Alive | Sam/Dean | NC-17
Title: Alive
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Warnings: NC-17/Underage (Sam is 15; Dean is 19)
Summary: After a bad hunt, Dean is shaken up and draws into himself, until Sam comes along to make everything okay.
Notes: For SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020 prompt: Sam sucks on Dean's nipple and plays with Dean's hole until Dean comes untouched. Originally posted here.
Read on AO3
It’s one of Dean’s first bad hunts. A mothman, of all the insane legends to pop up on their radar. Poor photography had illustrated the vague shape and townsfolk held the tales, but then Dean and Dad found its lair and it found them. Dean, in particular, as he scoped out a winding cave before it flew at him. They’d wrestled on the ground until it got its arms around him and threatened to slice his throat as Dad approached.
It took some doing, but Dad was a master at his craft, and they walked out of the cave with their lives in tact.
Mostly.
*
The ride back to the motel is deathly silent, Dean shaking off the fear that hung heavy on his shoulders and Dad scrubbing at his jaw in that stern way that made Dean think he was in trouble. He knows Dad’s piecing together a lecture about how Dean should’ve gone left instead of right, should’ve stayed out of the caves like he ordered him to, should’ve been smart enough to not get caught.
Dean has spent most of his life trying to prove himself to his dad. That he’s old enough to hunt, strong enough to handle his own, tough enough to survive. He fails time and time again, and Dad always counts the ways.
When Dad pulls into the parking spot in front of their motel room, he doesn’t turn off the car, doesn’t even put her in park, and Dean steels himself for a world-class tongue-lashing.
Dad stares ahead at the motel room door, sucks his lips into his mouth, then pushes them out, and Dean holds his breath. Seeing Dad quietly stewing feels worse than any criticism, no matter how loud he can yell or how hard he can punch walls.
Dean can’t take it anymore and starts with a careful, yet contrite, “Dad, I’m sorry. I know I should’ve - ”
“You shouldn’t’ve been there.”
He blinks at the sound of Dad’s voice, soft and broken.
Is Dad saying he can’t hunt anymore?
Imagine that, being fired from the family business. What would Dean do then? This was the only life he’d known, the only family he had …
“Go check on Sam,” Dad goes on. “I’m gonna meet the coroner.”
This late at night, it’s usually code for hitting up a local bar and keeping it company until closing. Which also means ditching his sons for the night.
As Dean gets out of the car, Dad calls his name and leans towards the passenger side. “You gonna be okay?”
That confuses him. Dad doesn’t often ask after them, and especially not in a low, concerned tone like this. There’re usually jokes or demands, nothing in between. “Yeah …” Dean looks at the scratches all over his arms, flannel shirt tore up where the creature’s claws had gotten him. He even sets a palm to his neck where more red marks will scab up in the coming days, a lasting reminder of how close he came to dying. “I’m good,” he replies, forcing bravado for his dad.
Dad pulls away without another word and Dean watches the headlights fade before he heads into the room.
“Hey.” Sam barely looks up from where he’s stretched out belly down on the far bed. His eyes are glued to the TV, some night-time sitcom that’s probably more advanced than what a teenager would want to spend his time with. But this hotel only has five channels and Sam has done more with less.
“Hey,” Dean returns flatly. He still has the heft of that conversation with Dad on his mind and he just wants to shower, patch up the worst of the cuts, and pass out.
As he undresses, Sam gives a second look and gasps. “What the hell happened?”
Dean sighs as he wrenches around with as little pain as possible to get his undershirt off. “Nothing a little lamb’s blood couldn’t fix.”
That’s seriously downplaying it, but there’s no way he’s about to clue Sam into how rough the hunt had been. Or how scared he still is with the ragged screech of the monster replaying in his mind, the phantom burning of nails scratching at his jugular ...
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Dean insists with a fake smile. As he passes the beds, he smacks the back of Sam’s head, then heads for a shower.
