Ficlet: Cursed Objects
Title: Cursed Objects
Author: Khirsah
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee.
Notes: A ficlet for yoritomo_reiko.
It wasn’t so much the fact that the bitch had cursed him, per say, that had Dean so up in arms. He was pretty used to curses, though he wished like hell he wasn’t. It was embarrassing. It was damn inconvenient. But ever since he traded for Sammy and a year to shuffle on off the mortal coil, he’d been a magnet for all sorts of badness. Restless spirits, minor demons, major demons and, oh yeah, freaking Voodoo curses. It was like he had his very own shining making a beacon for the big bads of the world.
Dean shifted, feeling the tight pull of the zipper against his crotch, and scowled.
Make that a fucking demonic Kick Me sign.
“You know, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean could cheerfully kill him for that tone in his voice. That all-too-familiar tone that was half laughter and half smug I-told-you-so. “There’s plenty of lore on how to deal with targeted curses like this.”
“Oh yeah, Sammy?” And, Jesus, his balls were about ready to crawl up their sacs and back into his body. He reached down as nonchalantly as he could and gripped the fuckers through a handful of faded denim. Gave them a tug before Sam’s brows inched a little closer to his hairline.
Fucking Voodoo curses on his fucking penis, and how the hell was he supposed to know that one-night stand had been dabbling in something that dark? She’d had one hell of an ass-just round enough to fit into the curve of his palms, pushing up as she rode his dick like some kind of… Well, how was he supposed to know?
It was almost enough to make him swear off sex for good, only the curse had taken care of that, hadn’t it? The whole Lakers Cheerleading squad could strip down and shimmy and spell out his name with pompoms and he wouldn’t get a boner, but if Sam so much as looked at him in full bitchface, he was about ready to-
Shit, he should probably let go of his dick right about now.
“You done, man?” Sam asked, brows now lost under a shaggy fall of brown hair. Dean huffed out a breath and fought not to spread his thighs in invitation. “Because I can leave you and your…cursed object alone if you’d rather.”
And hell no he wasn’t smirking at Dean like that.
“Yeah, well, laugh it up,” Dean muttered, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over his crotch. Like he could muffle out the desire that way. “We’ll see how funny you think it is when it’s your ass getting reamed.”
And yeah, that shut Sammy up in a hurry.
Dean shifted, shifted again, and oh hell no he wasn’t thrusting up into his pillow. He growled and flung it aside, falling back across the mattress with a frustrated noise. Two weeks. He’d been cursed for two whole weeks, unable to get it up for the endless parade of pretty and not-so-pretty girls in smoky bars. Unable to put it down for the lanky, too-tall, smug-ass bitch of a brother who had this little mark between mouth and eye, whose bottom lip was full enough to make him look sulky all the God-damned time, who…
“Damn it, Sammy!” Dean barked, shoving his fists against his eyes and trying for the first time in his life to stop thinking about sex. His dick was three seconds from unzipping itself and crawling down Sam’s mouth, brothers or not, and that Voodoo bitch had one nasty sense of humor. “What’s this lore of yours say anyway?”
The springs creaked as Sam shifted his ridiculously big body, and Dean could just see it. No matter what he did, no matter how much he psyched himself out, he could see Sam beneath his lids in full Technicolor. Only it wasn’t his Sammy he was seeing-not the baby he’d held in his arms, not the snot-nosed kid he’d tucked into bed, not even the sulking emo-boy he’d dragged around the backroads of America for several long years. This Sam was altogether new and altogether beautiful, and he’d give his life all over again just to feel that pouting lower lip slide along the crease of his mouth.
He was just. Aching inside. And only Sam could make it better.
The rustle of pages was some kind of crazy aphrodisiac. His breathing was coming fast and hard. At some point, he’d gripped the sheets and was three seconds from ripping the cheap threads apart, splitting them down the middle as he fought a thousand and one dirty impulses that couldn’t feel more right and just.
