Fic: The Perfect Animal (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: The Perfect Animal
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Prompt: The alpha vamp said that he would like to train robo!Sam to be his perfect animal, the pure hunter. Dean decides that if he's going to be anyone's, he'll be Dean's. Dean trains robo!Sam to obey him. Originally here. I admit that I used this as an excuse to write D/s fic in which the dom is technically the bottom, because I've been sort of thinking about that for a while. Oh, Blindfold, you always provide.
There's something of the racehorse about him, trained to heel, but something, too, of the collared panther, the threat of wildness coursing under the skin. The nape of his neck is bared to Dean, vulnerable, but the best part of this is that any vulnerability here is offered by Sam, not stolen. What Dean has managed is to convince Sam to submit without protest, and the achievement feels greater in the knowledge that nobody else could have managed it, even with Sam like this, soulless.
Dean traces the ridge of the vertebra at the top of his spine, runs his fingers over the flat edge of the collar where it meets Sam's skin, and Sam's stillness, his upright kneeling posture, strike a bolt of appreciative heat through the pit of Dean's stomach. "Sam," he whispers, but Sam doesn't betray by a flicker that he's heard, his eyes fixed steady on the floor. Dean nods briefly, though Sam doesn't see it, and cards his fingers through the soft, sweat-damp hair curling on Sam's neck, clinging stickily to the bone. Sam's sheened with sweat all over, muscles gleaming faintly under all his miles of skin. Dean's worked him hard tonight, and Sam doesn't shower until Dean says so. Those are the rules.
In certain instances, reaction is permitted. When Dean twists his fingers in the soft weight of Sam's hair, makes a fist and tugs, Sam's head comes back easily, eyes meeting Dean's. Dean's fist tightens further, wrist jerking sharply, and Sam lets out a brief, pained sound in his throat that makes Dean's mouth quirk in acknowledgement and approval. Sam does what Dean says and he does it without protest. That includes showing the effect Dean has on him, letting Dean see his pleasure and his pain. He is Dean's, after all, Dean's animal, Dean's servant. If Dean wants him to cry out, he cries out; if Dean wants him to beg, he begs. Sam's not stupid, and his animal instinct leads him unerringly towards what will best serve his own ends. When Sam obeys Dean, Dean rewards him, and Sam loves to be rewarded.
Not that Sam knows much of love, these days, but he's learning. The thing about Sam is that he's not without emotion, not some hulked-out Mr Spock with an aggressive streak. Sam feels, on a basic leonine level, everything geared toward self-preservation, wired in to his body's most simplistic drives. And, like an animal, if Sam associates a person with good things, successes, there'll be a connection there, as there is between him and Dean. It hurt, once, to see Sam's eyes without their slow-burn of constant emotion, the whisky-gold turbulence of pleasure and concern and anger that Dean's seen there all Sam's life. Now, though, Dean knows better than to read Sam's gaze as blank, accepts his loyalty for what it is, the hard-won fealty of a warrior. Sam is not Dean's brother any more, but he is his bondsman, and Dean can work with that so long as Sam is still, ultimately, his.
"Sam." Dean's fingers slacken, barely perceptibly, but Sam's face shifts in gratitude all the same. "Did good today."
Sam says nothing, but there's a tension vibrating in his shoulders, anticipatory. This is the part, Dean knows, that Sam waits for, the part of their arrangement that makes it worth his while. Working on basic instinct as he is, Sam doesn't take much pleasure in food, seeing it as a necessity only, and certainly puts no stock by flight unless resistance would be suicidal. Fucking, though. Fucking, Sam enjoys. It seemed a logical currency to dole out Sam's loyalty points in.
When Dean pulls again, it's no longer intended to be painful, just a guiding hand to coax Sam forward. There's a slight tug, sure, at Sam's scalp, but Sam likes that, lets himself be drawn without resistance, nuzzling his face into the crotch of Dean's jeans. Dean's breath hitches at the pressure, cock fattening further in his pants, and Sam makes a low sound of pleasure, opens his mouth hotly against the growing bulge.
