Fic: There's a Lunatic in my Head
Title: There's a Lunatic in my Head
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Spoilers: Set after Born Under a Bad Sign
Disclaimer: Not mine. Except in my dreams. heh
Warnings: Angst, Wincest, mild non-con (not physically descriptive, but the idea is explored.)
Summary: Meg's gone, but Sam can still feel her darkness inside. She's urging him toward things he knows he shouldn't want, but lines are blurring and it's not getting any better.
His arm hurt. For as long as he could remember Dean had bandaged him up and fussed over his wounds. Scraped knees and burnt fingers turned to bite marks and knife wounds, and through them all Dean was there. Even when Sam was a teenager and suddenly much too manly to be babied, he'd taken secret pleasure in Dean's insistent care.
The brand on his arm, now broken by a line of scorched skin, was a first. Dean didn't want to look at it. He didn't ask about it. It was like it didn't exist. Like none of it ever happened.
Mostly, Sam was more than happy to pretend. He'd killed a hunter and almost wasted his brother. There wasn't much to say. It was nice to pretend like everything was normal. Like there wasn't a sick need coiled inside him, taunting him with just how wrong he was.
"Take them." Dean held out two pills and a bottle of Mountain Dew.
"You're handing me sleeping pills and caffeine in a bottle. You know that, right?" Sam tried to smile but truthfully, he was terrified.
"The caffeine isn't going to do shit against those pills." He thrust the pills forward again, his look insistent. "Just take them, Sammy. They'll knock you out."
"They don't knock me out." He grudgingly picked up the pills, just to ease the aggression in Dean's stance. "They make the dreams worse."
"Yeah, that's too bad. Fucking take them."
"Dean...." He bit his lip, trying to decide between the better of two evils, but the exhaustion dulled everything and in the end he simply swallowed the pills. "Happy, jerk?"
The tension drained from Dean's shoulders in an instant and he sank to the bed on shaky knees. He looked horrible. Sam looked worse, and he knew it, but seeing Dean with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes was disconcerting.
"I'll be happy when you can hold a gun steady again ... bitch."
"Yeah, me too." Sam agreed, trying for a smile even as he admitted, "I'll be happier when I can sleep without Meg narrating my dreams."
"You've got to relax, Sammy. This is all in your head." He reached out and tapped Sam's temple with his index finger. "There's no one in there but you, man."
"Yeah?" he muttered, flipping onto his stomach. "Then what the hell's wrong with me?"
Meg was gone. Even asleep, Sam was aware of that on some level. It just wasn't comforting, not when he could still feel her. He wasn't possessed, forced to watch his actions through a telescope, horrified but removed. It was as if she had tarnished his soul during that week. Sank in so deep that he would never get her voice out of his head. But he was the one turning idea into action. He held the gun and wielded the knife, and fit flesh to flesh in sin.
He was the one who ignored Dean's pleas and shoved his brother to the bed. It was his need that tightened Sam's gut and screamed at him to act. In wakefulness, it was a constant struggle not to show his hand and let Dean get a glimpse of his wrongness. Here, with Meg whispering encouragements, it didn't seem as important. At the back of his mind he was sure Dean wanted this.
"Stop fighting!" Sam snarled, pinning Dean into the mattress with his weight.
Long minutes later Dean stopped struggling and went still. He watched Sam as he whispered, "Christo."
"You always do that!" Sam tightened his grip on Dean's throat, fury washing away reason.
As many times as he'd held his brother down and fucked him into the mattress, Dean had flung that word out like an accusation every time. It hurt in the morning, maybe more than the shame and self-hatred, because it proved that he was alone in this. So alone that Dean couldn't imagine them coming together of their own free will. Here, in the dream, with Meg snarling how happy his brother was to suck, fuck or take it up the ass from every willing body, it just pissed him off.
"Why not me?" Sam demanded. "You'll fuck almost anyone. Why not me?"
"Sammy...." Dean was still, not struggling any longer but obviously not happy either.
"I'm the only one who knows you.” He ran a hand through Dean's hair. "I know what you are. And I love you more than anyone else ever could."
"I love you too, Sam." Dean shifted, his voice turning into a growl. "But not like this. Please ... let me up."
"I don't think so." He tugged Dean's shirt up his stomach, hands mapping flesh. "This is the only way I can make you see."
"I don't want to hurt you," Dean said quietly, the fury audible in his voice.
"That's usually my line," Sam said.
"Fuck you!" Dean growled.
"Yeah, that's pretty much the plan." Sam lowered his head and whispered, "And you always like it."
Dean threw a punch, the blow connecting heavily to the side of Sam's face. He rocked back, a disappointed frown spreading over his features.
