Even Robots have Urges... a slashy fanfic
Title: Even Robots have urges
Author: Lysistrata
Rating: NC-17 (language, m/m sex, non-con, dub-con)
Genre: Sam/Dean
Word count: 2332
Summary: Sam doesn't sleep at night, and maybe just watching Dean isn't enough to keep him entertained....
This is my first attempt at slash so a bit scared about posting it!!
Dean hadn’t thought he was that drunk until he tried to stand up to go hit the head and found there was a distinct disconnect between his brain and his motor functions. Luckily Sam was there to catch him and save him the embarrassment of face-planting on the floor at the feet of the very pretty girl he’d been thinking about chatting up. Hadn’t got as far as introducing himself yet because Lisa’s face had kept superimposing onto the stranger’s, dark eyes overlaying blue, deep brown hair over blonde in a way that was making him feel quite maudlin. And as it turned out, not a little dizzy, as the whole bar seemed to have decided it was a tilt-a-whirl; the floor would not keep still and the tables and chairs (and people) appeared to have taken on a life of their own.
“Easy, Dean, I gotcha,” Sammy was murmuring into his ear, and he gratefully allowed his brother to take his weight as Sam steered him towards the door.
Everything got a little fuzzy after that. He vaguely registered that Sam had propped his uncooperative body up against the Impala while huge hands frisked his pockets for the keys. Then somehow he was lying across the front seat, his head in Sam’s lap staring up his little brother’s nostrils, and that - that was just weird, so he closed his eyes, just for a minute.
How long that minute had been, he had no idea, but when he managed to gather his wits together enough to take note of his surroundings again, he started to sober up a little, then a lot. Because this was just not right. He was lying on his back on a bed, but that was where normal stopped and the alarm bells started ringing.
Firstly, he was naked, and he really didn’t want to think about how that had happened. Secondly, he couldn’t move his arms, which were outstretched above his head and - he yanked at them as hard as he could in his taffy-muscled state - appeared to be cuffed to the bedstead. And thirdly, this woolly feeling in his head? The strange lassitude in every muscle in his body in spite of his growing mental agitation, that should have been sending him adrenaline surges to enable fight or flight? - none of that spoke of alcohol to Dean. Nope, he was pretty sure he’d been drugged. And there was no way in Hell that could be a good thing.
He struggled to speak round a mouthful of tongue and facial muscles that were reluctant to do anything but impersonate jello.
“S..s..am?” he managed to blurt out.
“Here, Dean.” Sam’s giant form hoved into view, and Dean’s stomach did a small unhappy flip. Shit. Sam was here, and alone, and it would appear by a process of elimination therefore that his soulless brother was responsible for his current predicament, and was not the person about to rescue him. He was not at all comforted by the smile on Sam’s face. This Sam’s smiles creeped him out at the best of times, and really, right this minute, the situation was moving rapidly away from being the best of times.
“F..ck, Sam, wha’ y’doin’…?” Dean silently cursed his unresponsive body as he tried to get his muscles to work again, fighting against the drug lazily pumping through his system. He shivered involuntarily as Sam casually sat down on the edge of the bed beside him and ran a warm hand down Dean’s naked chest, over the small taut peak of his nipple and trailing down to his groin to rest there possessively cupping his shrinking cock and balls. He noticed with horror that Sam was also nearly naked, though still wearing his boxers, and that his little brother was all too obviously aroused. The soft fabric of the boxers was tented tight over a large erection, and Dean hoped vehemently against hope that this state was nothing to do with him.
He was to soon disabused of any such notion.
“Sorry about the cuffs, Dean.” Sam leaned closer, hazel eyes dark and shadowed in the dim lights of the motel bedroom. He gestured expansively with his free hand. “And the Rohypnol.”
Shit, fuck, damn. The bastard had slipped him a roofie, presumably sometime during the evening, and he hadn’t even noticed. Man, he was getting slack in his old age.
