Fic: Threw Away the sun 4/6 SPN AU Sam/Dean
Title: Threw Away the Sun
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence, a bumpy ride
Characters/pairings: Jess, Sam/Dean
Rated: NC-17 sex and violence
Summary: AU. Six months after John Winchester goes missing on a hunt, Dean Goes to Palo Alto to find a psychic.
Notes: OMG. Okay. Special thanks to jellicle and nova_berry and all the other people who have read this since I started it. I began this fic between seasons one and two of SPN and just now have it ready to publish. I'm sure I've forgotten someone who read it there in the middle and I'm so sorry and I remember appreciating you, just not which of you wonderful people it was.
Weeks pass, and they travel. East down to Texas, then back up through Illinois.
They get to the little town in Oregon where Sam had calculated that there was a small chance of John being. There’s no sign of the man, but Dean does find out about a string of missing teens going back thirty years. The salt and burn means his dad is less likely to come, but he can’t let the restless spirit kill again.
There’s more than enough time to get to the next possible rendezvous point. A sliver of hope that John’ll come, but late, remains, so they decide to wait another twenty four hours, just in case.
That night, Sam listens to a talk show on the clock radio by the bed. Dean searches the web for hot spots that match up with the vision Jess recorded in the notebook. He’s not sure when Sam falls asleep, but he sure as hell knows when Sam starts to dream.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whimpers, “It was the only way--please, please--”
Dean steps over; he sits on the edge of the bed and shakes the thin shoulder.
“I’m sorry!” Sam sounds so young, so broken. He curls towards Dean’s hand, then quiets down to sleep again. Dean sits for a while, stroking the kid’s shoulder. The satchel lies on the bed, not touching Sam anymore. Dean’s curiosity has put cats to shame, and he has to lean over, lift the flap.
There’s a gun inside, some decrepit old pistol. Dean has to shake his head. Sam sees the future. He wouldn’t carry around a gun that would never work. Still, the thing looks a hundred years old; how useful can it be? Crazy, he thinks, and closes the flap again.
Sam is still sleeping peaceful, so Dean goes back to work. The second nightmare hits less than an hour later and the third just minutes after Dean moves away again.
The next time, he gives up and crawls into bed alongside Sam. He expects Sam to smell sick, like hospital rooms and too many hours in one bed. He doesn’t though, he smells clean, soap and toothpaste and just a little like the sweat from the dreams before.
He puts an arm around the younger man. Sam feels so right, like a bony, lanky teddy-bear for grownups, and Dean would die before he’d admit a thought like that out loud.
He wakes to the sound of Sam’s gasp, the feel of the whipcord-thin body in his arms going tense.
“Dean?” Sam whispers, and there’s a note of uncertainty for the first time. He doesn’t sound afraid or hurt like he does when he dreams. He sounds--aroused.
It takes Dean’s sleep-fuddled brain a second to catch up, to realize his hand has drifted down, so low on Sam’s stomach that his pinky finger has slid under the waist-band of Sam’s boxers.
Sam’s heavy breathing isn’t fear, isn’t the tail-end of a nightmare.
“Shh,” Dean soothes. Sam’s not beautiful, and yet touching him still feels good, still gets him hot. “Don’t look ahead,” he says, “If you want this, just let it happen.”
“Dean,” Sam sighs and moves against his hand. “Please, please.”
It seems right, doing this in so little light that all Dean can see is the outline of Sam’s shoulder and a little of his scarred cheek. If Sam can’t see, it feels fair that Dean can’t either.
Dean slides his hand further into Sam’s shorts, feels the curls of pubic hair against his palm and the warm flesh of his cock against his knuckles. Sam bucks at the touch, and Dean thinks he doesn’t realize how he’s rubbing his ass on Dean’s dick.
A strangled whine slips from Sam’s throat and Dean knows he’s the first, that nobody’s ever seen Sam this way. The virgin kink has never been Dean’s thing before but Sam, giving him this, making it right, feels important.
Dean tries to make it last, giving slow easy touches and gentle kisses to the back of Sam’s neck and shoulders. So much of the younger man’s life has been pain, Dean’s determined that this should be good.
Sam doesn’t talk throughout it all. He clings to the wadded up sheet and makes these little whimpers that shoot straight to Dean’s dick. It doesn’t take long at all, and then he’s crying Dean’s name and spilling over Dean’s fist.
Dean pets him through the aftershocks, soothes him until his breathing slows and his lean body relaxes. He waits until Sam’s almost asleep before he gets up for a washcloth. He’s still hard, and he promises his dick that as soon as Sam’s cleaned up he’ll give it the attention it deserves.
