SPN Fic: Why not stay and be caught? (2/2)
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Dean leads him off through the crowd with eager strides, but quickly adjusts to Sam’s more tentative gait as he shuffles along. Sam’s feet and ankles suddenly ache from the unfamiliar pressure of simply standing in these things. Dean puts an arm around Sam’s waist to support him, to keep him from being pushed around by the other partiers. And just that simple gesture makes Sam nearly melt into him right there. Normally, Sam puts up a fight against Dean’s protective instincts. But something about tonight-his own unexpected transformation, Dean’s astonishing pursuit, the need for secrecy, the fear of exposure-something has him welcoming the security Dean provides.
But then the hand around Sam’s waist slips a few inches lower, coming to rest on his hip, on the bare strip between corset and skirt. Dean’s thumb begins to rub small circles on Sam’s skin, teasing lower every few turns. Sam gasps at the thrill that jags through him, and suddenly Dean’s embrace is not a shelter, but a snare.
Sam instinctively moves closer, chasing sensation, and Dean shifts slightly so that he’s snugged up behind Sam now. They continue their forward progress past dancers and drinkers and lovers alike, with Dean’s hands both settled above Sam’s hips. Sam feels him stretch his fingers wide, and yes, his hands almost able to span Sam’s waist like this, pulled in tight as he is.
Despite Dean’s firm grip, when he dips his head to brush his lips along the side of Sam’s throat, Sam nearly stumbles and falls.
“Almost there,” Dean murmurs in his ear, voice smooth and potent as another whisky shot.
Dean guides him through a doorway into another room of the club. It’s even darker in here, only a few tiny pinpoint lights set into the ceiling, an imitation of stars. Dozens of couches are scattered around the open space and Sam can see shapes-couples, maybe more-sprawled on and around all of them. Dim as it is, Sam has no doubt what’s going on, the distinctive movement of thrusting hips, the stray broken cry of pleasure.
That could be him and Dean in a minute. His stomach flutters, hot and cold, at the thought.
Sam doesn’t know where they’re going, how they will find a spot in the packed room. Maybe Dean will have to fuck him up against the wall. But while his mind floods with images of Dean shoved up behind him, pressing his face into rough concrete blocks, Dean is steering them to the very back.
They approach one couch with just a guy sitting alone. Dean keeps one hand on Sam as he digs into his jeans pocket, pulling out a couple of bills and handing them to the stranger. “Thanks.”
When the guy walks off, Sam cocks his head in question.
“I keep one reserved. Just in case.”
“What a boy scout,” Sam murmurs.
“Oh, I’m always prepared, sweetheart.” Dean reaches again into his back pocket, and tosses a little tube and a condom onto the couch cushions.
This time Sam’s gut doesn’t flutter, it twists. He doesn’t have any idea how this is supposed to go, but fuck if he’s not going. The problem is, there’s still danger, he knows he’s still got to hide himself as much as he can. So as much as it kills him, when Dean leans in for a kiss, Sam turns away.
He kicks off those godforsaken shoes and climbs onto the couch, kneeling on the cushions with his back to Dean. He hesitates for a second, then leans to rest his elbows on the back, the lines of the corset forcing him to arch his spine. His little skirt rides up and Sam can feel cool air on the cheeks of his ass.
He looks over his shoulder to check Dean’s reaction, but Dean’s already moving, crowding up behind Sam to push his skirt up around his waist, running both palms over the bared skin. Sam jerks at the contact, but tries to hold himself still, pretend like he’s used to this. Like he’s familiar with anyone’s touch in such an intimate place.
Dean strokes and kneads his ass for long seconds, and Sam’s just adjusting to the reality of it when Dean slips a finger underneath the long elastic band of his garter and snaps it, thwack, sharp against his thigh.
Sam lets out an involuntary yip of surprise, and another one when Dean leans down and licks under the garter at the sore spot, his finger moving down to sneak under the lace edging of Sam’s stocking and rub softly back and forth.
The corset’s suddenly too-tight again as Sam struggles for breath, his cock filling and pressing painfully against the confines of his panties. He tries to sit up, but Dean places one hand splayed flat on Sam’s back, the skin of his palm hot in the gaps between the corset’s laces.
“Easy. Stay there for a second,” Sam hears him say with a shush. He feels the tug of Dean pulling at the thong and easing it out to the side.
It was the slimmest strip of fabric, but without it Sam’s uncovered, exposed, right there under Dean’s gaze, and Sam’s face burns even as his cock jumps when Dean slides the tip of his finger into Sam’s crack and gently touches the furled muscle of his hole. Little strokes, slow circles, and Sam’s squirming, twitching, sensation bursting out from that one tight spot, ricocheting all around his body, and sinking back into the throbbing heat of his dick.