Sammy, his Sammy, twisting beneath him. Arching into his touch. Mine, mine, mine.
The low clearing of Sam’s throat was signal to listen, and Dean opened his eyes to stare up at the yellow-stained ceiling as Sam read, “‘And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell. And if thy right hand offend thee-‘”
Dean slowly lifted his head as the words washed over him, gaze moving across the length of his chest, the dip of his stomach and, yes, the fucking mountain of his trapped cock to stare at his brother.
His brother who now looked just a damn touch too serious.
“Oh hell no,” Dean said, sitting up. The bed creaked hard beneath him, but he ignored it, reaching over the bit of space between the Queens to slap the book from Sam’s giant paws. “Sammy, we are not cutting off my dick.”
“You said it yourself, Dean,” Sam argued, eyes glinting just this side of too much. “You don’t know how we can track her down again, and this curse is more powerful than anything we have to counteract it.”
“Sammy. You are not cutting my dick off.”
He held up his hands. “I’m just saying, Dean.” Mobile mouth moving, twitching a bit at the corners, like he thought it was funny Dean wanted to throw him down and go to freaking town on him. “If your, ah, penis offends you, well…”
A dimple flashed and that was fucking it. That was all he was capable of taking. Two weeks of wanting to get off, needing to get off and needing nothing in the world more than Sam’s naked skin seamed to his… There was a snapping point, and Dean and his dick were finally in agreement.
He was going to shove Sam down into the dirty mattress and show him fucking offended.
He was up and across that bit of space before Sam could do anything more than look surprised. Your own damn fault, Sammy, Dean thought, shoving that lanky form back against the mattress and moving to straddle him. The feel of muscles tightening beneath him, the long twitches of his brother’s body, all of it rocketed through him, making every damn bell and whistle go off at once. He grabbed for Sam’s flailing hands, pinning them over his head as he growled, “Your own damn fault,” and “Cut off my dick be damned,” before their mouths slammed together.
The kiss was… God, it was something else. Hard like he’d never let himself be before, even with the trampiest of barflys. Fighting, biting, and Dean thought he tasted something suspiciously like blood as his tongue thrust into his brother’s mouth. Sam bucked up against him, almost throwing him off, but Dean rode out the thrusts with a guttural moan. Jesus, Sam was strong, and hot, skin like fire beneath his fingertips as he let go of Sam’s wrists and tore at his shirt. The ugly plaid ripped beneath him, buttons scattering in a hail of white and then he had those twitching stomach muscles beneath his palms. Writhing. Jumping and moving and Oh fuck, oh God as Sam jerked his hips up to knock Dean over and instead ground their cocks together.
Their hard, twitching cocks.
Dean lost the point where it went from fighting to fucking. It was pure violence either way, glass smashing as a unwary limb struck out too hard and caught the bedside lamp, bruises blossoming across tanned skin. He bit at his brother’s jaw, sucking bursts of color along his neck as his hips pushed down in a punishing rhythm. Sam’s hands were on him, and finally, finally Dean could see the benefit of those giant paws as they closed around his hips, shifted him to a better angle and
Halle-fucking-lujah
all the bells and the whistles in the world couldn’t come close to describing the way it felt to come against the sharp ridge of Sam’s left hipbone.
He jerked and shuddered and moaned and may have said something stupid, like I love you, as he shot everywhere. Electrical currents rushing, then fading slowly away. His whole body was trembling and his dick was softening and he was beginning to think that maybe he could survive this after all when Sammy thrust, thrust and came with a sound that went straight to his toes.
A sound that fucking changed him, and it didn’t even matter that it was a stupid thing to think because he was watching Sam’s face as he came, his eyes, and he had this before he died. He had this to hold onto when he got that ticket straight to hell.
Sweaty tangles of brown hair and wide eyes and a mouth that pouted no matter what and the breathless way Sammy whispered, “Dean,” as he collapsed back into a boneless sprawl. Beautiful like nothing else in his life had ever been.