Dean's pretty sure that Sam wanted this before. Sam, his kid brother Sam, wanted this, to rub his face wantonly against Dean's hard cock, breathe in the smell of him. Trace the hot line of him with his mouth. The thing is that, before, Sam would have been too ashamed to take what he wanted. Not even just the whole incest thing, but alongside it, too, Sam's inherent sense of self-loathing and unworthiness, his reserve. Sam never would have made these sounds as he nuzzled Dean's cock, would never have knelt naked and unselfconscious. He wanted to, though, and this Sam is only want. Dean wants him all the way to his bones.
Sam's hands are no longer shackled, folded at the small of his back and kept there by the power of Dean's will alone. Now, though, when Dean cants his hips against Sam's face, rubbing up against Sam's mouth where it parts over the head of him, Sam's hands come tentatively forward, as if to take hold of Dean's hips. This is a point of contention between them, and Dean knows it's his own fault. Sam always wants to take hold of Dean as he sucks him, steer him, encourage him deeper into his throat, and sometimes, Dean lets him. More often, though, Dean wants to take Sam like this, just a waiting, welcoming mouth for Dean to fuck, and that means Sam's hands have to stay where Dean put them.
"Sam," Dean cautions, low. "Hands."
The hands go back to their place at the base of Sam's spine, clasp there. A month ago, Sam would have rolled his eyes at the order. Two months ago, he would have disobeyed it. They are making progress.
Dean reaches one hand down, brushes the corner of Sam's mouth before he finds the button of his jeans, slips it open. Buttons are too much even for T-1000, but the zipper is coming half-undone already under the straining weight of Dean's cock, and Dean does love to see Sam finish the job. "Zipper," he commands, arousal making his voice taut, and Sam leans in unquestioningly, closes his teeth around the zipper and pulls.
Under his jeans, Dean's naked, and he can't bite back a hiss of relief at the kiss of cool air on his hot skin. Then Sam's leaning forward again -- good Sam, so fucking good, so well-trained --- and the cool air is gone, replaced by the heat of Sam's mouth, and shit.
"God, Sam," Dean groans, pelvis stuttering forward involuntarily, "yeah. Doin' so good. C'mon, suck me."
Sam's mouth is as big as the rest of him, and Dean slides right to the back of it easy as sin. The wet velvet tunnel of Sam's mouth, the way he hollows his cheeks and sucks, the way his tongue twists under the head of Dean's dick -- shit. Sam's good at this, fucks his mouth down sloppy and slick over the length of Dean until he's swallowing the tip of him, and Dean could go crazy for it, hands clenching tight in Sam's hair.
"Yeah," he manages, fucking forward, over the spitshiny swell of Sam's lower lip, over the slight roughness of his tongue. "Harder." And he tightens his fists in Sam's overlong hair, pulling him forward to meet Dean's thrusts.
For another man, this might have been a punishment, but Dean knows that Sam loves this. He moans as he works, gut-deep sounds of pleasure, and Dean can smell the arousal coming off him in waves. Dean could come like this so easily, shoot down Sam's throat, pull out and come all over his face, and Sam would love it as he has so many times before, would consider himself duly rewarded. Today, though, that isn't what Dean wants. It's been a long week, and Dean wants a little more.
"Stop," he rasps, tamping down the twist of protest that rises up in his stomach as Sam halts, immediate obeisance, and pulls off slowly. The half-kiss he presses to the slick head of Dean's cock isn't quite in the spirit of the order, but Dean's willing to forgive it, shivering involuntarily at the chain of sparks it provokes in him.
"Okay," he says, scrabbling for coherence. He knows he sounds wrecked, voice raw as if he's the one who's just had his throat stuffed full of cock, but Sam's breathing heavily, too, shoulders heaving, and Dean can't think around the look of blatant desire on his face, the heat in his gaze. He closes his eyes, bites his lip a second. "Spread," he commands, brief and curt, and gives Sam a moment to comply.
When he opens them again, Sam has shifted from his straight-backed position, weight supported on his thighs; has widened his knees and lowered his body to rest on his heels, low to the ground. Against his stomach, his cock strains red and thick, precome drooling down the shaft, and Dean chokes down a groan at the sight of it. Dean is in control, here. That means taking charge of the situation.
It doesn't take much to shuck his jeans the rest of the way, shoving them down over his hips, but his fingers fumble a little under the weight of Sam's eyes, watchful and appraising on Dean's chest and stomach and cock, mapping the length of his legs. When Dean steps forward, though, ankles wide enough to straddle Sam's knees, the hitch of Sam's breath is deeply gratifying, and Dean feels his cock jerk hotly against his stomach as he lowers himself down.