He could hear his heart beating, too fast, too loud. His skin felt over-sensitive and Sam’s fingers burned where he touched, stroking almost absently round the leaking head of Dean’s dick, while he leaned in close, so that Dean could smell the minty toothpaste on his little brother’s breath. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe; mesmerised by the hints of gold swimming in the hazel, glinting in the lamplight. Then Sam released him by turning away, allowing him to take a gulp of air before burying his head in the pillow in denial, muttering “No, no, no, Sammy, this is so messed up…,”
His voice shattered as Sam’s hot wet tongue licked down his torso, following the trail blazed seconds before by his brother’s hand. Round first one perky nipple, then the other, then down the middle of his sternum, his abs, until it tangled with the faint trail of fair hair below his bellybutton. In spite of himself, Dean gasped. In spite of everything - the drugs, the not being gay, the totally wrong incestuous nature of this whole scenario - Dean felt his slutty dick rising to the occasion and groaned.
He could hear the smug smile in Sam’s voice as his brother carried on talking in between paying his dick and balls some very competent attention with that too skilful tongue.
“I may not have a soul, Dean, but I do have...” lick… “urges. Needs.” Running tongue up then down Dean’s rapidly hardening length, “Don’t worry, I will make it good for you, Dean.”
The older Winchester made an inarticulate sound of protest as Sam’s large hands parted his slack thighs and he felt a slick finger slide between his butt cheeks to probe at his tight entrance.
“Oh god, oh no…”
“You’ve not done this before, Dean? With a guy?”
“Shit, n…no!”
“Huh.” Sam pushed first one finger inside him, then a second, and if Dean could have, he would have flinched. “That’s it. Just relax, bro’, and you’ll be fine…”
Dean couldn’t let that one go. He grunted against the burn as Sam’s fingers scissored and widened him, against the thrill of Sam’s hot mouth closing over his now fully erect cock, against the shockingly good feelings that were coursing through his body at every touch.
“Not…ah…my brother…!” He managed to gasp.
Sam released Dean’s aching cock as he raised his head, looking up at Dean through his messed up bangs, his expression inscrutable. His fingers were still busy working inside Dean, making his every breath come faster at the uncomfortable, novel sensation. Sam reached long with his left hand and snagged one of the pillows, then in one smooth motion, lifted Dean’s hips and slid the pillow underneath his buttocks. At the same time, the younger Winchester casually changed the angle of the fingers of his right hand and touched something deep inside that set off an explosion of pleasure, the like of which Dean had never experienced before - and believe me, he’d experienced a lot of sexual pleasure in his time. Involuntarily his head went back, and his eyes closed. He barely heard Sam’s response over the waves of arousal that those fingers were triggering.
“Oh yes, that’s right. I’m the soulless guy, aren’t I? Not Sam Winchester any more.”
Dean struggled to gather his errant thoughts together but they kept scattering like scared sheep being chased by feral Sam-shaped wolves. His efforts were not helped when Sam shifted and suddenly the whole length of the younger Winchester’s body was pressed up against him, warm flesh pressed against his cold skin. Somehow Sam had gotten totally naked (Dean hadn’t seen the boxers go) and now Sam’s swollen cock was pushing up between his legs and Dean was starting to panic, drugs or no drugs. He tensed and pulled against the cuffs, but Sam just used his considerable bulk to pin Dean helpless to the mattress.
“Please…don’t…” He hated the way his voice was coming out, pleading and weak.
Sam who wasn’t really Sam just smiled at him, with that insincere, empty smile this golem, puppet, whatever-the-hell-creature had been using since they first reunited, and Dean writhed inside.
“So you don’t have to worry about this being wrong, because it isn’t really incest if I’m not really Sam, right?” Soulless Sam continued, as if he hadn’t heard his big brother’s breathless pleas.
Dean’s eyes were darting left and right, desperate for a way out, when Sam applied constraints more effective than handcuffs, silenced any protest more quickly than any gag. He used words as weapons, calculated and precise, cutting to the core of Dean Winchester in a way only someone using Sam Winchester’s brain could.
