SPN Fic: This (Sam/Dean)
this.
Sam/Dean
NC17 (incest)
925 words, slight spoiler for 2x01.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Kripke and co.
Quick and hard and unbetaed. Feedback is adored and appreciated.
this.
It's the sharp taste of adrenalin bitter on the back of his tongue, it’s the burst of ozone and stink of sulfur as Dean yells his victory and Sam would holler right along with him but he's just too fucking relieved that they both got through another one of these things alive and with all their limbs attached - as whole as they can be since everything was ripped so wide open - to do anything but watch his brother with wide, unblinking eyes.
It’s Dean's grin, a gash of white in the dark, it‘s a promise and a threat and yeah. Yeah, OK. It’s Dean’s bloodied and bruised nose, it’s his arm curled around his barely healed ribs, limping as he walks but still somehow, somehow looking like he could take more, take whatever you throw at him because he’s Dean Fucking Winchester, yeah, and he will see you in hell, you evil son of a bitch.
It’s his brother’s hands curled around the steering wheel, knuckles red and skin split, his arm resting against the open window even though it’s the middle of the night in the middle of January in the middle of a ball freezing cold stretch. Dean doesn’t feel the frigid air, too hopped up on the thrill of the hunt and there’s a reason that phrase exists and it’s sitting beside Sam right now, singing along to Zeppelin at the top of his lungs as blood bleeds into his black T-shirt.
It’s the dry rasp of laughter that escapes Dean’s mouth when Sam pushes him against their motel door, uncaring who might see, who will see. They’re not brothers here, two fatherless sons, and fuck, Dean, fuck is all Sam can manage, face pushed into Dean’s neck, tasting soap and sweat and the leather of his jacket just there, just there behind his ear.
It’s the push and grapple through the door, clothes dropped and toes stubbed, pained hisses when a cut is found, a bruise pressed too deeply but always, don’t stop, don’t stop, always don‘t stop. It’s the back of Sam’s legs hitting the mattress and going down, mouth pressed against the hard ridges of Dean’s abdomen, messy wet kisses and down, down, tugging at button and zipper, nose brushing through the coarse thick hair there, a breath pulled in and c’mon, c’mon, too drugged on now to worry about later, about wrong and sick and this isn’t going to happen again, and I know, Dean, I know.
It’s Dean’s fingers in his hair and Dean’s cock in his mouth, it’s his hands gripping Dean’s thighs, his hips, his ass, anything, everywhere, it’s more, more, and Dean grunting with the push of his hips, nothing sweet and gentle just fuck, yeah, Sammy, Christ, your mouth. It’s the sting and tear of an unhealed cut on Sam’s bottom lip, copper and salt in his mouth, choked breaths and more, never enough, wants to take Dean apart and crawl inside him, find someplace he’ll finally fit in this fight, in this life, fill all those dark broken places and belong.
It’s Dean’s mouth on every part of him, the drag of his stubble and slick of his tongue, gorgeous filth murmured against the inside of Sam’s thigh, the back of his knee, his ass and cock and everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. It’s the arch of Sam’s neck and hush of the room, the low murmur of a TV somewhere in the distance and the buzz of the no vacancy sign out front. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to forget but can’t, won’t, not anymore, not now, it‘s all he has and he will fight you for it, bare his teeth and put you down because it‘s his.
It’s the burn of friction against Sam’s palm when his hand slips on the rough sheet, mouth wet and open, wordless animal cry as Dean pushes in, sharp teeth in his shoulder, fierce fingers, blunt nails biting into his hips. It’s Sam Sam oh God Sam groaned in the back of his neck, and it’s fucking move Dean, just fucking move when he can understand the words enough to shape them with his tongue. It’s the sheet pulled free from the mattress, fisted tightly in his hand with that first terrible, brilliant surge forward, and it‘s not coming home, it‘s not right, it‘s awkward and it hurts and oh God, oh fuck, it‘s everything.
It’s Dean’s knee pushing Sam’s thighs further apart because there has to be closer, has to be deeper. It’s Sam’s head hanging down loose on his neck, eyes screwed shut and face red, jumbled up words and cries that are love and brother and God what have we become trapped between his teeth, turned liquid, turned to yes yes yes, each one met and raised by Dean. It’s the sudden and painful rush of release, muscles whipcord tight and shuddering, too much too much, it’s his own name sobbed into his ear, it’s Dean’s lips against his shoulder, shaking and keening like this is it, this is the thing that’ll finally put him in the ground.
It’s Dean’s forehead pressed between Sam’s shoulder blades, breath hot and fast and a kiss dropped there that does nothing to gentle the wrench as Dean pulls free, pulls away. It’s the mattress shifting as Dean drops onto his back, eyes closed and breath still coming hard and all Sam can do is turn his head and watch, just watch, Dean’s lips parted and face free of tension and this, this.
