[FIC] Father's Gun (68/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
It’s got to be the guilt.
It’s got to be the guilt that has him dreaming of Dean, devil-may-care and grinning, quick and quipping and sharp and smirking as he fists one of those rough, strong hands in Sam’s hair, tugs his head aside so he can lay a string of brutal, biting kisses along the line of Sam’s neck.
In the dream, Sam whines and writhes, digs his fingers into the broad expanse of his brother’s shoulders. He tries to wrestle back some of the control, can’t stop himself from bucking his hips in search of more contact, some relief for the hot, heady pressure building between his legs, but Dean’s as unmovable as a brick wall, leaving a trail of kisses up his neck, sucking another livid mark just under Sam’s jawline. Sam clutches at Dean’s shirt, tries again to wriggle from his grasp, and Dean nips at his throat, sudden and sharp. Sam jerks, kicks out and nails his brother right in the knee in retaliation as he lets out a hot, frustrated groan.
Dean snorts but finally relents, his hand letting go of Sam’s hair in favor of moving downward, skimming over his hip, palming at his ass, and then grasping him firmly by the thigh, yanking Sam down and up and finally, finally giving him the leverage he needs to press his hips against Dean’s in a familiar, heady rhythm. Sam hums in approval, splays his legs wider, locks their calves together so he can get in tighter, rock harder against Dean. Every tight, twisting grind of their bodies sends another hot pulse of pleasure through him, ratchets him that much higher, that much tighter, makes him want it that much hotter, that much faster.
Dean’s free hand clutches at Sam’s neck, and he presses their foreheads tight together, noses bumping lightly as they gasp and pant, groaning and greedy and dizzy. Sam struggles to crack his eyes open, wants to see, wants to close the distance and press his lips against his brother’s, but the light that filters through the fan of his lashes is so bright it hurts and Dean’s mouth remains infuriatingly, tantalizingly just out his of reach.
Sam cups both palms against the back of Dean’s warm, freckled neck, tries to tug him closer, to feel him that much more, but he gets distracted by the rasp of short-cropped hair against his palm and the pressure of Dean’s arousal against his own, stronger now, more insistent. Sam abandons his quest for a kiss in favor of trying to get a hand on Dean, murmuring his brother’s name, trying to keep the rhythm steady, trying to make this last that much longer, because it’s good, it’s too good, and Sam isn’t ready for it to end, not now, not yet, God, he doesn’t want to stop dreaming-
And God, Sam’s got it bad, worse, the worst ever, because even in his head Dean is Dean, getting a fistful of Sam’s shirt and a hand on his hip and just fucking turning it up to eleven, chuckling through a groan and laying a teasing, punishing kiss on him, hot and filthy and more bite than anything as he grinds harder, drives them faster, higher, harder, hard enough to have Sam’s head spinning as he gasps his brother’s name on a groaning, grinding exhale. Dean’s fingers tangle around his and twist, taking the wheel and driving them right off a cliff as he rasps Sam’s name into his mouth, gives one more hot, dirty twist, and that’s it for Sam. He’s coming apart, groaning and shaking and losing grip on everything but Dean, everywhere and everything and the only thing, the only thing he ever wanted, the only thing he ever needed like this, just like this…
For a few short, blissful moments, Sam lies suspended at the very edge of consciousness, unable to process anything beyond a sleepy appreciation for the soft, comfy bed, the warm body pressed against his own, and the aftershocks of a truly fantastic orgasm.
But then there’s a familiar and very real groan rumbling against his ear, and his eyes snap open, catching sight of Dean flopping heavily onto his back for half a second before Sam squeezes them shut again, claps his palms against his face. Realization hits him all at once, a sucker punch of horror and humiliation so strong he curls in on himself against it. His stomach turns over and his head goes fuzzy, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, because he just- he really- again- and God, what the hell is wrong with him?
“Dude,” Dean rumbles next to him, voice lazy and sleepy and filthy with how gravelly it is, how fucked-out and dirty it sounds, “would you quit freaking out? You’re screwing up my afterglow.”
