Fic: If not victory (Wincest, R)
So, I wrote a birthday drabble for Sam Winchester. And why_me_why_not text-porned me how she thought the rest of that scene should go, which became an untitled Wincest snippet. And you know I just couldn't let it go, right?
Um. What else? This hasn't been extensively beta'd, just pre-read by why_me_why_not and lilyeyes.
Dean. Sam. Bondage. ~2000 words. No plot to speak of, just porn.
Title from Milton: Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
Yeah. Don't ask what happened, somehow the mood shifted and I haven't worked out how to fix it. Enjoy.
Sam is a sneaky bastard.
Dean thinks this with a mix of emotions: pride because he taught his little brother everything he knows about sneaking and seducing; admiration at Sammy's success; chagrin because he'd been the one suckered this time.
The thing about Sam is that, for all his brainpower and freakishly accurate memory, he forgets how patient Dean can be when it comes to payback. The greater the infraction, the longer Dean is willing to wait for retaliation. And the loss of control - Dean won't admit even to himself that he was willing to beg Sam before he finally gave up on the teasing and fucked him - that was a big one. So Dean doesn't get his revenge that night, the next, or even that week. He waits until Sam's guard is down and he's not even looking for paybacks any longer.
After they take care of the water wraith in St. Michaels that's been upping the occupancy of the Talbot County morgue, Dean lets Sammy drive for a bit. They're both tired, but St. Michaels and Easton are too small - they'll be noticed there. So Sam points the Impala over the Bay Bridge and they don't stop until they find a cheap motel south of the Baltimore harbor. There's a bar next-door, big enough that strangers aren't unusual and dark enough that they can hide in the corner or make a quick exit down the back hallway if they need to.
Dean only plans to have a couple of beers before crashing. He's thinking he might let his plan for revenge wait, because he knows that Sammy's been going nonstop for the last couple of days. But then his idiot brother starts flirting with the waitress. And she's hot and all, but still. Sammy isn't supposed to do that, he's not allowed. Dean knows it's hypocritical, that he does it all the time, but that's just how it is. Sam belongs to Dean. End of story.
When she takes their order back to the bar, Sam leans back in the booth and stretches, his sleepy eyes half-closed, his expression all relaxed and open and happy, and every thought of rest or sleep slides out of Dean's head. Something about the arch of Sam's neck makes him want to bite it, hard. He looks away.
Darla - that's her name, she's happy to share - comes back with a couple of bottles of Natty Bo and flashes an inviting smile, reminding them to let her know if they need anything else. Dean smiles and thanks her politely, but he knows she's going to be disappointed.
Conversation is minimal. They haven't decided where they're headed yet, and they won't until they've had some downtime. Sam's just barely coherent, and the warm darkness of the bar and the alcohol aren't helping any.
"Finish your beer, Sammy. I'll find some take-out and meet you back at the room." And Sam must be really tired, because he doesn't argue, just nods and downs the last of his beer before pulling himself up and out of his chair.
Thirty minutes later, Dean is setting a paper bag (already greasy where the sauce from a couple of meatball subs is leaking through their wrappers) on the cracked laminate top of the desk. The TV is playing quietly and the light is on, but Sam's eyes are closed and he's snoring softly, and Dean's return doesn't disturb him at all. He looks so peaceful that Dean almost backs down, almost decides that his plan can wait. Almost.
He digs out the length of rope that he stashed in his duffel and runs his fingers along it. He doesn't want handcuffs for this. He wouldn't put it past Sammy to have a paperclip somewhere in a shirt-cuff or something. He knows he keeps them around, has since the last time they were in Baltimore. When Sam moves restlessly, tossing one arm over his head, Dean takes that as a sign; he loops the rope through a couple of rails of the bed's headboard and ties it in a firm knot around the wrist that's hanging off the top of the pillow. Not too tight; Sam's wrist is finely boned, for all that he's got enormous hands, and Dean leaves enough room for some play, knowing that the rope will be loose enough to move but won't slide over the widest part of Sam's fist. He tells himself it's for Sam's comfort, ignoring the knowledge that movement against the hemp will leave discernable marks on golden skin.
