Supernatural Fic - Sam Winchester might have a handcuff fetish (Sam/Dean, minor Sam/Jess)
Title: Sam Winchester Might Have A Handcuff Fetish
Word Count: 1,736
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, with minor Sam/Jess
Disclaimer: Still not mine. If they were, there would be more hugging.
Spoilers: Takes place after 2x07 - The Usual Suspects
Notes: Beta'd by the fantastic and awesomely awesome lucia_tanaka. Written for the Supernatural Picture Prompt Fic Challenge hosted by marishna. My picture prompt was this.
The road back to town is a long one, brooding pine trees and open fields full of brown scruffy grass dotting the landscape. They haven't been walking more than five minutes though before a light catches Sam's eye and he looks over to see Dean twirling a pair of handcuffs, throwing bright reflections across Sam's face irritatingly.
Sam groans, head in hands. "You didn't."
"Sure did." The cuffs clink against each other sharply, a rhythmic click click that sets Sam's teeth on edge.
"Why?" He can't help the question, it just slips out of him before he has time to think of all the possible ways in which his brother might answer, all the possible ways he knows those handcuffs could be used.
"What can I say Sammy, I wanted a little souvenir," Dean says, grinning fit to give the Cheshire cat a run for his money and Sam almost breathes a sigh of relief.
"You're insane."
Dean looks like he's contemplating something, eyes focused and considering, head tilting slightly, then he shrugs, tosses the handcuffs in the air lazily and catches them as gravity pulls them back down. He does it again, the cuffs arcing higher, sun glinting off the metal and sparkling like water, crisp and shiny and aggravating the hell out of Sam. Another toss and Sam doesn't even think about it, he reaches over and catches them before Dean can, smirking and keeping them out of Dean's grasp.
"Hey!" Dean exclaims dejectedly and making a grab for them. Sam shifts, reaching upwards and dangling them too high for Dean to reach without jumping. Dean glares at him and grumbles, "Should have known you'd want them for yourself. You develop a kinky fetish on me there Sam?"
"I'm not the one who stole them in the first place."
"Yeah, whatever, college messed with your head dude." Sam carefully doesn't think about how close Dean is to the truth with that one and instead tightens his grip on the rapidly warming metal.
Dean kicks a rock absently, eyes the cuffs, and Sam's seen that look before, equal parts cool and calculating, so he really shouldn't be surprised by Dean jumping him, tickling his midsection in the spot that always makes Sam curl up with helpless laughter.
He tries to bat Dean's hands away, but the jerk has surprise on his side and knows every vulnerable spot Sam has. He doesn't last five seconds and Dean has the cuffs back in ten, smiling and twirling them once triumphantly, before pocketing them all John Wayne-style and smoothness.
Laughter still threading through his voice, Sam mutters, "Jerk," to which Dean automatically replies, "Bitch," and they start walking again.
***
It had all started with a pair of purple fuzzy handcuffs Jess got for her birthday. That night, Jess balanced on his hips, Sam suggested jokingly, with one hand caressing her breast, we should try them out, they were a gift after all. And she smiled back deviously and said, you first baby, and that was all it took, really, for her to talk him into it.
She'd reached into their nightstand, fished them out and slipped them on to his wrists with a muffled snick, leaving one hand wrapped just below, grip firm but gentle, and ground her hips down, making Sam thrust upwards hungrily.
The metal on the inside bit into his skin with a surprising jolt, making him moan involuntarily as Jess kissed him. Sucking on his bottom lip, she ground down harder, making him pull sharply against the restraints, pleasure-pain flaring across his shoulder blades and down his spine, and then he came.
They'd started using the cuffs on special occasions after that and every time Sam came so hard he felt like he was going to explode and he tried really hard not to think about what that might say about him and his psyche.
***
Sam forgets about the cuffs for weeks after. He gets his cast off somewhere between the poltergeist in Minnesota and the missing kids in Arkansas and then there's some cousin of Big Foot's in South Carolina and they just don't come up.
Then one night Dean's digging through his bag, looking for toothpaste, and Sam's flopped on the bed, resting up from spending four hours in the backwoods of Tennessee, chasing a goddamn woodnymph of all things, before finally finding it's stupid bonding tree and burning it to a nice blackened crisp, Dean's lips quirking in the firelight and taking far too much pleasure in it.
He hears a surprised "Huh," and then the cool press of metal is snapping against his skin. His eyes blink open to see Dean grinning down at him and before he can move, his arms are yanked above his head, the chain looped through the bedpost, and the other cuff wrapped securely around his other wrist in one fluid motion.