Sam pulls his hands away from his face to stare at him, mouth hanging open.
“Your what?”
“Afterglow,” Dean repeats, slow and smoky and like Sam might be just a little bit concussed, like this is a totally normal and not-at-all-horrifying thing to wake up to.
Through the drowsy, stupid echoes of sex, there’s a little bit of surprise in his brother’s voice, but there’s no trace of the totally justified rage Sam would expect from someone whose little brother keeps molesting him in his fucking sleep. Sam’s still far too horrified to feel relief.
“I-” he stammers.”Dean, I- I’m so sorry. I don’t-”
“Mmm,” Dean interrupts, stretching his arms languidly overhead. “Don’t worry about it. ‘Least I got my reach-around this time.”
Sam flushes at the memory of warm skin against his palm, Dean’s voice gasping in his ear, and apparently that part was real, too. Fuck.
“Oh my God,” he groans, burying his face in his pillow.
“Sammy,” his brother snorts. “Seriously, cut it out. Afterglow.”
Sam makes a low, distressed sound into the pillow.
“Fine,” Dean grouses. “Since apparently I’m not gonna be allowed to enjoy this.”
He rolls out of the bed with a vigor and speed usually reserved for the elderly.
“I’m gonna grab a shower. You joining?”
“What?!” Sam bursts out, sitting up with a jolt.
Dean raises his palms, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m kidding, Sammy. Jesus.”
“Dean, this isn’t funny!” Sam exclaims indignantly.
His brother shrugs unapologetically.
“Dude, you keep blowing your load in your sleep like you’re fifteen again. C’mon, even you have to admit it’s kinda funny.”
“No, it’s not,” Sam insists, because if that was it, if it was just wet dreams or a few inappropriate hard-ons, that’d be one thing, but this is so far beyond that. God, he got a hand on Dean this time. Even for his brother, the king of denial, that should be impossible to rationalize.
Except, apparently, Dean’s decided he’s gonna give it his very best goddamn shot.
“Sam, seriously, it happens,” he says dismissively. “Relax. Everything we’ve learned the past couple of days, all the demons and psychics and hunting cults and church-burning crazy, and you’re really gonna freak out just because you had a wet dream in bed with another dude?”
And that’s- that’s not even a little bit what just happened, but Dean’s selective memory isn’t even the issue here because-
“You’re not just some other dude, Dean! You’re my brother!”
“Exactly,” Dean says stubbornly. “I watched you go through puberty, Sam. It’s not like this is new. Plus, I already know you sail under the rainbow flag, I’m cool with it, and I’m not gonna read anything weird into this, so-”
“This is weird, Dean!” Sam explodes, clamoring to his feet and gesturing between them. “This? This is not normal!”
And right now, in this moment, he’s not even worried about keeping his deeply wrong feelings for his brother a secret, because holy shit! This is the demon’s blood argument all over again, and apparently Dean isn’t just content to blow off demonic powers, apocalyptic visions, and being raised from the fucking dead, he’s also completely willing to justify incestuous bad-touching. Jesus Christ, when did their relationship get this fucked up?
“Well, what do you wanna do about it, Sammy?” Dean demands. “You gonna sexile me to another bed every time you can’t work a jack-off session in? Fine. Whatever.”
“No, I don’t want to-” Sam sputters. “I just- We have to talk about this, Dean!”
Dean snorts.
“Yeah, no. It’s way too early for me to be playing Doctor Freud for you. Just let it go, man.”
“But Dean-”
“I said leave it, Sam!” Dean snaps with such sudden vehemence that Sam retreats a few steps involuntarily.
“Dean!” he protests again, only to have the bathroom door slammed in his face.
He listens for a few moments as his brother stomps around on the tile, rattling around and slamming cabinets, before he finally pulls the shower curtain closed violently and drowns out the rest with the sound of the shower spray.
Sam sinks back down onto the bed, feeling rumpled, sticky, and like he’s somehow missed something very important.
