam’s eye’s hooded and dark, again almost demon-black as he nuzzles at Dean’s amulet, licking away a pearl-drop of sweat.
Dean nods dumbly; he feels too hollowed out, too bare and needy. He can’t stand the way his skin feels, stretched too tight over his bones, and the clawing need to prove he’s worth all this. Because it feel like Sam’s worshipping him as he runs his hands up and down, the dip of his abs, the pale freckle-smattered curve of his biceps, even the hollow of his elbows don’t escape Sam’s wandering touch. Sam doesn’t even need to hold Dean down, he feels blissed out. He’s too used to the sense memory of rushed blow jobs and dirty alley ruttings, and Sam just overwhelms him.
Always has, he thinks as Sam’s tongue dips into the Dean’s belly bottom, fucking into it with a promise, and Sam’s hands tug at his pants, wriggling him around to pull them off.
Boxers, too, go quickly and it’s the fresh sheen of sweat and doubt that rocks Dean as much as the shout that’s ripped from him, Sam nosing at the thatch of burnt umber above Dean’s dick.
“God, you’re so beautiful, all mine, mine, my Dean.” Sam voice is wrecked, whiskey-deep and reverent as he nips at the jut of Dean’s hipbone, fingers back to the maddening friction on his cock.
“Shit, Sam!” Dean stutters, back curving off the bed, trousers around his ankles as he spills out all over Sam’s hand, his orgasm wracking quick and strong through his bones.
A fucking surprise, in Dean’s opinion.
It’s through the post-coital haze that Dean feels Sam’s knees on either side of his waist, a thumb in his mouth and Sam’s lips against his ear, whispering blended words of worship and sex as he comes, hot strips of white that mingle with Dean’s; the chocked off, almost hurt noise that rips from Sam. He can taste the salt on his skin and breathes in the sweat, musky, blood and bleach smell of the room.
Dean feels Sam’s fingers rubbing idly at the patchwork bruising of his stomach, smoothing in their come. “Dude, you’re so gross” Dean murmurs, crinkling up his nose in disdain, and it’s weird how light the moment feels, sinking into sleep as Sam hums contentedly and wraps himself around Dean.
The last thing Dean seems to see is blood stains and a tattoo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean wakes to water stains and Sam’s hand wrapped around his bicep, covering up the raised angry handprint in his own dwarfing palm and spread fingers. His arm is heavy, but Dean seems to roll from underneath the bulk of Sam. It’s always been rather an absent notice of Dean’s that Sam’s bigger than him. Name-calling and jibes about it was always a way of staying comfortable with it, but now, Dean looks down at the bruises that ring his wrist, turned angry red and, in places, almost plum purple.
He doesn’t really know how his pants came off from his ankles, but it feels too intimate to think about the fact that he has no socks on, that Sam stripped him.
That’s when Dean notices it. Soaked through with black and brown dried blood, the crumpled button-down Sam was wearing lays at his feet, bathroom light still on, its light just slitting through the ill-fitted door as Dean picks up the shirt. It’s crisp and dry in his hands as he looks and tries not to think about the fact that it used to be white as he tiptoes over to the table, picking up his cell.
Dean stops as he hears Sam snuffle and groan, and waits for his breathing to even out again to a hiccupped snore before he pads into the bathroom, shirt still in hand as he opens the door enough to slip through without the light escaping too much.
He catches his reflection in the cracked mirror, the hickey sucked into his neck and the flaking come that itches on his sore belly. He looks fucked out and tired, aching bones and old bruising that’s fading into the shade of his skin.
Dean can feel it, the seep of something disjointed and angry flooding him as he looks at himself and doesn’t see the man he wanted to be.Dead once and so desperate as he flicks open the phone.
Maybe when this is all over, when Sam is his little brother again and Lilith is dead he can feel more like himself again, scars and all.
It takes a few rings, the sounds obscenely loud as he feels the prickle of the cold, chipped tiles on the soles of his feet, staring down at the ruined shirt in his hand and taking trying to breathe deep.
“Bobby- Yeah I know- listen we- we’ve got a problem.”
End
Master Art Post