Dean’s hand on his back pushes down harder, urging Sam flatter, even as he gets a knee in between Sam’s legs and nudges them wider too, until Sam’s truly open fully to him. The soft touches are back, barely along the rim of his opening, then a shallow dip of the tip of Dean’s finger inside him, and Sam lets out a sound, a weird pleading mewl that he’d never imagined himself making. He doesn’t even care, even know why, other than he needs more. Needs Dean to do something, to help him, to, to-
“So sensitive,” Dean hums. “That’s good.” He reaches around and cups Sam’s cock where it’s practically bursting out of the lacy seams. Like magic, Dean flips the front panel down, pulling it so the elastic snugs under Sam’s balls. He runs his palm up the burning-hot skin of Sam’s shaft, the sleek metal of his ring dragging a bright line from root to tip.
Instantly, Sam bites his lip to muffle a shout of relief, of pleasure, and he comes, thick blurts that coat Dean’s hand and make a mess all over the couch cushions underneath him.
Dean strokes him through it, his murmurs of encouragement barely heard above the ringing in Sam’s ears. “That’s right. Pour it out for me. Gonna be nice and loose now. Gonna let me in, let me feel you. ”
Sam’s head swims and he has to curl down and rest it on his gloved wrists, the wig’s long hair like a curtain, shutting out the club. He’s gulping for air now, trying to catch his breath, his ribs straining against the sides of the corset as weak echoes of his orgasm continue to shudder through him.
But Dean only gives him a moment’s respite and then his hands are back, this time his fingers slick with lube. There’s nothing gentle or slow this time. Dean sinks one finger deep inside him, a stinging, alien intrusion. Every one of Sam’s fizzling nerve endings screams back to life as Dean stirs his finger against Sam’s tender insides, straining against the narrow walls, drawing slowly out only to push back in with two.
“Oh fuck,” Sam cries, but then bites down on his own hand, the residue of his lipstick staining the satin red. He can’t make noise, can’t risk Dean hearing and recognizing him, even as he’s taking Sam apart with the same deliberation he uses to clean a weapon or fix a car: careful, expert, reverent.
Dean keeps stretching him open with a rasping, exquisite friction Sam’s helpless to resist. More lube, so much Sam’s dripping with it, and Dean adds a third finger to press in again, and again, until one particular plunge sends a shock of lightning up Sam’s spine and wrenches another muffled sound free. Because Dean just hit a perfect livewire spot inside him, and Sam wonders if he could come again so soon, just from that. That one spot there.
He mindlessly grinds back, clenching and flexing, chasing that feeling. Without warning, Dean stops moving his hand, just holds it still for Sam to fuck back onto. So Sam does, circling his hips, desperate with want, spearing himself on Dean’s fingers. It makes his stomach feel hollowed out and hot, what he must look like, what Dean must see. But he’s woozy with this feverish rush through his veins, and no shame can compete with the prickling ache inside him.
And then just as the stretching burn starts to ease, Dean’s fingers are gone and Sam is left empty.
"Hold on, baby. Hold on." Dean sounds like he just ran a mile. Sam feels like he’s run ten.
A wrapper rustles, Dean’s belt buckle clinks, and then there’s a wet rhythm that must be Dean rolling on the condom. Sam sits up a bit, takes a firmer grip on the couch, lightheaded, trembling, a cocktail of adrenaline and trepidation making his chest clench like a fist. Because it hits him hard-despite the fact that he’s already come with his brother’s hand on his dick-that they’re really going to do this.
The stiff, slick jut of Dean's cock brushes against the inside of Sam's thigh as Dean maneuvers himself into place between Sam’s legs. With one hand, he bundles all of Sam’s hair and tucks it over one shoulder, causing cool air and Dean’s warm breath to swirl together over his bare neck and back. Dean’s other hand comes around to fondle Sam’s cock and his balls, smearing them with leftover lube, short strokes that urge him back to full hardness, distracting him so that the blunt nudge up against his hole comes almost as a surprise.
Sam tries to breathe deep, forgetting he can’t, and yet what little air he has is driven out of him as Dean slowly pushes inside, this time with something bigger, more rigid, too hot, too much. Sam tries to squirm away, clawing at the fabric of the couch, but there’s nowhere to go. Dean pushes in, a little farther, and another inch still. Sam doesn’t think it’s ever going to end, the progression of searing, stinging thrusts, each one shoving deeper inside him until Sam can’t believe he has any more room.