Sam stirs at the touch of the warm cloth. “Why?” he asks, and he sounds so bewildered that Dean has to smile a little.
Dean scrubs the come out of the blind boy’s pubes. “Wanted to,” he answers, and it’s the only true thing he can say--not because he’s ashamed of what he’s done, but because all his reasons sound a little sick, put into words.
Sam’s fingers find Dean’s wrist and circle it, and his other hand moves along Dean’s shoulder and down his chest. Dean holds his breath as Sam’s fingers brush against his erection.
“Fuck,” Dean sighs.
Sam’s hand rubs slowly up and down the still cloth-covered hard on. He swallows hard, and Dean’s a little amazed that he still seems uncertain, like he hasn’t looked into a hundred futures to see how this all ends.
“Why didn’t you finish?”
“It wasn’t about me getting off,” Dean whispers back, half-dizzy with how good Sam’s touch feels on him.
“It is now.” Sam’s face is unreadable in the near dark as he draws Dean back own to the bed, face to face this time. They fit like pieces from two different puzzles, awkward lines and sharp hip bones. Dean gets his dick lined up against Sam’s thigh though, and doesn’t have any complaints.
Dean’s fingers are so world-worn and calloused as they trace over Sam’s lips. He leans in, flicking his tongue at the corner of Sam’s mouth, tasting him.
Sam gasps and shivers. “God,” he whispers, and when Dean’s knee slides up, he’s hard again. “God, I want--”
“Yeah?” Dean asks as Sam thrusts against him.
“I want--fuck me.” Sam’s back arches, exposing his throat. “Fuck me, Dean. I’m not a kid. You won’t break me.”
And shit. Jesus. That’s all Dean needs to hear. He scrambles up, dumping the first aid kit on the foot of the bed with one hand, keeping hold of Sam’s ankle with the other. There’s no proper lube, but he finds a bottle of aloe gel and a condom. He flips Sam over and crawls up his body. Sam’s trembling and Dean strokes his hands up his bony back to soothe him.
“You sure?” he asks, because the last thing he wants is to fuck this up.
“I’m sure,” Sam gasps. “I--” he cuts himself off but Dean doesn’t push it. He goes as slow as he knows how, slicking up his fingers and working them into Sam’s ass.
Sam bucks back and fucks himself on Dean’s fingers, squirming like a cat in heat. He makes these noises, like he can’t sort it out, what’s good, what isn’t, like some part of him is being torn apart and put back together again, a million times a second.
The no-eyes thing is freaking Dean out again--he has no idea what this means to Sam, if it’s some crush, or just lust or if he’s using Dean to punish himself.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Sam chants, and hell if Dean has it in him to disobey.
Sam makes a broken sound down in his throat as Dean pushes in. His fingers grip the sweaty sheets and he pushes back again, driving Dean deep.
Christ almighty, Sam’s almost too tight inside. Dean grabs his hips, and there’s no padding to cushion the force of his grip. It takes everything Dean has to go slow, to give Sam time to adjust. It can’t be comfortable, but Sam’s rocking against him no matter how hard Dean tries to keep him still.
Sam’s vocabulary has shrunk down to the words fuck, Dean and shit, hissed out in seemingly random combinations. Dean’s hips snap forward three times and then they’re coming together, profanity spilling from Sam’s lips and apology from Dean’s, because this is wrong, so wrong.
He tries to pull out slow, but Sam still makes a broken little sound in his throat. There’s blood on the condom, but not enough that Dean feels worried, just guilty.
“Stay there,” he says, putting a reassuring hand on Sam’s back. Dean turns on another light and digs through the first aid stuff on the floor for some antibiotic cream.
Sam doesn’t flinch when Dean sits beside him on the bed. Dean can’t help but catalog the damage--bruises from his hands and bite-marks he doesn’t even remember making.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because this was Sam’s first and nobody’s first should be like that.
And Sam? The fucker laughs at him, a low chuckle, muffled in the pillow. “Don’t be,” he says, “God, Dean. I felt real. I felt connected.”
Dean has no idea what to say to that so he’s quiet as he soothes the cream into the scrapes and bites on Sam’s shoulders and hips, and pushes slow and careful into the inflamed pucker of his ass. He caps the tube and starts to stand, but Sam reaches for him.
“Please,” Sam says, soft and needing. There’s nothing left of the closed, distant jerk Dean’s been traveling with.
“Please, stay here tonight?”
“Yeah,” Dean whispers, and turns off the light. He wraps himself around Sam, knees tucked up under his thighs, arm around his waist, forehead at the crook of his neck, and it feels right.