"Sam," he cautions, "Don't move."
One finger crooked up inside himself is enough to ensure that he's still sufficiently slick and open from earlier to take Sam easily. Sam's bigger than the three fingers Dean stretched himself on, but Dean likes the burn, likes the way Sam's face goes slack as Dean seats himself on his cock. Sammy would have loved this, too, his brother gripping his dick in both hands, positioning the head at his hole, fucking down onto it. Sammy would have loved it, would never have taken it, and something about this feels like giving it to him, the brother that Dean will never see again.
Whatever. Dean's too turned on to think about that right now, not with the tip of Sam's dick just nudging at his entrance, muscles in Sam's arms straining with the effort of not touching. Dean slides his own hands to the balls of Sam's shoulders, grips them hard for support, for leverage.
"Still," he tells Sam, rough and low. And then he braces his knees, braces his arms, descends.
They both cry out at the contact, the hot-slick drag of Sam's cock as gravity splays Dean open around it, and for a second of insanity, Dean wants Sam's mouth on his, wants to swallow the joy in the sound. Then Sam twists his hips, fucks up shallowly against Dean's protest, and the moment passes. Dean's kissed him sometimes, brutal, claiming kisses, all teeth and spit, but never like this, never with Sam's cock shoved up inside him. Like this, there's too much chance of forgetting, too great a risk of Dean losing the partition in his brain that separates his bondsman from his brother. Dean kisses this Sam with his eyes open, and like this, with Sam filling him up so full and glorious that he's riding the edge already, Dean's incapable, lids clenched shut.
"Sam," he grits; lifts himself with an effort and lets his weight pull him down, again, again. Sam's breathing tightly, moaning low, and the sound sets a wildfire going in the pit of Dean's stomach, dirty and wrong and good. "Sam," he whines, and he was close already, close from Sam's mouth and his body and his obedience, and this is too much, Sam's dick inside him, his little brother's cock leaking all over his insides.
"Yes," Sam says, and his voice is rough with disuse, dry and hot with sex. "Yeah, Dean. Whatever you want. Anything you want."
It isn't his name in Sam's mouth that sets him off -- or so, at least, Dean tells himself as the orgasm takes root low in his groin, arrows out through his cock until he's shooting between them, slicking hot and wet over the tight muscles of Sam's belly. Beneath him, Sam is close, too, and Dean can feel himself clenching, can feel Sam's cock fattening desperately, impossibly inside of him. His hands are weak with aftershock, but he manages to close them, to tug at Sam's hair.
"Sammy," he murmurs, and there's nobody here but Sam, nobody to tell on him. Nobody who'd care. "Sam --"
Sam comes like a punch, filling him deep and slick, head snapping back as his face contorts in a pleasure that looks incandescent. Sam doesn't often look like that these days, like a person. Like a man touched by grace.
By the time Dean's pulled off him, staggering away on legs still shaking from orgasm, the flash has gone, Sam's face settled blankly back into its usual disaffected calm, overlaid with the breathlessness of sex. This is not his brother. This is not the man Dean has loved for as long as he can remember, as naturally as breathing.
He doesn't need to explain why Sam has to be his. It's a tactical matter. That's all.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Prompt: The alpha vamp said that he would like to train robo!Sam to be his perfect animal, the pure hunter. Dean decides that if he's going to be anyone's, he'll be Dean's. Dean trains robo!Sam to obey him. Originally here. I admit that I used this as an excuse to write D/s fic in which the dom is technically the bottom, because I've been sort of thinking about that for a while. Oh, Blindfold, you always provide.
There's something of the racehorse about him, trained to heel, but something, too, of the collared panther, the threat of wildness coursing under the skin. The nape of his neck is bared to Dean, vulnerable, but the best part of this is that any vulnerability here is offered by Sam, not stolen. What Dean has managed is to convince Sam to submit without protest, and the achievement feels greater in the knowledge that nobody else could have managed it, even with Sam like this, soulless.