Dean's chained him up. To a fucking bed.
"This isn't funny Dean," Sam grits out, his brother watching him, eyes dancing with amusement saying otherwise.
"Actually, it is. You should see your face." Sam scowls even as the press and pull of the cuffs against his wrists sends a thrill to his dick that he really doesn't want to think about. Dean doesn't notice and only grins wider at Sam's deepening scowl.
"Yeah, okay, you win or whatever. Uncuff me," Sam says quickly, hoping to get out of this before he embarrasses himself or does something stupid or both. Things have been different between them, Sam mostly dancing around Dean or pushing too hard until Dean finally stopped acting like a goddamn robot, pushed back even harder, cracked open and hurting. It hasn't been the same and he's not sure if they'll fit together anymore and playing a game of watered down bondage probably wasn't gonna help things.
"You gotta ask nicer than that," Dean says, all swagger and smoky promise, and it sends another jolt straight to Sam's dick.
"Dean," Sam breathes, and the word comes out stretched thin, vowels elongated and shapeless.
The cocky smile on Dean's face falters a moment, eyes darkening, and Sam knows that look too, more intimate than words and his, only his, but it's gone just as soon as it's appeared. Dean walks around the bed, smile firmly back in place, saying, "All right, fine, you don't have to be such a whiny bitch about it."
Dean leans over him, breath huffing across Sam's face hotly and his body too close, practically putting them nose to nose. He can see every freckle on Dean's face (could play connect the dots if he wanted); see the tiny imperfections, the now faded and almost indiscernible scars snaking across his forehead and along the slope of his jaw.
The smell of damp earth, spicy aftershave, and Dean hits Sam all of a sudden and a wave of desire flows through him, strong and sharp, and his cock goes from being half-hard to aching almost instantly. Dean's fingers are hot against him, thumb rubbing a small comforting circle, almost absentmindedly, light as a hummingbird and just as fleeting while he works the lock. God, they haven't touched in months, years, ages. Not like this, not since-
"Leave them," Sam hisses, trying not to think for once, trying to just let himself feel. Dean stops, fingers splayed around Sam's wrist steady and sure. He looks down at Sam, so much flitting across his face Sam doesn't have time to catch it all before he's surging upward, crashing their lips together, a throaty whine escaping between them before he can stop it.
The kiss is messy, violent, and wonderful and then Dean's straddling him, licking and sinking teeth into that spot at the base of his throat, one hand shoving up Sam's shirt and scrapping shivering trails into his side, the other tossing the key on the nightstand.
He reaches down between them, flicks open Sam's fly, pulls the zipper down and shoves Sam's pants and boxers out of the way. Then Dean's palming his cock, thankgod, rough, callused fingers stroking Sam quick and dirty and just right Dean strokes once, twice, smearing precome between his fingers, and nips at Sam's collarbone and it's all Sam can do not to touch.
He pulls and the cuffs jerk, scrap across his flesh, pain flaring against his wrists making him growl and ache and want and Dean's rhythm increases at the noise, a shuttered, choked off "Jesus Sammy," falling from his lips, and Sam's breaking apart from too much and not enough and suddenly he's coming, spilling onto Dean's hand and shirt and finally not thinking about anything but Dean, and here, and now.
Dean groans, so low it's more a rumble of muscle against Sam's skin than anything else, rocks into him once, hard and with a hitching breath, and Sam knows that his brother just came in his pants. Dean falls on top of him heavily, pressing every inch of them together, and lays his head against the crook of Sam's neck.
Then Dean's unlocking the cuffs and rolling up and off him. Sam stretches his arms wide, shoulders popping and the pleasant familiar burn of muscles twinging. Sam watches as Dean makes a face, grimacing at his stained and probably sticky pants, before he shucks them off with his shirt. He watches the light play across Dean's back as Dean cleans himself off with the wet towel he'd thrown over the back of their only chair earlier, much to Sam's protests.
Sam stretches again, then kicks off his pants the rest of the way to hit the floor with a pleasing thump and his shirt soon follows.
Sam's snickers then and says, "Dude, you came in your pants."
"Shut up," Dean says and the towel hits Sam in the face, only making him laugh outright. He wipes at himself haphazardly then tosses it in the vicinity of the other bed. "At least I'm not the one with the kinky handcuff fetish," Dean adds.
"Shut up," Sam throws back this time, feeling his cheeks heat up, and Dean laughs, the sound pleasant and comforting and heard far too little these days.
The mattress dips beside him as Dean lays back down. Sam shifts, presses up against Dean's side, runs his fingers in slow meandering paths across Dean's stomach, relearning every inch of Dean's skin, feeling warm and sleepy and home.