*
He takes his time to clean up, lets the steam of the hot water loosen him up and cloud the mirror so he can’t see just how bad the marks are. There’s no way he’ll count them up now. Maybe tomorrow, or a few days from now, when his nerves aren’t shot and his joints stop trembling from the adrenaline crash.
When he steps out of the bathroom, the lights are out, just the TV giving enough of a glow for Dean to see Sam now backed up against the headboard of the far bed. Sam’s numbly changing channels, the remote in his lap, and his eyes in a dead stare ahead of him.
“Night,” Dean says quietly and slips into the other bed. He shuffles the pillows around to get the right support and tries to clear his brain of the flashes of that monster behind his eyelids.
The image is just starting to cloud over to a blank gray landscape when Sam speaks up.
“Dad called.”
“Hmm,” Dean sounds out.
“You okay?”
“Hmm?”
Sam stretches out the words, “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m feeling damn tired, Sam.” Dean punches the pillows in frustration and clenches his eyes shut.
“Dad asked if you’re okay.”
There’s a long, heavy quiet, punctuated with Sam’s worried little sigh.
Dad doesn’t often call when he’s on a Jim Beam bender, least of all to check if they’re okay …
There’s a ghostly clutch at his neck, sharp cuts on his arm, and he relives the hunt to the point of a building panic attack.
Ever his father’s child, Dean shoves the blankets off and rolls to his back with a grunt to shove any worry away, fend off Sam’s emotions. “Jesus, Sam, you gonna let a guy sleep or you wanna talk about feelings now?”
Sam scoots to the side of the bed closest to Dean, swings his feet down to the ground, and flips off the TV. “How bad was it?”
Dean runs a hand over his face, bringing fingers to his neck as he remembers. There’s a hitch in his chest he can’t hide and next he knows, Sam is joining him on the bed. “What’re you - ”
“Just let me,” he mumbles as he sidles up next to Dean. His finger traces a cut at Dean’s elbow, runs up his bicep to push the sleeve of Dean’s shirt away and feel more. “Pretty bad, huh?”
Clearing his throat, Dean allows himself to acknowledge it, admit to himself just how shaken he still feels all these hours later. And to feel Sam’s touch, the warmth of his fingers, reminds Dean that he got out of there.
He is alive.
Sam must sense it, because he rests his hand on Dean’s chest, rising and falling with Dean’s quickening lungs. There is an instant spread of heat over Dean’s skin trickling out from under Sam’s palm, and he feels a moment of relief.
“You don’t wanna tell me, fine,” Sam says, a little attitude to his words, “But it’s okay to be scared. Dad sounded scared.”
Dean blinks and stares at the pitch black of the room, unable to make out the ceiling, the walls, or Sam’s face, even when he feels his brother hovering nearby. “He did?”
“And if he’s worried, then it must be bad.”
With a short nod, Dean gives in and pats a hand at Sam’s knee. “Fair enough.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” is the most he can admit. This hunt’s gonna live with him for a long time. But he’s grateful he gets to live a lot longer, too.
Sam hums.
Dean squeezes Sam’s knee in reassurance and the kid seems to accept the answer, because he goes quiet, sinking down to the bed alongside Dean. His hand presses a little closer to Dean’s chest, palm moving over Dean’s heart, as if he’s checking for a beat.
It’s definitely there, and soon enough, it stutters with Sam’s hand moving an inch or two over, fingers brushing over Dean’s pec. Dean inhales, a loud echo in the silence, then he bites his lips when Sam’s fingers trip over his nipple.
Sam hums in thought, pauses, then runs his fingers back over it, making Dean shift a little. There’s a new kind of shake to his nerves that thankfully replaces the fear been gripping him tight since the mothman rushed upon him.
They don’t say much - never have in the foggy quiet of night, when it’s just the two of them, no one to witness this - and Dean doesn’t move. Sam, however, lets his fingers roam, tips circling Dean’s nipple. As Dean’s breathing quickens, Sam charges on with a hand pushing up under Dean’s shirt, slinging it up near Dean’s neck, so he can get his mouth where his fingers had been.
“Sam,” Dean mumbles.