Dean traces the ridge of the vertebra at the top of his spine, runs his fingers over the flat edge of the collar where it meets Sam's skin, and Sam's stillness, his upright kneeling posture, strike a bolt of appreciative heat through the pit of Dean's stomach. "Sam," he whispers, but Sam doesn't betray by a flicker that he's heard, his eyes fixed steady on the floor. Dean nods briefly, though Sam doesn't see it, and cards his fingers through the soft, sweat-damp hair curling on Sam's neck, clinging stickily to the bone. Sam's sheened with sweat all over, muscles gleaming faintly under all his miles of skin. Dean's worked him hard tonight, and Sam doesn't shower until Dean says so. Those are the rules.
In certain instances, reaction is permitted. When Dean twists his fingers in the soft weight of Sam's hair, makes a fist and tugs, Sam's head comes back easily, eyes meeting Dean's. Dean's fist tightens further, wrist jerking sharply, and Sam lets out a brief, pained sound in his throat that makes Dean's mouth quirk in acknowledgement and approval. Sam does what Dean says and he does it without protest. That includes showing the effect Dean has on him, letting Dean see his pleasure and his pain. He is Dean's, after all, Dean's animal, Dean's servant. If Dean wants him to cry out, he cries out; if Dean wants him to beg, he begs. Sam's not stupid, and his animal instinct leads him unerringly towards what will best serve his own ends. When Sam obeys Dean, Dean rewards him, and Sam loves to be rewarded.
Not that Sam knows much of love, these days, but he's learning. The thing about Sam is that he's not without emotion, not some hulked-out Mr Spock with an aggressive streak. Sam feels, on a basic leonine level, everything geared toward self-preservation, wired in to his body's most simplistic drives. And, like an animal, if Sam associates a person with good things, successes, there'll be a connection there, as there is between him and Dean. It hurt, once, to see Sam's eyes without their slow-burn of constant emotion, the whisky-gold turbulence of pleasure and concern and anger that Dean's seen there all Sam's life. Now, though, Dean knows better than to read Sam's gaze as blank, accepts his loyalty for what it is, the hard-won fealty of a warrior. Sam is not Dean's brother any more, but he is his bondsman, and Dean can work with that so long as Sam is still, ultimately, his.
"Sam." Dean's fingers slacken, barely perceptibly, but Sam's face shifts in gratitude all the same. "Did good today."
Sam says nothing, but there's a tension vibrating in his shoulders, anticipatory. This is the part, Dean knows, that Sam waits for, the part of their arrangement that makes it worth his while. Working on basic instinct as he is, Sam doesn't take much pleasure in food, seeing it as a necessity only, and certainly puts no stock by flight unless resistance would be suicidal. Fucking, though. Fucking, Sam enjoys. It seemed a logical currency to dole out Sam's loyalty points in.
When Dean pulls again, it's no longer intended to be painful, just a guiding hand to coax Sam forward. There's a slight tug, sure, at Sam's scalp, but Sam likes that, lets himself be drawn without resistance, nuzzling his face into the crotch of Dean's jeans. Dean's breath hitches at the pressure, cock fattening further in his pants, and Sam makes a low sound of pleasure, opens his mouth hotly against the growing bulge.
Dean's pretty sure that Sam wanted this before. Sam, his kid brother Sam, wanted this, to rub his face wantonly against Dean's hard cock, breathe in the smell of him. Trace the hot line of him with his mouth. The thing is that, before, Sam would have been too ashamed to take what he wanted. Not even just the whole incest thing, but alongside it, too, Sam's inherent sense of self-loathing and unworthiness, his reserve. Sam never would have made these sounds as he nuzzled Dean's cock, would never have knelt naked and unselfconscious. He wanted to, though, and this Sam is only want. Dean wants him all the way to his bones.
Sam's hands are no longer shackled, folded at the small of his back and kept there by the power of Dean's will alone. Now, though, when Dean cants his hips against Sam's face, rubbing up against Sam's mouth where it parts over the head of him, Sam's hands come tentatively forward, as if to take hold of Dean's hips. This is a point of contention between them, and Dean knows it's his own fault. Sam always wants to take hold of Dean as he sucks him, steer him, encourage him deeper into his throat, and sometimes, Dean lets him. More often, though, Dean wants to take Sam like this, just a waiting, welcoming mouth for Dean to fuck, and that means Sam's hands have to stay where Dean put them.
"Sam," Dean cautions, low. "Hands."