Word Count: 1,736
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, with minor Sam/Jess
Disclaimer: Still not mine. If they were, there would be more hugging.
Spoilers: Takes place after 2x07 - The Usual Suspects
Notes: Beta'd by the fantastic and awesomely awesome lucia_tanaka. Written for the Supernatural Picture Prompt Fic Challenge hosted by marishna. My picture prompt was this.
The road back to town is a long one, brooding pine trees and open fields full of brown scruffy grass dotting the landscape. They haven't been walking more than five minutes though before a light catches Sam's eye and he looks over to see Dean twirling a pair of handcuffs, throwing bright reflections across Sam's face irritatingly.
Sam groans, head in hands. "You didn't."
"Sure did." The cuffs clink against each other sharply, a rhythmic click click that sets Sam's teeth on edge.
"Why?" He can't help the question, it just slips out of him before he has time to think of all the possible ways in which his brother might answer, all the possible ways he knows those handcuffs could be used.
"What can I say Sammy, I wanted a little souvenir," Dean says, grinning fit to give the Cheshire cat a run for his money and Sam almost breathes a sigh of relief.
"You're insane."
Dean looks like he's contemplating something, eyes focused and considering, head tilting slightly, then he shrugs, tosses the handcuffs in the air lazily and catches them as gravity pulls them back down. He does it again, the cuffs arcing higher, sun glinting off the metal and sparkling like water, crisp and shiny and aggravating the hell out of Sam. Another toss and Sam doesn't even think about it, he reaches over and catches them before Dean can, smirking and keeping them out of Dean's grasp.
"Hey!" Dean exclaims dejectedly and making a grab for them. Sam shifts, reaching upwards and dangling them too high for Dean to reach without jumping. Dean glares at him and grumbles, "Should have known you'd want them for yourself. You develop a kinky fetish on me there Sam?"
"I'm not the one who stole them in the first place."
"Yeah, whatever, college messed with your head dude." Sam carefully doesn't think about how close Dean is to the truth with that one and instead tightens his grip on the rapidly warming metal.
Dean kicks a rock absently, eyes the cuffs, and Sam's seen that look before, equal parts cool and calculating, so he really shouldn't be surprised by Dean jumping him, tickling his midsection in the spot that always makes Sam curl up with helpless laughter.
He tries to bat Dean's hands away, but the jerk has surprise on his side and knows every vulnerable spot Sam has. He doesn't last five seconds and Dean has the cuffs back in ten, smiling and twirling them once triumphantly, before pocketing them all John Wayne-style and smoothness.
Laughter still threading through his voice, Sam mutters, "Jerk," to which Dean automatically replies, "Bitch," and they start walking again.
***
It had all started with a pair of purple fuzzy handcuffs Jess got for her birthday. That night, Jess balanced on his hips, Sam suggested jokingly, with one hand caressing her breast, we should try them out, they were a gift after all. And she smiled back deviously and said, you first baby, and that was all it took, really, for her to talk him into it.
She'd reached into their nightstand, fished them out and slipped them on to his wrists with a muffled snick, leaving one hand wrapped just below, grip firm but gentle, and ground her hips down, making Sam thrust upwards hungrily.
The metal on the inside bit into his skin with a surprising jolt, making him moan involuntarily as Jess kissed him. Sucking on his bottom lip, she ground down harder, making him pull sharply against the restraints, pleasure-pain flaring across his shoulder blades and down his spine, and then he came.
They'd started using the cuffs on special occasions after that and every time Sam came so hard he felt like he was going to explode and he tried really hard not to think about what that might say about him and his psyche.
***
Sam forgets about the cuffs for weeks after. He gets his cast off somewhere between the poltergeist in Minnesota and the missing kids in Arkansas and then there's some cousin of Big Foot's in South Carolina and they just don't come up.
Then one night Dean's digging through his bag, looking for toothpaste, and Sam's flopped on the bed, resting up from spending four hours in the backwoods of Tennessee, chasing a goddamn woodnymph of all things, before finally finding it's stupid bonding tree and burning it to a nice blackened crisp, Dean's lips quirking in the firelight and taking far too much pleasure in it.
He hears a surprised "Huh," and then the cool press of metal is snapping against his skin. His eyes blink open to see Dean grinning down at him and before he can move, his arms are yanked above his head, the chain looped through the bedpost, and the other cuff wrapped securely around his other wrist in one fluid motion.
Dean's chained him up. To a fucking bed.