“Shh. Settle down, now. Relax. Let me in.” It’s the bone-deep familiarity of that voice murmuring in his ear, coaching, coaxing, that prompts Sam to give a little nod, that lets him unclench his muscles-his knotted thighs, his tense fists-and let his knees slide, just the slightest bit wider, out to the sides again. “Ahh, that’s it. Bear down for me as I move. There you go.”
Dean keeps coming, but Sam’s ready for it, willing his body open to the thick intrusion. Closer in now, Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s chest and his hand slips under the lip of the corset to coast over Sam’s nipple, teasing at the peak. Sam’s whole body hitches at the sweet jolt that connects that tiny point with his cock.
Dean huffs out a laugh, the bastard, and his thumb and forefinger begin to pinch and twist in time with the punches of his hips. Sam trembles, his nipple starting to throb as raw and red as his ass, but in both of them the pain is morphing into pleasure and all of Sam’s wires are crossed.
He can barely breathe at all now, just little sips at the air that don't even make it into his lungs. The corset makes him too narrow, and Dean’s cock-the thick, hot weight of it-takes up the small space left inside.
Then Sam feels the unexpected touch of Dean’s bare thighs as he comes to rest fully seated inside him. Dean holds himself still, and in that static moment, Sam finds that the fear in his belly has melted away, liquid heat dissolving everything except for the need for Dean. His relentless need for Dean.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Dean mutters into the dark, as if he can read Sam’s mind. He curls over Sam’s back to mouth at his shoulder blade, his tongue tracing a triangle there, over and over, in the sheen of sweat that gilds him. Sam can feel the amulet dangling down to brush against his skin, too, mirroring Dean’s caress. “Wanted you.”
It’s said so softly, Sam’s not sure he heard right. But it no longer matters, because Dean rears back and starts fucking him for real.
The first astonishing thrust wrings groans from both of them, and Dean just ups the ante from there. He pistons into Sam with swift, skillful rolls of his hips, more intense than anything Sam’s ever imagined. Sparks strike, rushing along his nerves every time Dean drives against that bright-sweet place. His arms shake as he lets go of the back of the couch and stretches to push against the wall behind it. It gives him leverage, and when Dean pushes into him again, Sam pushes back.
"My God." Dean’s voice is so rapt it makes Sam pause, even as he scrabbles and heaves to try to match Dean’s rhythm. "You’re fucking perfect. You can't imagine…I never thought I'd have this, never." And he slams in so hard Sam’s knees nearly buckle under him.
It’s a battle then, pure coarse rutting. Dean shoving forward, Sam pushing back. On and on, the pleasure wracking him making everything more intense: the garters scraping his skin, the corset digging into his belly, the cornstalk hair flicking over his face. And just when Sam thinks he’s about to fly apart, every other breath a sob, Dean pulls all the way out, grips Sam’s hips, and spins him 90-degrees, laying him down over the low arm of the couch. Sam’s ass, open and needy, sits high in the air. Dean lines up and thrusts his dick back inside.
The new angle lets Dean plunge so deep Sam thinks he can taste him in his throat. Sam wants to yell, but he can’t even get enough air to whimper. Suddenly Dean’s hand is there, wrapped around his cock, tight and almost punishing. Sam bucks up uncontrollably, writhing and thrashing at the unbelievable sensations warring inside and out. He feels Dean tuck his fingers in the laces of Sam’s corset, yanking them even tighter, restraining Sam’s wild movements. The corset is a harness and Dean is riding him, breaking him, as Sam bucks like a wild horse beneath.
Dean tugs at the laces in time with each drive into Sam’s ass. The rigid line of his cock works ever deeper, his hand speeds faster, harder, thumbing at the slit, compelling Sam to come.
Sam cries out, unable to resist. Every muscle seizes as his pleasure peaks and peaks again, his balls clenched up tight underneath him, his body clenched tight around Dean’s cock. White-hot, endless spasms spill out of him until he falls-a limp, pliant mess-against the gross, scratchy fabric of the couch.
He hears Dean let out a rough sob and his hips stutter one last time, then he goes utterly still. A moment later Sam can feel Dean’s dick thicken, then pulse, shooting his release into the condom. It’s the greatest thing Sam’s ever felt in his life, this feeling of Dean coming inside him.
***
There’s a blur of lost time as Sam comes back to himself gradually, like a feather drifting slowly to the floor. He blinks, and winces a little as he feels Dean’s hips shift back, carefully withdrawing. Sam should probably move, sit up, start putting himself back together. And he will, in one more minute.
But then Dean leans back in, planting one hand on the couch next to him, right in Sam’s line of sight. The sweet lethargy that was gripping him is immediately swept away. Because Sam can read the florescent dial of Dean’s watch, and it says 1:14.