“Hmm.”
“Don’t have to.”
Sam mouths at Dean’s nipple and hums, his hand now making its way to Dean’s other nipple. He breaks off enough to say, “Want to be sure.”
“Of what?”
“Make sure you’re okay.”
Dean sets his hand over Sam’s, a silent reply, and maybe an out if Sam doesn’t want to do this. Because there’s enough that’s fucked up about their lives, hundreds of nightmares to last decades, but Dean doesn’t want to live with the torment that he soiled his teenage brother. Even if Sam’s been the one to sully himself with late night jerk-off sessions, sometimes using his mouth to make Dean squirm, begging for Dean to return the favor ...
Dean always does. Never lets his little brother down. Wouldn’t dream of it …
“Gonna make you okay,” Sam mumbles against Dean’s nipple, then takes it back into his mouth.
There’s a tingle down through Dean’s belly that fires off sparks when Sam gets his teeth into it and twists his fingers at the other. Dean kicks his heels against the bed, his head back into the pillow, and lets Sam do whatever the hell he wants when it gives him a way to escape the hell of the hunt. Allows him to remember that he is still breathing, blood still pumping, and Sam is still his brother.
He has so little willpower when it comes to this. He can tell Sam no a hundred times a day, but here in the night, he’ll just keep his mouth shut and give his silent concession, voicing his approval with moans and soft whispers of his brother’s name.
And he softly whimpers when Sam’s hand dances down Dean’s stomach, slips past the waistband of his pants and underwear, and keeps going. Sam palms Dean’s dick, but not for long, because he’s got other things in mind as his fingers crawl over Dean’s balls and finally press far back.
Dean squirms, feels his hole clench when Sam’s finger pads at it, and he opens his legs to give his brother more room. Give him exactly what he wants, to make Dean feel okay.
He wants to chuckle and correct Sam that it’s more than okay.
It’s wrong in a million ways, leaving dark stains on their souls. But it feels so good that Dean lets them both sink into it. This is how he remind himself he’s alive for another night, and starts to feel right.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Warnings: NC-17/Underage (Sam is 15; Dean is 19)
Summary: After a bad hunt, Dean is shaken up and draws into himself, until Sam comes along to make everything okay.
Notes: For SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020 prompt: Sam sucks on Dean's nipple and plays with Dean's hole until Dean comes untouched. Originally posted here.
Read on AO3
It’s one of Dean’s first bad hunts. A mothman, of all the insane legends to pop up on their radar. Poor photography had illustrated the vague shape and townsfolk held the tales, but then Dean and Dad found its lair and it found them. Dean, in particular, as he scoped out a winding cave before it flew at him. They’d wrestled on the ground until it got its arms around him and threatened to slice his throat as Dad approached.
It took some doing, but Dad was a master at his craft, and they walked out of the cave with their lives in tact.
Mostly.
*
The ride back to the motel is deathly silent, Dean shaking off the fear that hung heavy on his shoulders and Dad scrubbing at his jaw in that stern way that made Dean think he was in trouble. He knows Dad’s piecing together a lecture about how Dean should’ve gone left instead of right, should’ve stayed out of the caves like he ordered him to, should’ve been smart enough to not get caught.
Dean has spent most of his life trying to prove himself to his dad. That he’s old enough to hunt, strong enough to handle his own, tough enough to survive. He fails time and time again, and Dad always counts the ways.
When Dad pulls into the parking spot in front of their motel room, he doesn’t turn off the car, doesn’t even put her in park, and Dean steels himself for a world-class tongue-lashing.
Dad stares ahead at the motel room door, sucks his lips into his mouth, then pushes them out, and Dean holds his breath. Seeing Dad quietly stewing feels worse than any criticism, no matter how loud he can yell or how hard he can punch walls.
Dean can’t take it anymore and starts with a careful, yet contrite, “Dad, I’m sorry. I know I should’ve - ”
“You shouldn’t’ve been there.”
He blinks at the sound of Dad’s voice, soft and broken.