Dean thinks about using the bandana in his pocket, but he knows that one of the few things Sam feared as a child was the dark, and he's not sure he wants that baggage included in tonight's activities. It's one thing to escalate their prank war and use it to establish dominance or possession, but that would be exploiting a weakness, crossing a line, a reminder of things that were maybe better forgotten.
When he has Sam and himself ready, Dean settles back at the foot of the bed to wait. Sam is always a restless sleeper, and it's not long before he's making small movements. He tries to turn over, and then he goes still. His eyes don't open, but Dean knows that he's awake, aware, trying to figure out what's going on.
"Dean? " Sam's voice is so low and rough that it's almost inaudible, and that sends a shudder down Dean's spine.
He leans forward, letting the dim light from the bedside table slant across his face.
*
Sam is disoriented and confused, and it takes a minute for him to remember where they are.
"Sammy."
Oddly enough, Dean's voice is not reassuring enough for Sam to relax. He is fairly certain that is is just Dean, not a shapeshifter or demonic possession. But still. Because his wrists tied above his head? Not the way he fell asleep.
Sam flexes his hands, tests the bindings. He turns his head, craning his neck to see the knots. He isn't getting out of this without help; he'd expected as much.
Dean bends forward, and in the dim light Sam can see his face, study his eyes.
It's just Dean.
He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"What the fuck, man? Let me loose."
But Dean doesn't answer. Instead he moves, sits with his hip on the edge of the bed, and puts a hand on Sam's belly, lets his fingers glide lightly along the hem of Sam's t-shirt. There's a smirk growing on his face, full of knowledge and mischief, with a hint of something darker beneath. The teasing edge takes over, though, as Dean pushes Sam's shirt up, and just like that Sam flashes back to his birthday.
Fuck, he should've known that Dean would up the ante. He's such a competitive bastard.
Sam wants to believe that he's got more willpower than Dean, that he'll be able to beat Dean at his own game, but he's honest with himself: he knows he won't. If it comes to it, Sam will beg.
Already, Dean's hand are moving, pinching one newly bared nipple and tugging his shirt over his head. For one breath-stopping moment, Sam's face is covered by warm cotton, and he arches upward, objecting to being blinded and muffled. Then it's gone, and Dean is straddling Sam's waist, arcing over his torso and holding onto Sam's forearms. Sam recognizes the light glinting down at him from Dean's green eyes; he's seen it a thousand times. The heat of that lust is strong enough to melt clothes off the body. He's seen it work on waitresses, librarians, and receptionists time and time again. It's no less effective on Sam; constant exposure has not helped him build immunity.
He lets himself relax against the mattress, which is long enough that for once his feet aren't hanging off the end. He's not sure what he's expecting - butterfly touches that rouse without satisfying, or maybe taunting - but it isn't for Dean's grip to tighten, for him to bend down and whisper, "Mine, Sammy."
Sam drags in a sharp breath, meaning to speak (Of course he's Dean's.) when Dean's mouth slides from his ear to his neck and he bites down. Not in a playful nip, but viciously hard, with enough force that Sam thinks it might've broken skin. That doesn't stop Sam from bucking upward, arching in response to the thrill of electricity that runs down his spine.
"Yes." The hiss barely escapes between clenched teeth and a bitten lip.
Goosebumps rise on his skin, and it feels like all the blood in his body rushes straight to his dick, leaving Sam lightheaded. He's in a daze, a haze of licking, stroking, and biting, and as much as Sam wishes he could reciprocate, there's something liberating about being the center of all Dean's attention, about leaving everything to Dean.
And Dean, Dean is sometimes impatient, and he's never exactly gentle, but he's always careful. But now Dean's hands are rough, demanding, and Sam melts into the pillows, pliant, and lets him have his way.
Jeans are shoved down, and Sam barely finds enough energy in his muscles to lift his hips, then they're gone, along with Dean's clothes.