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence, a bumpy ride
Characters/pairings: Jess, Sam/Dean
Rated: NC-17 sex and violence
Summary: AU. Six months after John Winchester goes missing on a hunt, Dean Goes to Palo Alto to find a psychic.
Notes: OMG. Okay. Special thanks to jellicle and nova_berry and all the other people who have read this since I started it. I began this fic between seasons one and two of SPN and just now have it ready to publish. I'm sure I've forgotten someone who read it there in the middle and I'm so sorry and I remember appreciating you, just not which of you wonderful people it was.
Weeks pass, and they travel. East down to Texas, then back up through Illinois.
They get to the little town in Oregon where Sam had calculated that there was a small chance of John being. There’s no sign of the man, but Dean does find out about a string of missing teens going back thirty years. The salt and burn means his dad is less likely to come, but he can’t let the restless spirit kill again.
There’s more than enough time to get to the next possible rendezvous point. A sliver of hope that John’ll come, but late, remains, so they decide to wait another twenty four hours, just in case.
That night, Sam listens to a talk show on the clock radio by the bed. Dean searches the web for hot spots that match up with the vision Jess recorded in the notebook. He’s not sure when Sam falls asleep, but he sure as hell knows when Sam starts to dream.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whimpers, “It was the only way--please, please--”
Dean steps over; he sits on the edge of the bed and shakes the thin shoulder.
“I’m sorry!” Sam sounds so young, so broken. He curls towards Dean’s hand, then quiets down to sleep again. Dean sits for a while, stroking the kid’s shoulder. The satchel lies on the bed, not touching Sam anymore. Dean’s curiosity has put cats to shame, and he has to lean over, lift the flap.
There’s a gun inside, some decrepit old pistol. Dean has to shake his head. Sam sees the future. He wouldn’t carry around a gun that would never work. Still, the thing looks a hundred years old; how useful can it be? Crazy, he thinks, and closes the flap again.
Sam is still sleeping peaceful, so Dean goes back to work. The second nightmare hits less than an hour later and the third just minutes after Dean moves away again.
The next time, he gives up and crawls into bed alongside Sam. He expects Sam to smell sick, like hospital rooms and too many hours in one bed. He doesn’t though, he smells clean, soap and toothpaste and just a little like the sweat from the dreams before.
He puts an arm around the younger man. Sam feels so right, like a bony, lanky teddy-bear for grownups, and Dean would die before he’d admit a thought like that out loud.
He wakes to the sound of Sam’s gasp, the feel of the whipcord-thin body in his arms going tense.
“Dean?” Sam whispers, and there’s a note of uncertainty for the first time. He doesn’t sound afraid or hurt like he does when he dreams. He sounds--aroused.
It takes Dean’s sleep-fuddled brain a second to catch up, to realize his hand has drifted down, so low on Sam’s stomach that his pinky finger has slid under the waist-band of Sam’s boxers.
Sam’s heavy breathing isn’t fear, isn’t the tail-end of a nightmare.
“Shh,” Dean soothes. Sam’s not beautiful, and yet touching him still feels good, still gets him hot. “Don’t look ahead,” he says, “If you want this, just let it happen.”
“Dean,” Sam sighs and moves against his hand. “Please, please.”
It seems right, doing this in so little light that all Dean can see is the outline of Sam’s shoulder and a little of his scarred cheek. If Sam can’t see, it feels fair that Dean can’t either.
Dean slides his hand further into Sam’s shorts, feels the curls of pubic hair against his palm and the warm flesh of his cock against his knuckles. Sam bucks at the touch, and Dean thinks he doesn’t realize how he’s rubbing his ass on Dean’s dick.
A strangled whine slips from Sam’s throat and Dean knows he’s the first, that nobody’s ever seen Sam this way. The virgin kink has never been Dean’s thing before but Sam, giving him this, making it right, feels important.
Dean tries to make it last, giving slow easy touches and gentle kisses to the back of Sam’s neck and shoulders. So much of the younger man’s life has been pain, Dean’s determined that this should be good.
Sam doesn’t talk throughout it all. He clings to the wadded up sheet and makes these little whimpers that shoot straight to Dean’s dick. It doesn’t take long at all, and then he’s crying Dean’s name and spilling over Dean’s fist.
Dean pets him through the aftershocks, soothes him until his breathing slows and his lean body relaxes. He waits until Sam’s almost asleep before he gets up for a washcloth. He’s still hard, and he promises his dick that as soon as Sam’s cleaned up he’ll give it the attention it deserves.