Maybe that Voodoo bitch knew what she was about after all.
Author: Khirsah
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee.
Notes: A ficlet for yoritomo_reiko.
It wasn’t so much the fact that the bitch had cursed him, per say, that had Dean so up in arms. He was pretty used to curses, though he wished like hell he wasn’t. It was embarrassing. It was damn inconvenient. But ever since he traded for Sammy and a year to shuffle on off the mortal coil, he’d been a magnet for all sorts of badness. Restless spirits, minor demons, major demons and, oh yeah, freaking Voodoo curses. It was like he had his very own shining making a beacon for the big bads of the world.
Dean shifted, feeling the tight pull of the zipper against his crotch, and scowled.
Make that a fucking demonic Kick Me sign.
“You know, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean could cheerfully kill him for that tone in his voice. That all-too-familiar tone that was half laughter and half smug I-told-you-so. “There’s plenty of lore on how to deal with targeted curses like this.”
“Oh yeah, Sammy?” And, Jesus, his balls were about ready to crawl up their sacs and back into his body. He reached down as nonchalantly as he could and gripped the fuckers through a handful of faded denim. Gave them a tug before Sam’s brows inched a little closer to his hairline.
Fucking Voodoo curses on his fucking penis, and how the hell was he supposed to know that one-night stand had been dabbling in something that dark? She’d had one hell of an ass-just round enough to fit into the curve of his palms, pushing up as she rode his dick like some kind of… Well, how was he supposed to know?
It was almost enough to make him swear off sex for good, only the curse had taken care of that, hadn’t it? The whole Lakers Cheerleading squad could strip down and shimmy and spell out his name with pompoms and he wouldn’t get a boner, but if Sam so much as looked at him in full bitchface, he was about ready to-
Shit, he should probably let go of his dick right about now.
“You done, man?” Sam asked, brows now lost under a shaggy fall of brown hair. Dean huffed out a breath and fought not to spread his thighs in invitation. “Because I can leave you and your…cursed object alone if you’d rather.”
And hell no he wasn’t smirking at Dean like that.
“Yeah, well, laugh it up,” Dean muttered, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over his crotch. Like he could muffle out the desire that way. “We’ll see how funny you think it is when it’s your ass getting reamed.”
And yeah, that shut Sammy up in a hurry.
Dean shifted, shifted again, and oh hell no he wasn’t thrusting up into his pillow. He growled and flung it aside, falling back across the mattress with a frustrated noise. Two weeks. He’d been cursed for two whole weeks, unable to get it up for the endless parade of pretty and not-so-pretty girls in smoky bars. Unable to put it down for the lanky, too-tall, smug-ass bitch of a brother who had this little mark between mouth and eye, whose bottom lip was full enough to make him look sulky all the God-damned time, who…
“Damn it, Sammy!” Dean barked, shoving his fists against his eyes and trying for the first time in his life to stop thinking about sex. His dick was three seconds from unzipping itself and crawling down Sam’s mouth, brothers or not, and that Voodoo bitch had one nasty sense of humor. “What’s this lore of yours say anyway?”
The springs creaked as Sam shifted his ridiculously big body, and Dean could just see it. No matter what he did, no matter how much he psyched himself out, he could see Sam beneath his lids in full Technicolor. Only it wasn’t his Sammy he was seeing-not the baby he’d held in his arms, not the snot-nosed kid he’d tucked into bed, not even the sulking emo-boy he’d dragged around the backroads of America for several long years. This Sam was altogether new and altogether beautiful, and he’d give his life all over again just to feel that pouting lower lip slide along the crease of his mouth.
He was just. Aching inside. And only Sam could make it better.
The rustle of pages was some kind of crazy aphrodisiac. His breathing was coming fast and hard. At some point, he’d gripped the sheets and was three seconds from ripping the cheap threads apart, splitting them down the middle as he fought a thousand and one dirty impulses that couldn’t feel more right and just.
Sammy, his Sammy, twisting beneath him. Arching into his touch. Mine, mine, mine.