Is Dad saying he can’t hunt anymore?
Imagine that, being fired from the family business. What would Dean do then? This was the only life he’d known, the only family he had …
“Go check on Sam,” Dad goes on. “I’m gonna meet the coroner.”
This late at night, it’s usually code for hitting up a local bar and keeping it company until closing. Which also means ditching his sons for the night.
As Dean gets out of the car, Dad calls his name and leans towards the passenger side. “You gonna be okay?”
That confuses him. Dad doesn’t often ask after them, and especially not in a low, concerned tone like this. There’re usually jokes or demands, nothing in between. “Yeah …” Dean looks at the scratches all over his arms, flannel shirt tore up where the creature’s claws had gotten him. He even sets a palm to his neck where more red marks will scab up in the coming days, a lasting reminder of how close he came to dying. “I’m good,” he replies, forcing bravado for his dad.
Dad pulls away without another word and Dean watches the headlights fade before he heads into the room.
“Hey.” Sam barely looks up from where he’s stretched out belly down on the far bed. His eyes are glued to the TV, some night-time sitcom that’s probably more advanced than what a teenager would want to spend his time with. But this hotel only has five channels and Sam has done more with less.
“Hey,” Dean returns flatly. He still has the heft of that conversation with Dad on his mind and he just wants to shower, patch up the worst of the cuts, and pass out.
As he undresses, Sam gives a second look and gasps. “What the hell happened?”
Dean sighs as he wrenches around with as little pain as possible to get his undershirt off. “Nothing a little lamb’s blood couldn’t fix.”
That’s seriously downplaying it, but there’s no way he’s about to clue Sam into how rough the hunt had been. Or how scared he still is with the ragged screech of the monster replaying in his mind, the phantom burning of nails scratching at his jugular ...
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Dean insists with a fake smile. As he passes the beds, he smacks the back of Sam’s head, then heads for a shower.
*
He takes his time to clean up, lets the steam of the hot water loosen him up and cloud the mirror so he can’t see just how bad the marks are. There’s no way he’ll count them up now. Maybe tomorrow, or a few days from now, when his nerves aren’t shot and his joints stop trembling from the adrenaline crash.
When he steps out of the bathroom, the lights are out, just the TV giving enough of a glow for Dean to see Sam now backed up against the headboard of the far bed. Sam’s numbly changing channels, the remote in his lap, and his eyes in a dead stare ahead of him.
“Night,” Dean says quietly and slips into the other bed. He shuffles the pillows around to get the right support and tries to clear his brain of the flashes of that monster behind his eyelids.
The image is just starting to cloud over to a blank gray landscape when Sam speaks up.
“Dad called.”
“Hmm,” Dean sounds out.
“You okay?”
“Hmm?”
Sam stretches out the words, “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m feeling damn tired, Sam.” Dean punches the pillows in frustration and clenches his eyes shut.
“Dad asked if you’re okay.”
There’s a long, heavy quiet, punctuated with Sam’s worried little sigh.
Dad doesn’t often call when he’s on a Jim Beam bender, least of all to check if they’re okay …
There’s a ghostly clutch at his neck, sharp cuts on his arm, and he relives the hunt to the point of a building panic attack.
Ever his father’s child, Dean shoves the blankets off and rolls to his back with a grunt to shove any worry away, fend off Sam’s emotions. “Jesus, Sam, you gonna let a guy sleep or you wanna talk about feelings now?”
Sam scoots to the side of the bed closest to Dean, swings his feet down to the ground, and flips off the TV. “How bad was it?”
Dean runs a hand over his face, bringing fingers to his neck as he remembers. There’s a hitch in his chest he can’t hide and next he knows, Sam is joining him on the bed. “What’re you - ”
“Just let me,” he mumbles as he sidles up next to Dean. His finger traces a cut at Dean’s elbow, runs up his bicep to push the sleeve of Dean’s shirt away and feel more. “Pretty bad, huh?”