Sam stirs at the touch of the warm cloth. “Why?” he asks, and he sounds so bewildered that Dean has to smile a little.
Dean scrubs the come out of the blind boy’s pubes. “Wanted to,” he answers, and it’s the only true thing he can say--not because he’s ashamed of what he’s done, but because all his reasons sound a little sick, put into words.
Sam’s fingers find Dean’s wrist and circle it, and his other hand moves along Dean’s shoulder and down his chest. Dean holds his breath as Sam’s fingers brush against his erection.
“Fuck,” Dean sighs.
Sam’s hand rubs slowly up and down the still cloth-covered hard on. He swallows hard, and Dean’s a little amazed that he still seems uncertain, like he hasn’t looked into a hundred futures to see how this all ends.
“Why didn’t you finish?”
“It wasn’t about me getting off,” Dean whispers back, half-dizzy with how good Sam’s touch feels on him.
“It is now.” Sam’s face is unreadable in the near dark as he draws Dean back own to the bed, face to face this time. They fit like pieces from two different puzzles, awkward lines and sharp hip bones. Dean gets his dick lined up against Sam’s thigh though, and doesn’t have any complaints.
Dean’s fingers are so world-worn and calloused as they trace over Sam’s lips. He leans in, flicking his tongue at the corner of Sam’s mouth, tasting him.
Sam gasps and shivers. “God,” he whispers, and when Dean’s knee slides up, he’s hard again. “God, I want--”
“Yeah?” Dean asks as Sam thrusts against him.
“I want--fuck me.” Sam’s back arches, exposing his throat. “Fuck me, Dean. I’m not a kid. You won’t break me.”
And shit. Jesus. That’s all Dean needs to hear. He scrambles up, dumping the first aid kit on the foot of the bed with one hand, keeping hold of Sam’s ankle with the other. There’s no proper lube, but he finds a bottle of aloe gel and a condom. He flips Sam over and crawls up his body. Sam’s trembling and Dean strokes his hands up his bony back to soothe him.
“You sure?” he asks, because the last thing he wants is to fuck this up.
“I’m sure,” Sam gasps. “I--” he cuts himself off but Dean doesn’t push it. He goes as slow as he knows how, slicking up his fingers and working them into Sam’s ass.
Sam bucks back and fucks himself on Dean’s fingers, squirming like a cat in heat. He makes these noises, like he can’t sort it out, what’s good, what isn’t, like some part of him is being torn apart and put back together again, a million times a second.
The no-eyes thing is freaking Dean out again--he has no idea what this means to Sam, if it’s some crush, or just lust or if he’s using Dean to punish himself.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Sam chants, and hell if Dean has it in him to disobey.
Sam makes a broken sound down in his throat as Dean pushes in. His fingers grip the sweaty sheets and he pushes back again, driving Dean deep.
Christ almighty, Sam’s almost too tight inside. Dean grabs his hips, and there’s no padding to cushion the force of his grip. It takes everything Dean has to go slow, to give Sam time to adjust. It can’t be comfortable, but Sam’s rocking against him no matter how hard Dean tries to keep him still.
Sam’s vocabulary has shrunk down to the words fuck, Dean and shit, hissed out in seemingly random combinations. Dean’s hips snap forward three times and then they’re coming together, profanity spilling from Sam’s lips and apology from Dean’s, because this is wrong, so wrong.
He tries to pull out slow, but Sam still makes a broken little sound in his throat. There’s blood on the condom, but not enough that Dean feels worried, just guilty.
“Stay there,” he says, putting a reassuring hand on Sam’s back. Dean turns on another light and digs through the first aid stuff on the floor for some antibiotic cream.
Sam doesn’t flinch when Dean sits beside him on the bed. Dean can’t help but catalog the damage--bruises from his hands and bite-marks he doesn’t even remember making.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because this was Sam’s first and nobody’s first should be like that.
And Sam? The fucker laughs at him, a low chuckle, muffled in the pillow. “Don’t be,” he says, “God, Dean. I felt real. I felt connected.”
Dean has no idea what to say to that so he’s quiet as he soothes the cream into the scrapes and bites on Sam’s shoulders and hips, and pushes slow and careful into the inflamed pucker of his ass. He caps the tube and starts to stand, but Sam reaches for him.
“Please,” Sam says, soft and needing. There’s nothing left of the closed, distant jerk Dean’s been traveling with.
“Please, stay here tonight?”
“Yeah,” Dean whispers, and turns off the light. He wraps himself around Sam, knees tucked up under his thighs, arm around his waist, forehead at the crook of his neck, and it feels right.