“You see, Dean, I could do this with a whore - pay them extra to satisfy my more unusual requirements; or maybe find a nice gay boy or a desperate housewife like Lisa at a bar; but then someone might get hurt. Someone innocent, a civilian. This way is much better, don’t you think? Keeping it in the family.”
Dean felt his resistance crumble. He had no defence against his primal urge to protect - protect Sam from himself, protect the innocent world from Sam. He allowed Sam to tilt his hips up further as his brother pushed his dick all the way inside him, splitting him in two, impaling him. He moaned as Sam filled him up and thrust deeper, and Sam’s teeth were sharp, biting at his neck, his pecs, his nipples. And through it all, his own cock was hard and needy where it was trapped between their bodies, and he wanted nothing so much as to feel Sam’s mouth close round it again, and was so ashamed of the feeling. He closed his eyes, only to feel Sam’s fingers gripping his face so tightly he was sure it would bruise.
“Keep them open, Dean. I want to look in your eyes while I fuck your tight ass. I want them open when I make you come.”
Shit. His eyes flew open obediently, and Sam was right in his face, minty breath moist against his lips, then Sam’s mouth closed over his, stealing what little breath he had left with ruthless efficiency. Dean managed a low noise, half moan, half whimper as Sam’s tongue prised between his teeth and tangled with his own. All semblance of coherent thought fled as Sam possessed him utterly, thrusting cock and thrusting tongue driving Dean’s doped up body insane with conflicting pleasure and pain in almost equal measure.
The first time Sam made him come he was flushed with shame. He slipped into an exhausted sleep which was all too short-lived. He had forgotten that RoboSam never sleeps, and, seemingly, didn’t get tired either. He was teased into shocked wakefulness by Sam’s ever-ready cock, nudging at his sore and leaking hole. At some point, he couldn’t remember, he’d been released from the handcuffs, though his wrists were red with new bruises from his early futile resistance. Sam was like the Borg in more ways than one, that was true. Maybe he even had nanotechnology powering his libido, because for certain, it seemed to be inexhaustible.
Dean submitted to being flipped onto his stomach and fucked from behind, and found a mild sense of disbelief that his own cock somehow found the energy to perform again, pressed into the bed and rubbed raw tangled in the messy sheets. It appeared he had been too quick to dismiss the potential of the prostate in the past, but he could have wished for more pleasant circumstances in which to explore its attributes.
And even a good pounding of his no-longer-virgin-prostate was not enough to keep him from tipping rapidly from the credit side of pleasure into pain after the fourth or fifth time Sam woke him up to fuck him one more time…
Perhaps there were even more fuckings that night, if so, either he had blanked them out or was just too worn out to wake up enough to notice.
Sunlight was shining on his face when he finally roused himself the next morning, and there was (thankfully) no sign of Sam. Dean was sprawled face down, naked, on top of the wreck of his bed, and as he gingerly tried to roll over onto his back, he decided that his aching body was even more wrecked than the bed was. Every muscle was screaming at him as he half fell off the edge of the bed and agony tore through him as he straightened up to stagger to the bathroom, groaning all the way. He felt Sam’s come trickle down his thighs out of muscles too stretched to clench any more, and winced at the rawness between his legs. He knew he had bruises just about everywhere, and he dreaded to think what he must look like - probably like a man who’d been mauled by a lion while being fucked by a robot for seven straight hours, he thought wryly.
He was in the shower with his head tipped back under the powerful jet before the water had had time to heat up, uncaring that the icy needles were cutting into his skin. It was like Hell, this feeling of being dirty inside and out, and he wasn’t sure that he would ever feel clean again. He fell asleep standing up under the now steaming hot water, oblivious to the scalding heat turning every inch of his abused body dark pink and highlighting the rapidly darkening bruises and teethmarks.
He had never felt so full.
Never felt so empty and alone.