"Here." A duplicate of himself was standing at the side of the bed, a pair of handcuffs dangling from its fingertips. As could only happen in dreams, Sam recognized the being as Meg even as it opened its mouth and spoke in Sam's voice. "Tie the fucker down. He likes it better that way."
"Thanks." Sam took the metal cuffs and started the struggle for Dean's wrists.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean hit him again, the panic showing on his face now. "What the hell, Sam?"
"Ignore her," Sam said, finally securing one wrist and then the other to the headboard. "She's just here to help."
Dean just glared up at him, accusation and betrayal in his eyes. Sam knew he should stop, that this was sick and wrong, but he also knew he wouldn't. He knew that, like he knew this wasn't the first time or even the dozenth time they'd played this scene out. He knew that with enough patience Dean would melt into the sheets and start tipping his hips up, tormented whimpers spilling from his lips.
"Why are you doing this?" Dean asked, his eyes squinted closed now. He was limp against the bed, the slight quake of his body the only movement.
"I need this, Dean." He lowered his hand and started undoing his brother's pants. "Don't make me pretend anymore."
"This isn't what you want." Dean turned his head to the side, glaring at Meg as Sam palmed his soft dick. "Sam ... not like this."
"You don't want him to leave again, do you?" Meg asked the question echoing in Sam's head.
"Don't do this," Dean pleaded, his voice rough and laced with sorrow. "You're my ... you're all I have. Don't take that away from me, Sammy. Please."
"I'll make it good for you," Sam promised.
"Sammy...." The word came out on a sob, Dean's eyes welling with moisture.
"Sammy!" Dean was suddenly above him, shaking him awake. "Sammy!"
He came to himself with a wail, the guilt and pain blessedly absent in his dream rushing him hard and fast.
"Don't touch me!" He sobbed, slapping Dean's hands away.
"Shh, Sammy. It's just me." Dean sat on the side of the bed, too close. "I've got you, man. It's okay."
Sam flipped onto his stomach and curled his arms around his face, shaking. A hand stroked soothingly over his back, causing a flood of tears. He hated himself for taking comfort from Dean's touch. More, he hated that every instinct he had was telling him to turn and pull his brother against his body. To simply cling to him and be allowed that comfort when it was the last thing he deserved.
“Relax, Sammy. Relax. It was just a dream.” He ran an errant hand through Sam's mop of hair, ignorant of the look of pain that crossed his brother's face at the touch. “You're all right.”
“Dean,” Sam turned his tear soaked face and his brother was there, attentive and trusting, “I'm not all right.”
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Spoilers: Set after Born Under a Bad Sign
Disclaimer: Not mine. Except in my dreams. heh
Warnings: Angst, Wincest, mild non-con (not physically descriptive, but the idea is explored.)
Summary: Meg's gone, but Sam can still feel her darkness inside. She's urging him toward things he knows he shouldn't want, but lines are blurring and it's not getting any better.
His arm hurt. For as long as he could remember Dean had bandaged him up and fussed over his wounds. Scraped knees and burnt fingers turned to bite marks and knife wounds, and through them all Dean was there. Even when Sam was a teenager and suddenly much too manly to be babied, he'd taken secret pleasure in Dean's insistent care.
The brand on his arm, now broken by a line of scorched skin, was a first. Dean didn't want to look at it. He didn't ask about it. It was like it didn't exist. Like none of it ever happened.
Mostly, Sam was more than happy to pretend. He'd killed a hunter and almost wasted his brother. There wasn't much to say. It was nice to pretend like everything was normal. Like there wasn't a sick need coiled inside him, taunting him with just how wrong he was.
"Take them." Dean held out two pills and a bottle of Mountain Dew.
"You're handing me sleeping pills and caffeine in a bottle. You know that, right?" Sam tried to smile but truthfully, he was terrified.
"The caffeine isn't going to do shit against those pills." He thrust the pills forward again, his look insistent. "Just take them, Sammy. They'll knock you out."
"They don't knock me out." He grudgingly picked up the pills, just to ease the aggression in Dean's stance. "They make the dreams worse."
"Yeah, that's too bad. Fucking take them."
"Dean...." He bit his lip, trying to decide between the better of two evils, but the exhaustion dulled everything and in the end he simply swallowed the pills. "Happy, jerk?"
The tension drained from Dean's shoulders in an instant and he sank to the bed on shaky knees. He looked horrible. Sam looked worse, and he knew it, but seeing Dean with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes was disconcerting.
"I'll be happy when you can hold a gun steady again ... bitch."
"Yeah, me too." Sam agreed, trying for a smile even as he admitted, "I'll be happier when I can sleep without Meg narrating my dreams."
"You've got to relax, Sammy. This is all in your head." He reached out and tapped Sam's temple with his index finger. "There's no one in there but you, man."
"Yeah?" he muttered, flipping onto his stomach. "Then what the hell's wrong with me?"