Sam rolls out from under Dean and off the couch, scrabbling, scrambling, grabbing his shoes up off the floor. He bolts. He hears Dean call out behind him, but with his shoes off, Sam is quick. He rabbits his way through the maze of couches and out the door to the club’s main room.
His ass is sore, and he can feel a tiny trickle of lube running down his thigh, but he can’t worry about any of that right now. The shortest distance to the exit is across the dance floor, so Sam starts to push his way through, getting jostled and squeezed and his toes stepped on. Then someone bumps Sam, hard, and knocks the shoes out of his hands. He sees one get kicked away, skittering across the dance floor. He snatches up the one at his feet and goes to chase the other when he hears Dean’s voice again, “Wait!”
Sam gives up on the other shoe with a muffled swear, running for the door.
Barbie is outside the car, leaning against the passenger door when Sam comes sprinting out.
“Sorry,” he gasps.
“I knew you’d make it,” she says. “Get in.”
As they race out of the lot, Sam quickly strips off stockings and skirt and pulls on his sweats over the panties to keep from making a mess on the seat. He pulls enough of the pins out of his hair to pull off the wig and toss it into the back. He turns wordlessly with his back toward Barbie, and with one hand she undoes the tied bow of the corset strings and looses them enough to allow Sam to release the hooks in front.
He takes his first real breath in hours. Then slumps against the window like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Did you have fun?” Barbie asks.
“Yeah.” Sam reaches up to pull another stray bobby pin from his hair.
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Um. I don’t think so. Not yet, at least. It’s-it’s kind of a big deal.” He feels numb, like in a state of shock. All the emotion, everything that just happened, Dean, him, it’s too much to process, it’s blown out his circuit board. He tucks the bobby pin in the pocket of his hoodie.
“Aww,” Barbie says, only half-mocking. “That is the cutest thing. A boy’s first rogering.”
“Shut up,” he says softly, poking her side. “And thanks.”
***
Whoever said ‘better to have loved and lost’ didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, because Sam is suffering pure agony. The sound of Dean’s voice, the way he sits sprawled out in a kitchen chair, the warm rumpled sheets of his bed that Sam has to muster every ounce of willpower he’s got not to touch when Dean gets up in the morning. Everything, everything, takes him back to those moments at The Palace.
If he’d been cracked before, now he’s fragmenting, giant fissures widening and the thick, the shameful mess inside him bubbling to the surface.
He’d given everything back to Barbie to return or get rid of. Everything except the unpaired shoe. The shoe he’d saved is carefully hidden in a paper bag in the attic. He dare not keep it anywhere near his stuff, now that he knows Dad goes through it.
He tries to hide himself, too, more desperate and off-balance than he’s ever been, Each morning he rolls out of bed for school at the last possible second to avoid interaction, grabbing a piece of fruit or a couple of powerbars as he scuttles through the kitchen. And thank god it’s soccer season, so he has an excuse to be at school until late. At home, he holes up in the bedroom, behind his computer screen and his AP Chem homework.
He overhears Dean and Dad out in the living room, muttered conversation about Sam’s withdrawal: Dad insisting it’s just normal teenage angst, Dean sounding concerned and skeptical. And that just adds to Sam’s guilt. He’s punishing Dean for his own stupidity, making Dean worry. But no matter how Sam tries, he can’t seem to recapture any normal sense of himself.
His body knows the feel of Dean’s now. Just one taste and he’s jonesing worse than any drug addict.
On Thursday, Dad up and leaves town again, word of something, possibly a kelpie, almost a whole day’s drive south. Dean begs to go along with him. This time Sam lends his voice as well, pointing out Dad’s never encountered one before, could use backup, insisting he’ll be fine here by himself. Please, please, either take him or stay, Sam pleads silently, dreading the thought of a whole weekend or more alone with Dean in the house.
But Dad lives to make Sam miserable, and he takes off that morning. He leaves a handful of bills on the kitchen counter and a note detailing the skills-training they’re required to do while he’s gone.
“Training,” Dean grumbles, pouring milk into two bowls for their breakfast. “What are we training for if he’s not going to use us on hunts? Right, Sammy?”
“Right,” Sam replies weakly, watching the way the sun glints off the fine hairs of Dean’s arm.
After soccer practice, a bunch of his teammates stick around to play hoops. Shirts and skins. Sam joins in. They’re playing hard when Dean rattles up in his ancient Ford. He gets out and walks toward the court with a casual wave, asks if Sam wants a ride home. Sam can’t come up with a ready excuse, so he agrees. He trots over to the bench where Dean’s waiting, suddenly and keenly aware that he’s half-naked under Dean’s shrewd gaze. Sam leans down to grab his shirt and turns his back to Dean to yank it on. Scooping up his backpack, he makes a beeline for Dean’s car.