"This isn't funny Dean," Sam grits out, his brother watching him, eyes dancing with amusement saying otherwise.
"Actually, it is. You should see your face." Sam scowls even as the press and pull of the cuffs against his wrists sends a thrill to his dick that he really doesn't want to think about. Dean doesn't notice and only grins wider at Sam's deepening scowl.
"Yeah, okay, you win or whatever. Uncuff me," Sam says quickly, hoping to get out of this before he embarrasses himself or does something stupid or both. Things have been different between them, Sam mostly dancing around Dean or pushing too hard until Dean finally stopped acting like a goddamn robot, pushed back even harder, cracked open and hurting. It hasn't been the same and he's not sure if they'll fit together anymore and playing a game of watered down bondage probably wasn't gonna help things.
"You gotta ask nicer than that," Dean says, all swagger and smoky promise, and it sends another jolt straight to Sam's dick.
"Dean," Sam breathes, and the word comes out stretched thin, vowels elongated and shapeless.
The cocky smile on Dean's face falters a moment, eyes darkening, and Sam knows that look too, more intimate than words and his, only his, but it's gone just as soon as it's appeared. Dean walks around the bed, smile firmly back in place, saying, "All right, fine, you don't have to be such a whiny bitch about it."
Dean leans over him, breath huffing across Sam's face hotly and his body too close, practically putting them nose to nose. He can see every freckle on Dean's face (could play connect the dots if he wanted); see the tiny imperfections, the now faded and almost indiscernible scars snaking across his forehead and along the slope of his jaw.
The smell of damp earth, spicy aftershave, and Dean hits Sam all of a sudden and a wave of desire flows through him, strong and sharp, and his cock goes from being half-hard to aching almost instantly. Dean's fingers are hot against him, thumb rubbing a small comforting circle, almost absentmindedly, light as a hummingbird and just as fleeting while he works the lock. God, they haven't touched in months, years, ages. Not like this, not since-
"Leave them," Sam hisses, trying not to think for once, trying to just let himself feel. Dean stops, fingers splayed around Sam's wrist steady and sure. He looks down at Sam, so much flitting across his face Sam doesn't have time to catch it all before he's surging upward, crashing their lips together, a throaty whine escaping between them before he can stop it.
The kiss is messy, violent, and wonderful and then Dean's straddling him, licking and sinking teeth into that spot at the base of his throat, one hand shoving up Sam's shirt and scrapping shivering trails into his side, the other tossing the key on the nightstand.
He reaches down between them, flicks open Sam's fly, pulls the zipper down and shoves Sam's pants and boxers out of the way. Then Dean's palming his cock, thankgod, rough, callused fingers stroking Sam quick and dirty and just right Dean strokes once, twice, smearing precome between his fingers, and nips at Sam's collarbone and it's all Sam can do not to touch.
He pulls and the cuffs jerk, scrap across his flesh, pain flaring against his wrists making him growl and ache and want and Dean's rhythm increases at the noise, a shuttered, choked off "Jesus Sammy," falling from his lips, and Sam's breaking apart from too much and not enough and suddenly he's coming, spilling onto Dean's hand and shirt and finally not thinking about anything but Dean, and here, and now.
Dean groans, so low it's more a rumble of muscle against Sam's skin than anything else, rocks into him once, hard and with a hitching breath, and Sam knows that his brother just came in his pants. Dean falls on top of him heavily, pressing every inch of them together, and lays his head against the crook of Sam's neck.
Then Dean's unlocking the cuffs and rolling up and off him. Sam stretches his arms wide, shoulders popping and the pleasant familiar burn of muscles twinging. Sam watches as Dean makes a face, grimacing at his stained and probably sticky pants, before he shucks them off with his shirt. He watches the light play across Dean's back as Dean cleans himself off with the wet towel he'd thrown over the back of their only chair earlier, much to Sam's protests.
Sam stretches again, then kicks off his pants the rest of the way to hit the floor with a pleasing thump and his shirt soon follows.
Sam's snickers then and says, "Dude, you came in your pants."
"Shut up," Dean says and the towel hits Sam in the face, only making him laugh outright. He wipes at himself haphazardly then tosses it in the vicinity of the other bed. "At least I'm not the one with the kinky handcuff fetish," Dean adds.
"Shut up," Sam throws back this time, feeling his cheeks heat up, and Dean laughs, the sound pleasant and comforting and heard far too little these days.
The mattress dips beside him as Dean lays back down. Sam shifts, presses up against Dean's side, runs his fingers in slow meandering paths across Dean's stomach, relearning every inch of Dean's skin, feeling warm and sleepy and home.