Chapter 69
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
It’s got to be the guilt.
It’s got to be the guilt that has him dreaming of Dean, devil-may-care and grinning, quick and quipping and sharp and smirking as he fists one of those rough, strong hands in Sam’s hair, tugs his head aside so he can lay a string of brutal, biting kisses along the line of Sam’s neck.
In the dream, Sam whines and writhes, digs his fingers into the broad expanse of his brother’s shoulders. He tries to wrestle back some of the control, can’t stop himself from bucking his hips in search of more contact, some relief for the hot, heady pressure building between his legs, but Dean’s as unmovable as a brick wall, leaving a trail of kisses up his neck, sucking another livid mark just under Sam’s jawline. Sam clutches at Dean’s shirt, tries again to wriggle from his grasp, and Dean nips at his throat, sudden and sharp. Sam jerks, kicks out and nails his brother right in the knee in retaliation as he lets out a hot, frustrated groan.
Dean snorts but finally relents, his hand letting go of Sam’s hair in favor of moving downward, skimming over his hip, palming at his ass, and then grasping him firmly by the thigh, yanking Sam down and up and finally, finally giving him the leverage he needs to press his hips against Dean’s in a familiar, heady rhythm. Sam hums in approval, splays his legs wider, locks their calves together so he can get in tighter, rock harder against Dean. Every tight, twisting grind of their bodies sends another hot pulse of pleasure through him, ratchets him that much higher, that much tighter, makes him want it that much hotter, that much faster.
Dean’s free hand clutches at Sam’s neck, and he presses their foreheads tight together, noses bumping lightly as they gasp and pant, groaning and greedy and dizzy. Sam struggles to crack his eyes open, wants to see, wants to close the distance and press his lips against his brother’s, but the light that filters through the fan of his lashes is so bright it hurts and Dean’s mouth remains infuriatingly, tantalizingly just out his of reach.
Sam cups both palms against the back of Dean’s warm, freckled neck, tries to tug him closer, to feel him that much more, but he gets distracted by the rasp of short-cropped hair against his palm and the pressure of Dean’s arousal against his own, stronger now, more insistent. Sam abandons his quest for a kiss in favor of trying to get a hand on Dean, murmuring his brother’s name, trying to keep the rhythm steady, trying to make this last that much longer, because it’s good, it’s too good, and Sam isn’t ready for it to end, not now, not yet, God, he doesn’t want to stop dreaming-
And God, Sam’s got it bad, worse, the worst ever, because even in his head Dean is Dean, getting a fistful of Sam’s shirt and a hand on his hip and just fucking turning it up to eleven, chuckling through a groan and laying a teasing, punishing kiss on him, hot and filthy and more bite than anything as he grinds harder, drives them faster, higher, harder, hard enough to have Sam’s head spinning as he gasps his brother’s name on a groaning, grinding exhale. Dean’s fingers tangle around his and twist, taking the wheel and driving them right off a cliff as he rasps Sam’s name into his mouth, gives one more hot, dirty twist, and that’s it for Sam. He’s coming apart, groaning and shaking and losing grip on everything but Dean, everywhere and everything and the only thing, the only thing he ever wanted, the only thing he ever needed like this, just like this…
For a few short, blissful moments, Sam lies suspended at the very edge of consciousness, unable to process anything beyond a sleepy appreciation for the soft, comfy bed, the warm body pressed against his own, and the aftershocks of a truly fantastic orgasm.
But then there’s a familiar and very real groan rumbling against his ear, and his eyes snap open, catching sight of Dean flopping heavily onto his back for half a second before Sam squeezes them shut again, claps his palms against his face. Realization hits him all at once, a sucker punch of horror and humiliation so strong he curls in on himself against it. His stomach turns over and his head goes fuzzy, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, because he just- he really- again- and God, what the hell is wrong with him?
“Dude,” Dean rumbles next to him, voice lazy and sleepy and filthy with how gravelly it is, how fucked-out and dirty it sounds, “would you quit freaking out? You’re screwing up my afterglow.”