The atmosphere on the ride home is suddenly more icy than a meat locker. Dean turns up the radio too loud for conversation, eyes fixed straight ahead like something’s about to jump into the road ahead. When he pulls through a Wendy’s drive thru for dinner, he doesn’t even bother asking Sam what he wants, just orders for both of them. He shoves the bag at Sam without looking at him.
Sam’s not sure what set him off, but he holds himself still and quiet, hoping whatever it is will blow over. He can’t stand when Dean’s pissed-especially when he’s pissed at Sam-and usually he’d pester Dean until the problem got resolved. But nothing is usual now.
They park in front of the house and Dean just sits there, hands at ten and two on the wheel. Like he’s going to drop Sam off and keep driving.
“I’m going in to take a shower,” Sam announces and hustles inside.
When he comes out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he walks into the bedroom to find Dean waiting in ambush.
He’s sitting on Sam’s bed with a shoe in his lap. The shoe. Sam can’t believe he found it in the attic.
But then it hits him. That’s the right shoe, not the left.
“Dean-“
“You’ve got three moles on your shoulder,” Dean says, eerily calm. “I’d forgotten that you had those.”
It’s like a knife plunged deep into his gut, the pain that rips through him.
“I’m sorry. It’s sick. I’m sick. I never meant to hurt you.” He knew there was a possibility Dean would find out, but it was so horrible to think about, so catastrophic, Sam never made a plan of what he’d do in the event.
“I didn’t know it was you,” Dean goes on, as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “But you knew it was me.”
Sam needs Dean to look at him. To stop looking at the shoe. To stop running his hands over it, his fingers gently tracing the sharp line of the heel, the long curve of the sole. Dean’s hands. The shoe. Stop.
“I never meant for you to find out,” Sam swears. “But that’s-that’s not an excuse. It’s just-It was stupid and selfish and oh god, Dean. I-You were right there, offering, and, um, I wanted you to be my first.”
Dean flinches like Sam slapped him. “There? With some stranger in a skanky bar on that filthy couch? That was your first time?”
Sam wants to say that it was better than he ever imagined. All he ever wanted. But he’s already fucked things up enough. He clings to the towel like a lifeline, fist clenched so tight his knuckles ache. His throat closes up over unshed tears. He’s disgusted with himself. “I’m sorry.”
Dean still won’t look at him. Maybe he never will again. Sam will pack his things and walk out the door and they’ll never speak again. Because Sam made the worst mistake of his life.
Dean’s still looking at the shoe. “I went back and searched all over for this after he-you-ran off without it.”
Sam can’t help himself. “Why?” he croaks.
“You say you’re sick,” Dean says, still so calm. Sam wishes he’d shout, that he’d put a fist in Sam’s face. It couldn’t hurt worse. “You know what else is sick? That I picked you up in the bar, that I fucked you there,” Dean’s mouth twists over the words, “because I wanted to pretend it was my little brother. I wanted to fuck some strange kid and pretend it was you.”
A wave of realization crashes over him as the sense of what Dean’s saying nearly knocks Sam to his knees. He struggles to stop himself from shaking, to hold himself stock-still, knowing that whatever follows will remake the entire world.
“What do we do now?” he asks, as neutral as he can possibly pitch his voice. Because Sam’s the one who brought this on them, and the next move has to be Dean’s.
Dean lurches off the bed and lands on the carpet right at Sam’s feet. He holds out shoe.
It takes Sam a second to process. But, as he looks down into Dean’s upturned face, his anxious expression, he understands everything this means. There’s no masks now… not on Dean, not on him.
Sam answers the unspoken question by putting his palm flat on the wall for balance. He lifts his foot and slips it into the shoe.
Dean looks down, holds it in both hands, as if the cheap plastic is something priceless. He moves his thumb, skimming it slowly over the thin skin of Sam’s ankle, tracing down his tender arch. Sam can’t contain the soft whimper that bubbles up in the back of his throat.
“I just want you to be happy, Sammy,” Dean whispers, his head still bowed. “And-and I want to be the one to make you happy.”
Sam laughs. He laughs like he might never stop, but then falls to his knees next to Dean on the floor. Sam lets the towel slip through his fingers so he can bring both hands up to take his brother by the shoulders.
“You do. You always will. Forever.”
And with that, he leans in for their first kiss. Because nothing could make him happier than that.
***