Meg was gone. Even asleep, Sam was aware of that on some level. It just wasn't comforting, not when he could still feel her. He wasn't possessed, forced to watch his actions through a telescope, horrified but removed. It was as if she had tarnished his soul during that week. Sank in so deep that he would never get her voice out of his head. But he was the one turning idea into action. He held the gun and wielded the knife, and fit flesh to flesh in sin.
He was the one who ignored Dean's pleas and shoved his brother to the bed. It was his need that tightened Sam's gut and screamed at him to act. In wakefulness, it was a constant struggle not to show his hand and let Dean get a glimpse of his wrongness. Here, with Meg whispering encouragements, it didn't seem as important. At the back of his mind he was sure Dean wanted this.
"Stop fighting!" Sam snarled, pinning Dean into the mattress with his weight.
Long minutes later Dean stopped struggling and went still. He watched Sam as he whispered, "Christo."
"You always do that!" Sam tightened his grip on Dean's throat, fury washing away reason.
As many times as he'd held his brother down and fucked him into the mattress, Dean had flung that word out like an accusation every time. It hurt in the morning, maybe more than the shame and self-hatred, because it proved that he was alone in this. So alone that Dean couldn't imagine them coming together of their own free will. Here, in the dream, with Meg snarling how happy his brother was to suck, fuck or take it up the ass from every willing body, it just pissed him off.
"Why not me?" Sam demanded. "You'll fuck almost anyone. Why not me?"
"Sammy...." Dean was still, not struggling any longer but obviously not happy either.
"I'm the only one who knows you.” He ran a hand through Dean's hair. "I know what you are. And I love you more than anyone else ever could."
"I love you too, Sam." Dean shifted, his voice turning into a growl. "But not like this. Please ... let me up."
"I don't think so." He tugged Dean's shirt up his stomach, hands mapping flesh. "This is the only way I can make you see."
"I don't want to hurt you," Dean said quietly, the fury audible in his voice.
"That's usually my line," Sam said.
"Fuck you!" Dean growled.
"Yeah, that's pretty much the plan." Sam lowered his head and whispered, "And you always like it."
Dean threw a punch, the blow connecting heavily to the side of Sam's face. He rocked back, a disappointed frown spreading over his features.
"Here." A duplicate of himself was standing at the side of the bed, a pair of handcuffs dangling from its fingertips. As could only happen in dreams, Sam recognized the being as Meg even as it opened its mouth and spoke in Sam's voice. "Tie the fucker down. He likes it better that way."
"Thanks." Sam took the metal cuffs and started the struggle for Dean's wrists.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean hit him again, the panic showing on his face now. "What the hell, Sam?"
"Ignore her," Sam said, finally securing one wrist and then the other to the headboard. "She's just here to help."
Dean just glared up at him, accusation and betrayal in his eyes. Sam knew he should stop, that this was sick and wrong, but he also knew he wouldn't. He knew that, like he knew this wasn't the first time or even the dozenth time they'd played this scene out. He knew that with enough patience Dean would melt into the sheets and start tipping his hips up, tormented whimpers spilling from his lips.
"Why are you doing this?" Dean asked, his eyes squinted closed now. He was limp against the bed, the slight quake of his body the only movement.
"I need this, Dean." He lowered his hand and started undoing his brother's pants. "Don't make me pretend anymore."
"This isn't what you want." Dean turned his head to the side, glaring at Meg as Sam palmed his soft dick. "Sam ... not like this."
"You don't want him to leave again, do you?" Meg asked the question echoing in Sam's head.
"Don't do this," Dean pleaded, his voice rough and laced with sorrow. "You're my ... you're all I have. Don't take that away from me, Sammy. Please."
"I'll make it good for you," Sam promised.
"Sammy...." The word came out on a sob, Dean's eyes welling with moisture.
"Sammy!" Dean was suddenly above him, shaking him awake. "Sammy!"
He came to himself with a wail, the guilt and pain blessedly absent in his dream rushing him hard and fast.
"Don't touch me!" He sobbed, slapping Dean's hands away.
"Shh, Sammy. It's just me." Dean sat on the side of the bed, too close. "I've got you, man. It's okay."
Sam flipped onto his stomach and curled his arms around his face, shaking. A hand stroked soothingly over his back, causing a flood of tears. He hated himself for taking comfort from Dean's touch. More, he hated that every instinct he had was telling him to turn and pull his brother against his body. To simply cling to him and be allowed that comfort when it was the last thing he deserved.
“Relax, Sammy. Relax. It was just a dream.” He ran an errant hand through Sam's mop of hair, ignorant of the look of pain that crossed his brother's face at the touch. “You're all right.”
“Dean,” Sam turned his tear soaked face and his brother was there, attentive and trusting, “I'm not all right.”