Sam pulls his hands away from his face to stare at him, mouth hanging open.
“Your what?”
“Afterglow,” Dean repeats, slow and smoky and like Sam might be just a little bit concussed, like this is a totally normal and not-at-all-horrifying thing to wake up to.
Through the drowsy, stupid echoes of sex, there’s a little bit of surprise in his brother’s voice, but there’s no trace of the totally justified rage Sam would expect from someone whose little brother keeps molesting him in his fucking sleep. Sam’s still far too horrified to feel relief.
“I-” he stammers.”Dean, I- I’m so sorry. I don’t-”
“Mmm,” Dean interrupts, stretching his arms languidly overhead. “Don’t worry about it. ‘Least I got my reach-around this time.”
Sam flushes at the memory of warm skin against his palm, Dean’s voice gasping in his ear, and apparently that part was real, too. Fuck.
“Oh my God,” he groans, burying his face in his pillow.
“Sammy,” his brother snorts. “Seriously, cut it out. Afterglow.”
Sam makes a low, distressed sound into the pillow.
“Fine,” Dean grouses. “Since apparently I’m not gonna be allowed to enjoy this.”
He rolls out of the bed with a vigor and speed usually reserved for the elderly.
“I’m gonna grab a shower. You joining?”
“What?!” Sam bursts out, sitting up with a jolt.
Dean raises his palms, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m kidding, Sammy. Jesus.”
“Dean, this isn’t funny!” Sam exclaims indignantly.
His brother shrugs unapologetically.
“Dude, you keep blowing your load in your sleep like you’re fifteen again. C’mon, even you have to admit it’s kinda funny.”
“No, it’s not,” Sam insists, because if that was it, if it was just wet dreams or a few inappropriate hard-ons, that’d be one thing, but this is so far beyond that. God, he got a hand on Dean this time. Even for his brother, the king of denial, that should be impossible to rationalize.
Except, apparently, Dean’s decided he’s gonna give it his very best goddamn shot.
“Sam, seriously, it happens,” he says dismissively. “Relax. Everything we’ve learned the past couple of days, all the demons and psychics and hunting cults and church-burning crazy, and you’re really gonna freak out just because you had a wet dream in bed with another dude?”
And that’s- that’s not even a little bit what just happened, but Dean’s selective memory isn’t even the issue here because-
“You’re not just some other dude, Dean! You’re my brother!”
“Exactly,” Dean says stubbornly. “I watched you go through puberty, Sam. It’s not like this is new. Plus, I already know you sail under the rainbow flag, I’m cool with it, and I’m not gonna read anything weird into this, so-”
“This is weird, Dean!” Sam explodes, clamoring to his feet and gesturing between them. “This? This is not normal!”
And right now, in this moment, he’s not even worried about keeping his deeply wrong feelings for his brother a secret, because holy shit! This is the demon’s blood argument all over again, and apparently Dean isn’t just content to blow off demonic powers, apocalyptic visions, and being raised from the fucking dead, he’s also completely willing to justify incestuous bad-touching. Jesus Christ, when did their relationship get this fucked up?
“Well, what do you wanna do about it, Sammy?” Dean demands. “You gonna sexile me to another bed every time you can’t work a jack-off session in? Fine. Whatever.”
“No, I don’t want to-” Sam sputters. “I just- We have to talk about this, Dean!”
Dean snorts.
“Yeah, no. It’s way too early for me to be playing Doctor Freud for you. Just let it go, man.”
“But Dean-”
“I said leave it, Sam!” Dean snaps with such sudden vehemence that Sam retreats a few steps involuntarily.
“Dean!” he protests again, only to have the bathroom door slammed in his face.
He listens for a few moments as his brother stomps around on the tile, rattling around and slamming cabinets, before he finally pulls the shower curtain closed violently and drowns out the rest with the sound of the shower spray.
Sam sinks back down onto the bed, feeling rumpled, sticky, and like he’s somehow missed something very important.
Chapter 69