It’s this.
end.
Sam/Dean
NC17 (incest)
925 words, slight spoiler for 2x01.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Kripke and co.
Quick and hard and unbetaed. Feedback is adored and appreciated.
this.
It's the sharp taste of adrenalin bitter on the back of his tongue, it’s the burst of ozone and stink of sulfur as Dean yells his victory and Sam would holler right along with him but he's just too fucking relieved that they both got through another one of these things alive and with all their limbs attached - as whole as they can be since everything was ripped so wide open - to do anything but watch his brother with wide, unblinking eyes.
It’s Dean's grin, a gash of white in the dark, it‘s a promise and a threat and yeah. Yeah, OK. It’s Dean’s bloodied and bruised nose, it’s his arm curled around his barely healed ribs, limping as he walks but still somehow, somehow looking like he could take more, take whatever you throw at him because he’s Dean Fucking Winchester, yeah, and he will see you in hell, you evil son of a bitch.
It’s his brother’s hands curled around the steering wheel, knuckles red and skin split, his arm resting against the open window even though it’s the middle of the night in the middle of January in the middle of a ball freezing cold stretch. Dean doesn’t feel the frigid air, too hopped up on the thrill of the hunt and there’s a reason that phrase exists and it’s sitting beside Sam right now, singing along to Zeppelin at the top of his lungs as blood bleeds into his black T-shirt.
It’s the dry rasp of laughter that escapes Dean’s mouth when Sam pushes him against their motel door, uncaring who might see, who will see. They’re not brothers here, two fatherless sons, and fuck, Dean, fuck is all Sam can manage, face pushed into Dean’s neck, tasting soap and sweat and the leather of his jacket just there, just there behind his ear.
It’s the push and grapple through the door, clothes dropped and toes stubbed, pained hisses when a cut is found, a bruise pressed too deeply but always, don’t stop, don’t stop, always don‘t stop. It’s the back of Sam’s legs hitting the mattress and going down, mouth pressed against the hard ridges of Dean’s abdomen, messy wet kisses and down, down, tugging at button and zipper, nose brushing through the coarse thick hair there, a breath pulled in and c’mon, c’mon, too drugged on now to worry about later, about wrong and sick and this isn’t going to happen again, and I know, Dean, I know.
It’s Dean’s fingers in his hair and Dean’s cock in his mouth, it’s his hands gripping Dean’s thighs, his hips, his ass, anything, everywhere, it’s more, more, and Dean grunting with the push of his hips, nothing sweet and gentle just fuck, yeah, Sammy, Christ, your mouth. It’s the sting and tear of an unhealed cut on Sam’s bottom lip, copper and salt in his mouth, choked breaths and more, never enough, wants to take Dean apart and crawl inside him, find someplace he’ll finally fit in this fight, in this life, fill all those dark broken places and belong.
It’s Dean’s mouth on every part of him, the drag of his stubble and slick of his tongue, gorgeous filth murmured against the inside of Sam’s thigh, the back of his knee, his ass and cock and everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. It’s the arch of Sam’s neck and hush of the room, the low murmur of a TV somewhere in the distance and the buzz of the no vacancy sign out front. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to forget but can’t, won’t, not anymore, not now, it‘s all he has and he will fight you for it, bare his teeth and put you down because it‘s his.
It’s the burn of friction against Sam’s palm when his hand slips on the rough sheet, mouth wet and open, wordless animal cry as Dean pushes in, sharp teeth in his shoulder, fierce fingers, blunt nails biting into his hips. It’s Sam Sam oh God Sam groaned in the back of his neck, and it’s fucking move Dean, just fucking move when he can understand the words enough to shape them with his tongue. It’s the sheet pulled free from the mattress, fisted tightly in his hand with that first terrible, brilliant surge forward, and it‘s not coming home, it‘s not right, it‘s awkward and it hurts and oh God, oh fuck, it‘s everything.
It’s Dean’s knee pushing Sam’s thighs further apart because there has to be closer, has to be deeper. It’s Sam’s head hanging down loose on his neck, eyes screwed shut and face red, jumbled up words and cries that are love and brother and God what have we become trapped between his teeth, turned liquid, turned to yes yes yes, each one met and raised by Dean. It’s the sudden and painful rush of release, muscles whipcord tight and shuddering, too much too much, it’s his own name sobbed into his ear, it’s Dean’s lips against his shoulder, shaking and keening like this is it, this is the thing that’ll finally put him in the ground.
It’s Dean’s forehead pressed between Sam’s shoulder blades, breath hot and fast and a kiss dropped there that does nothing to gentle the wrench as Dean pulls free, pulls away. It’s the mattress shifting as Dean drops onto his back, eyes closed and breath still coming hard and all Sam can do is turn his head and watch, just watch, Dean’s lips parted and face free of tension and this, this.
It’s this.
end.