The next surprise comes when Dean levers himself back of Sam. Instead of the quick prep and penetration Sam is bracing himself for, Dean slicks and covers Sam's cock, earning an appreciative groan. He lowers himself in a single steady glide that has Sam bucking upward again, straining against the rope at his wrists. Dean rests there, motionless, his head tipped back and his throat working.
Christ, Sam wishes his hands were free. Free to curve over the cut of Dean's hipbones, to pull him down into a kiss, to hold him still he while he drives upward.
Dean's eyes open and his hands shift, one resting on Sam's belly and one going to his own cock, and he starts to move. When he finds the angle he wants, he rides Sam hard, until he's sweaty and gasping for breath, and Sam is rocking his body, his head thrashing on his pillowing, his motion the only contribution he can make.
That's enough, though. When Dean comes, squeezing Sam tight, Sam lifts his knees and braces his feet flat on the bed, tipping Dean forward. His body arches higher, his hips jerking as he tries to get that little bit deeper. He can feel his wrists burning but he doesn't care, he likes the biting pain because it's a grip on reality while he relinquishes his own.
*
Sam's heart is still pounding beneath Dean's ear, and Sam moans when he manages to lever himself up and off.
Dean takes a moment to admire his handiwork: Sam looks wrecked, sweaty and flushed, his eyes dazed and soft, not a single tense muscle in his body. He props himself against Sam's side and reaches up to run his fingers over Sam's wrists.
"Nngh." Sam's groan is accompanied by a full-body shudder.
With gentle hands, Dean loosens the knots, slides Sam's wrists free of the rope and his tangled t-shirt, and rubs them. He pets the reddened welts, watches as Sam's fingers twitch in response to the caress, then presses a gentle thumb against the pulse there.
He looks Sam in the eye again, meaning to make a joke, to chalk all this up to the next escalation in their prank war. Nope, nothing else going here, not at all. Nothing that Dean would ever say out loud, anyway.
Sam knows, though. That's the thing about his genius younger brother; he gets Dean, even when Dean doesn't necessarily get himself.
Sam curves a hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulls him down against his side. He grins broadly.
"If that's supposed to put me off the idea of you and the handcuffs? Think again."
Um. What else? This hasn't been extensively beta'd, just pre-read by why_me_why_not and lilyeyes.
Dean. Sam. Bondage. ~2000 words. No plot to speak of, just porn.
Title from Milton: Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
Yeah. Don't ask what happened, somehow the mood shifted and I haven't worked out how to fix it. Enjoy.
Sam is a sneaky bastard.
Dean thinks this with a mix of emotions: pride because he taught his little brother everything he knows about sneaking and seducing; admiration at Sammy's success; chagrin because he'd been the one suckered this time.
The thing about Sam is that, for all his brainpower and freakishly accurate memory, he forgets how patient Dean can be when it comes to payback. The greater the infraction, the longer Dean is willing to wait for retaliation. And the loss of control - Dean won't admit even to himself that he was willing to beg Sam before he finally gave up on the teasing and fucked him - that was a big one. So Dean doesn't get his revenge that night, the next, or even that week. He waits until Sam's guard is down and he's not even looking for paybacks any longer.
After they take care of the water wraith in St. Michaels that's been upping the occupancy of the Talbot County morgue, Dean lets Sammy drive for a bit. They're both tired, but St. Michaels and Easton are too small - they'll be noticed there. So Sam points the Impala over the Bay Bridge and they don't stop until they find a cheap motel south of the Baltimore harbor. There's a bar next-door, big enough that strangers aren't unusual and dark enough that they can hide in the corner or make a quick exit down the back hallway if they need to.
Dean only plans to have a couple of beers before crashing. He's thinking he might let his plan for revenge wait, because he knows that Sammy's been going nonstop for the last couple of days. But then his idiot brother starts flirting with the waitress. And she's hot and all, but still. Sammy isn't supposed to do that, he's not allowed. Dean knows it's hypocritical, that he does it all the time, but that's just how it is. Sam belongs to Dean. End of story.