The low clearing of Sam’s throat was signal to listen, and Dean opened his eyes to stare up at the yellow-stained ceiling as Sam read, “‘And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell. And if thy right hand offend thee-‘”
Dean slowly lifted his head as the words washed over him, gaze moving across the length of his chest, the dip of his stomach and, yes, the fucking mountain of his trapped cock to stare at his brother.
His brother who now looked just a damn touch too serious.
“Oh hell no,” Dean said, sitting up. The bed creaked hard beneath him, but he ignored it, reaching over the bit of space between the Queens to slap the book from Sam’s giant paws. “Sammy, we are not cutting off my dick.”
“You said it yourself, Dean,” Sam argued, eyes glinting just this side of too much. “You don’t know how we can track her down again, and this curse is more powerful than anything we have to counteract it.”
“Sammy. You are not cutting my dick off.”
He held up his hands. “I’m just saying, Dean.” Mobile mouth moving, twitching a bit at the corners, like he thought it was funny Dean wanted to throw him down and go to freaking town on him. “If your, ah, penis offends you, well…”
A dimple flashed and that was fucking it. That was all he was capable of taking. Two weeks of wanting to get off, needing to get off and needing nothing in the world more than Sam’s naked skin seamed to his… There was a snapping point, and Dean and his dick were finally in agreement.
He was going to shove Sam down into the dirty mattress and show him fucking offended.
He was up and across that bit of space before Sam could do anything more than look surprised. Your own damn fault, Sammy, Dean thought, shoving that lanky form back against the mattress and moving to straddle him. The feel of muscles tightening beneath him, the long twitches of his brother’s body, all of it rocketed through him, making every damn bell and whistle go off at once. He grabbed for Sam’s flailing hands, pinning them over his head as he growled, “Your own damn fault,” and “Cut off my dick be damned,” before their mouths slammed together.
The kiss was… God, it was something else. Hard like he’d never let himself be before, even with the trampiest of barflys. Fighting, biting, and Dean thought he tasted something suspiciously like blood as his tongue thrust into his brother’s mouth. Sam bucked up against him, almost throwing him off, but Dean rode out the thrusts with a guttural moan. Jesus, Sam was strong, and hot, skin like fire beneath his fingertips as he let go of Sam’s wrists and tore at his shirt. The ugly plaid ripped beneath him, buttons scattering in a hail of white and then he had those twitching stomach muscles beneath his palms. Writhing. Jumping and moving and Oh fuck, oh God as Sam jerked his hips up to knock Dean over and instead ground their cocks together.
Their hard, twitching cocks.
Dean lost the point where it went from fighting to fucking. It was pure violence either way, glass smashing as a unwary limb struck out too hard and caught the bedside lamp, bruises blossoming across tanned skin. He bit at his brother’s jaw, sucking bursts of color along his neck as his hips pushed down in a punishing rhythm. Sam’s hands were on him, and finally, finally Dean could see the benefit of those giant paws as they closed around his hips, shifted him to a better angle and
Halle-fucking-lujah
all the bells and the whistles in the world couldn’t come close to describing the way it felt to come against the sharp ridge of Sam’s left hipbone.
He jerked and shuddered and moaned and may have said something stupid, like I love you, as he shot everywhere. Electrical currents rushing, then fading slowly away. His whole body was trembling and his dick was softening and he was beginning to think that maybe he could survive this after all when Sammy thrust, thrust and came with a sound that went straight to his toes.
A sound that fucking changed him, and it didn’t even matter that it was a stupid thing to think because he was watching Sam’s face as he came, his eyes, and he had this before he died. He had this to hold onto when he got that ticket straight to hell.
Sweaty tangles of brown hair and wide eyes and a mouth that pouted no matter what and the breathless way Sammy whispered, “Dean,” as he collapsed back into a boneless sprawl. Beautiful like nothing else in his life had ever been.
Maybe that Voodoo bitch knew what she was about after all.