Can't Stop - Dean/Sam (SPN)
Title: Can't Stop
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean/Sam
Word Count: not sure because my Word is currently down
Rating: A hard R
Notes: Incest. Unbeta'd. I'm not sure which people consider the lesser of two evils. Also questionable consent. Written in fifteen minutes for challenge #63 at 15minuteficlets.
Dean starts drinking more and more, stopping at every hole-in-the-wall bar they find, ordering whiskey straight up or on the rocks or leave the bottle and it's all Sam can do not to grimace for him when the booze goes down his throat and Dean doesn't even bat an eye.
It takes a lot to get Dean drunk these days, but he's a determined sort of guy, always forging ahead despite being cut off and getting in a bar fight and having one OWI under his belt. He keeps a stash in the trunk, next to the shotgun and the rocksalt and the holy water. He got confused one time, after they got kicked out of a bar somewhere east of the Mississippi and all the stores closed. He picked up a flask and tipped his head back and let the stuff flow down his throat without barely hitting his tongue and he had it almost gone before he coughed and spluttered and realized he was chugging holy water and it wasn't going to do him a damn bit of good unless his insides were possessed.
Sam sits back and watches, jaw clenched and eyes focused intently on the downward spiral of his brother. He sits with not a small amount of guilt, waiting for that moment right before Dean's falling down drunk but not too soon before or he'll remember it in the morning. There's a point, Sam has discovered, where the glaze is just starting to come over his brother's eyes and his words have been slurred for the past hour but he's still speaking somewhat coherantly when he will do anything and suggestion is easy and the next day he just sleeps til noon and asks Sam if he did anything too humiliating the night before. Sam always says no, bro, I kept you in line.
Sam takes Dean from the bars and the liquor stores and the backseat of his car and helps him into a motel, holding him steady and keeping a cool hand on the back of his big brother's neck, and he lets him fall onto one of the beds and laugh at the ceiling while tears are snaking their way into the crinkles around his eyes. He helps him out of his boots, and out of his jacket, and out of his shirt and out of his pants, and when he's laying there in his boxers, rambling about Dad and demons and god Sammy I don't want this anymore I can't do this Sam strips himself too, and slides into bed next to him like when they were kids and had no other option.
Dean never remembers the sloppywetdrunk kisses or the impossibly long fingers that trail down his sides and down his stomach and down his back until they dip under his boxers and he sure doesn't remember tugging at his own hair while Sam sucks him off under the covers and he's too drunk to fuck, Sam hasn't gotten that part down yet, he can't quite seem to find the balance that lets the suggestion fuck me, Dean, please, filter through Dean's mind and get the appropriate muscles in motion.
In the morning Sam is always ready and waiting with a cup of coffee and some aspirin, keeping the shades drawn and the TV on low because it wouldn't be ok if Dean nipped this addiction in the bud, because Sam sure as hell can't nip his.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean/Sam
Word Count: not sure because my Word is currently down
Rating: A hard R
Notes: Incest. Unbeta'd. I'm not sure which people consider the lesser of two evils. Also questionable consent. Written in fifteen minutes for challenge #63 at 15minuteficlets.
Dean starts drinking more and more, stopping at every hole-in-the-wall bar they find, ordering whiskey straight up or on the rocks or leave the bottle and it's all Sam can do not to grimace for him when the booze goes down his throat and Dean doesn't even bat an eye.
It takes a lot to get Dean drunk these days, but he's a determined sort of guy, always forging ahead despite being cut off and getting in a bar fight and having one OWI under his belt. He keeps a stash in the trunk, next to the shotgun and the rocksalt and the holy water. He got confused one time, after they got kicked out of a bar somewhere east of the Mississippi and all the stores closed. He picked up a flask and tipped his head back and let the stuff flow down his throat without barely hitting his tongue and he had it almost gone before he coughed and spluttered and realized he was chugging holy water and it wasn't going to do him a damn bit of good unless his insides were possessed.
Sam sits back and watches, jaw clenched and eyes focused intently on the downward spiral of his brother. He sits with not a small amount of guilt, waiting for that moment right before Dean's falling down drunk but not too soon before or he'll remember it in the morning. There's a point, Sam has discovered, where the glaze is just starting to come over his brother's eyes and his words have been slurred for the past hour but he's still speaking somewhat coherantly when he will do anything and suggestion is easy and the next day he just sleeps til noon and asks Sam if he did anything too humiliating the night before. Sam always says no, bro, I kept you in line.
Sam takes Dean from the bars and the liquor stores and the backseat of his car and helps him into a motel, holding him steady and keeping a cool hand on the back of his big brother's neck, and he lets him fall onto one of the beds and laugh at the ceiling while tears are snaking their way into the crinkles around his eyes. He helps him out of his boots, and out of his jacket, and out of his shirt and out of his pants, and when he's laying there in his boxers, rambling about Dad and demons and god Sammy I don't want this anymore I can't do this Sam strips himself too, and slides into bed next to him like when they were kids and had no other option.
Dean never remembers the sloppywetdrunk kisses or the impossibly long fingers that trail down his sides and down his stomach and down his back until they dip under his boxers and he sure doesn't remember tugging at his own hair while Sam sucks him off under the covers and he's too drunk to fuck, Sam hasn't gotten that part down yet, he can't quite seem to find the balance that lets the suggestion fuck me, Dean, please, filter through Dean's mind and get the appropriate muscles in motion.
In the morning Sam is always ready and waiting with a cup of coffee and some aspirin, keeping the shades drawn and the TV on low because it wouldn't be ok if Dean nipped this addiction in the bud, because Sam sure as hell can't nip his.