When she takes their order back to the bar, Sam leans back in the booth and stretches, his sleepy eyes half-closed, his expression all relaxed and open and happy, and every thought of rest or sleep slides out of Dean's head. Something about the arch of Sam's neck makes him want to bite it, hard. He looks away.
Darla - that's her name, she's happy to share - comes back with a couple of bottles of Natty Bo and flashes an inviting smile, reminding them to let her know if they need anything else. Dean smiles and thanks her politely, but he knows she's going to be disappointed.
Conversation is minimal. They haven't decided where they're headed yet, and they won't until they've had some downtime. Sam's just barely coherent, and the warm darkness of the bar and the alcohol aren't helping any.
"Finish your beer, Sammy. I'll find some take-out and meet you back at the room." And Sam must be really tired, because he doesn't argue, just nods and downs the last of his beer before pulling himself up and out of his chair.
Thirty minutes later, Dean is setting a paper bag (already greasy where the sauce from a couple of meatball subs is leaking through their wrappers) on the cracked laminate top of the desk. The TV is playing quietly and the light is on, but Sam's eyes are closed and he's snoring softly, and Dean's return doesn't disturb him at all. He looks so peaceful that Dean almost backs down, almost decides that his plan can wait. Almost.
He digs out the length of rope that he stashed in his duffel and runs his fingers along it. He doesn't want handcuffs for this. He wouldn't put it past Sammy to have a paperclip somewhere in a shirt-cuff or something. He knows he keeps them around, has since the last time they were in Baltimore. When Sam moves restlessly, tossing one arm over his head, Dean takes that as a sign; he loops the rope through a couple of rails of the bed's headboard and ties it in a firm knot around the wrist that's hanging off the top of the pillow. Not too tight; Sam's wrist is finely boned, for all that he's got enormous hands, and Dean leaves enough room for some play, knowing that the rope will be loose enough to move but won't slide over the widest part of Sam's fist. He tells himself it's for Sam's comfort, ignoring the knowledge that movement against the hemp will leave discernable marks on golden skin.
Dean thinks about using the bandana in his pocket, but he knows that one of the few things Sam feared as a child was the dark, and he's not sure he wants that baggage included in tonight's activities. It's one thing to escalate their prank war and use it to establish dominance or possession, but that would be exploiting a weakness, crossing a line, a reminder of things that were maybe better forgotten.
When he has Sam and himself ready, Dean settles back at the foot of the bed to wait. Sam is always a restless sleeper, and it's not long before he's making small movements. He tries to turn over, and then he goes still. His eyes don't open, but Dean knows that he's awake, aware, trying to figure out what's going on.
"Dean? " Sam's voice is so low and rough that it's almost inaudible, and that sends a shudder down Dean's spine.
He leans forward, letting the dim light from the bedside table slant across his face.
*
Sam is disoriented and confused, and it takes a minute for him to remember where they are.
"Sammy."
Oddly enough, Dean's voice is not reassuring enough for Sam to relax. He is fairly certain that is is just Dean, not a shapeshifter or demonic possession. But still. Because his wrists tied above his head? Not the way he fell asleep.
Sam flexes his hands, tests the bindings. He turns his head, craning his neck to see the knots. He isn't getting out of this without help; he'd expected as much.
Dean bends forward, and in the dim light Sam can see his face, study his eyes.
It's just Dean.
He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"What the fuck, man? Let me loose."
But Dean doesn't answer. Instead he moves, sits with his hip on the edge of the bed, and puts a hand on Sam's belly, lets his fingers glide lightly along the hem of Sam's t-shirt. There's a smirk growing on his face, full of knowledge and mischief, with a hint of something darker beneath. The teasing edge takes over, though, as Dean pushes Sam's shirt up, and just like that Sam flashes back to his birthday.
Fuck, he should've known that Dean would up the ante. He's such a competitive bastard.
Sam wants to believe that he's got more willpower than Dean, that he'll be able to beat Dean at his own game, but he's honest with himself: he knows he won't. If it comes to it, Sam will beg.