Clearing his throat, Dean allows himself to acknowledge it, admit to himself just how shaken he still feels all these hours later. And to feel Sam’s touch, the warmth of his fingers, reminds Dean that he got out of there.
He is alive.
Sam must sense it, because he rests his hand on Dean’s chest, rising and falling with Dean’s quickening lungs. There is an instant spread of heat over Dean’s skin trickling out from under Sam’s palm, and he feels a moment of relief.
“You don’t wanna tell me, fine,” Sam says, a little attitude to his words, “But it’s okay to be scared. Dad sounded scared.”
Dean blinks and stares at the pitch black of the room, unable to make out the ceiling, the walls, or Sam’s face, even when he feels his brother hovering nearby. “He did?”
“And if he’s worried, then it must be bad.”
With a short nod, Dean gives in and pats a hand at Sam’s knee. “Fair enough.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” is the most he can admit. This hunt’s gonna live with him for a long time. But he’s grateful he gets to live a lot longer, too.
Sam hums.
Dean squeezes Sam’s knee in reassurance and the kid seems to accept the answer, because he goes quiet, sinking down to the bed alongside Dean. His hand presses a little closer to Dean’s chest, palm moving over Dean’s heart, as if he’s checking for a beat.
It’s definitely there, and soon enough, it stutters with Sam’s hand moving an inch or two over, fingers brushing over Dean’s pec. Dean inhales, a loud echo in the silence, then he bites his lips when Sam’s fingers trip over his nipple.
Sam hums in thought, pauses, then runs his fingers back over it, making Dean shift a little. There’s a new kind of shake to his nerves that thankfully replaces the fear been gripping him tight since the mothman rushed upon him.
They don’t say much - never have in the foggy quiet of night, when it’s just the two of them, no one to witness this - and Dean doesn’t move. Sam, however, lets his fingers roam, tips circling Dean’s nipple. As Dean’s breathing quickens, Sam charges on with a hand pushing up under Dean’s shirt, slinging it up near Dean’s neck, so he can get his mouth where his fingers had been.
“Sam,” Dean mumbles.
“Hmm.”
“Don’t have to.”
Sam mouths at Dean’s nipple and hums, his hand now making its way to Dean’s other nipple. He breaks off enough to say, “Want to be sure.”
“Of what?”
“Make sure you’re okay.”
Dean sets his hand over Sam’s, a silent reply, and maybe an out if Sam doesn’t want to do this. Because there’s enough that’s fucked up about their lives, hundreds of nightmares to last decades, but Dean doesn’t want to live with the torment that he soiled his teenage brother. Even if Sam’s been the one to sully himself with late night jerk-off sessions, sometimes using his mouth to make Dean squirm, begging for Dean to return the favor ...
Dean always does. Never lets his little brother down. Wouldn’t dream of it …
“Gonna make you okay,” Sam mumbles against Dean’s nipple, then takes it back into his mouth.
There’s a tingle down through Dean’s belly that fires off sparks when Sam gets his teeth into it and twists his fingers at the other. Dean kicks his heels against the bed, his head back into the pillow, and lets Sam do whatever the hell he wants when it gives him a way to escape the hell of the hunt. Allows him to remember that he is still breathing, blood still pumping, and Sam is still his brother.
He has so little willpower when it comes to this. He can tell Sam no a hundred times a day, but here in the night, he’ll just keep his mouth shut and give his silent concession, voicing his approval with moans and soft whispers of his brother’s name.
And he softly whimpers when Sam’s hand dances down Dean’s stomach, slips past the waistband of his pants and underwear, and keeps going. Sam palms Dean’s dick, but not for long, because he’s got other things in mind as his fingers crawl over Dean’s balls and finally press far back.
Dean squirms, feels his hole clench when Sam’s finger pads at it, and he opens his legs to give his brother more room. Give him exactly what he wants, to make Dean feel okay.
He wants to chuckle and correct Sam that it’s more than okay.
It’s wrong in a million ways, leaving dark stains on their souls. But it feels so good that Dean lets them both sink into it. This is how he remind himself he’s alive for another night, and starts to feel right.