Already, Dean's hand are moving, pinching one newly bared nipple and tugging his shirt over his head. For one breath-stopping moment, Sam's face is covered by warm cotton, and he arches upward, objecting to being blinded and muffled. Then it's gone, and Dean is straddling Sam's waist, arcing over his torso and holding onto Sam's forearms. Sam recognizes the light glinting down at him from Dean's green eyes; he's seen it a thousand times. The heat of that lust is strong enough to melt clothes off the body. He's seen it work on waitresses, librarians, and receptionists time and time again. It's no less effective on Sam; constant exposure has not helped him build immunity.
He lets himself relax against the mattress, which is long enough that for once his feet aren't hanging off the end. He's not sure what he's expecting - butterfly touches that rouse without satisfying, or maybe taunting - but it isn't for Dean's grip to tighten, for him to bend down and whisper, "Mine, Sammy."
Sam drags in a sharp breath, meaning to speak (Of course he's Dean's.) when Dean's mouth slides from his ear to his neck and he bites down. Not in a playful nip, but viciously hard, with enough force that Sam thinks it might've broken skin. That doesn't stop Sam from bucking upward, arching in response to the thrill of electricity that runs down his spine.
"Yes." The hiss barely escapes between clenched teeth and a bitten lip.
Goosebumps rise on his skin, and it feels like all the blood in his body rushes straight to his dick, leaving Sam lightheaded. He's in a daze, a haze of licking, stroking, and biting, and as much as Sam wishes he could reciprocate, there's something liberating about being the center of all Dean's attention, about leaving everything to Dean.
And Dean, Dean is sometimes impatient, and he's never exactly gentle, but he's always careful. But now Dean's hands are rough, demanding, and Sam melts into the pillows, pliant, and lets him have his way.
Jeans are shoved down, and Sam barely finds enough energy in his muscles to lift his hips, then they're gone, along with Dean's clothes.
The next surprise comes when Dean levers himself back of Sam. Instead of the quick prep and penetration Sam is bracing himself for, Dean slicks and covers Sam's cock, earning an appreciative groan. He lowers himself in a single steady glide that has Sam bucking upward again, straining against the rope at his wrists. Dean rests there, motionless, his head tipped back and his throat working.
Christ, Sam wishes his hands were free. Free to curve over the cut of Dean's hipbones, to pull him down into a kiss, to hold him still he while he drives upward.
Dean's eyes open and his hands shift, one resting on Sam's belly and one going to his own cock, and he starts to move. When he finds the angle he wants, he rides Sam hard, until he's sweaty and gasping for breath, and Sam is rocking his body, his head thrashing on his pillowing, his motion the only contribution he can make.
That's enough, though. When Dean comes, squeezing Sam tight, Sam lifts his knees and braces his feet flat on the bed, tipping Dean forward. His body arches higher, his hips jerking as he tries to get that little bit deeper. He can feel his wrists burning but he doesn't care, he likes the biting pain because it's a grip on reality while he relinquishes his own.
*
Sam's heart is still pounding beneath Dean's ear, and Sam moans when he manages to lever himself up and off.
Dean takes a moment to admire his handiwork: Sam looks wrecked, sweaty and flushed, his eyes dazed and soft, not a single tense muscle in his body. He props himself against Sam's side and reaches up to run his fingers over Sam's wrists.
"Nngh." Sam's groan is accompanied by a full-body shudder.
With gentle hands, Dean loosens the knots, slides Sam's wrists free of the rope and his tangled t-shirt, and rubs them. He pets the reddened welts, watches as Sam's fingers twitch in response to the caress, then presses a gentle thumb against the pulse there.
He looks Sam in the eye again, meaning to make a joke, to chalk all this up to the next escalation in their prank war. Nope, nothing else going here, not at all. Nothing that Dean would ever say out loud, anyway.
Sam knows, though. That's the thing about his genius younger brother; he gets Dean, even when Dean doesn't necessarily get himself.
Sam curves a hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulls him down against his side. He grins broadly.
"If that's supposed to put me off the idea of you and the handcuffs? Think again."