The hands go back to their place at the base of Sam's spine, clasp there. A month ago, Sam would have rolled his eyes at the order. Two months ago, he would have disobeyed it. They are making progress.
Dean reaches one hand down, brushes the corner of Sam's mouth before he finds the button of his jeans, slips it open. Buttons are too much even for T-1000, but the zipper is coming half-undone already under the straining weight of Dean's cock, and Dean does love to see Sam finish the job. "Zipper," he commands, arousal making his voice taut, and Sam leans in unquestioningly, closes his teeth around the zipper and pulls.
Under his jeans, Dean's naked, and he can't bite back a hiss of relief at the kiss of cool air on his hot skin. Then Sam's leaning forward again -- good Sam, so fucking good, so well-trained --- and the cool air is gone, replaced by the heat of Sam's mouth, and shit.
"God, Sam," Dean groans, pelvis stuttering forward involuntarily, "yeah. Doin' so good. C'mon, suck me."
Sam's mouth is as big as the rest of him, and Dean slides right to the back of it easy as sin. The wet velvet tunnel of Sam's mouth, the way he hollows his cheeks and sucks, the way his tongue twists under the head of Dean's dick -- shit. Sam's good at this, fucks his mouth down sloppy and slick over the length of Dean until he's swallowing the tip of him, and Dean could go crazy for it, hands clenching tight in Sam's hair.
"Yeah," he manages, fucking forward, over the spitshiny swell of Sam's lower lip, over the slight roughness of his tongue. "Harder." And he tightens his fists in Sam's overlong hair, pulling him forward to meet Dean's thrusts.
For another man, this might have been a punishment, but Dean knows that Sam loves this. He moans as he works, gut-deep sounds of pleasure, and Dean can smell the arousal coming off him in waves. Dean could come like this so easily, shoot down Sam's throat, pull out and come all over his face, and Sam would love it as he has so many times before, would consider himself duly rewarded. Today, though, that isn't what Dean wants. It's been a long week, and Dean wants a little more.
"Stop," he rasps, tamping down the twist of protest that rises up in his stomach as Sam halts, immediate obeisance, and pulls off slowly. The half-kiss he presses to the slick head of Dean's cock isn't quite in the spirit of the order, but Dean's willing to forgive it, shivering involuntarily at the chain of sparks it provokes in him.
"Okay," he says, scrabbling for coherence. He knows he sounds wrecked, voice raw as if he's the one who's just had his throat stuffed full of cock, but Sam's breathing heavily, too, shoulders heaving, and Dean can't think around the look of blatant desire on his face, the heat in his gaze. He closes his eyes, bites his lip a second. "Spread," he commands, brief and curt, and gives Sam a moment to comply.
When he opens them again, Sam has shifted from his straight-backed position, weight supported on his thighs; has widened his knees and lowered his body to rest on his heels, low to the ground. Against his stomach, his cock strains red and thick, precome drooling down the shaft, and Dean chokes down a groan at the sight of it. Dean is in control, here. That means taking charge of the situation.
It doesn't take much to shuck his jeans the rest of the way, shoving them down over his hips, but his fingers fumble a little under the weight of Sam's eyes, watchful and appraising on Dean's chest and stomach and cock, mapping the length of his legs. When Dean steps forward, though, ankles wide enough to straddle Sam's knees, the hitch of Sam's breath is deeply gratifying, and Dean feels his cock jerk hotly against his stomach as he lowers himself down.
"Sam," he cautions, "Don't move."
One finger crooked up inside himself is enough to ensure that he's still sufficiently slick and open from earlier to take Sam easily. Sam's bigger than the three fingers Dean stretched himself on, but Dean likes the burn, likes the way Sam's face goes slack as Dean seats himself on his cock. Sammy would have loved this, too, his brother gripping his dick in both hands, positioning the head at his hole, fucking down onto it. Sammy would have loved it, would never have taken it, and something about this feels like giving it to him, the brother that Dean will never see again.
Whatever. Dean's too turned on to think about that right now, not with the tip of Sam's dick just nudging at his entrance, muscles in Sam's arms straining with the effort of not touching. Dean slides his own hands to the balls of Sam's shoulders, grips them hard for support, for leverage.
"Still," he tells Sam, rough and low. And then he braces his knees, braces his arms, descends.
They both cry out at the contact, the hot-slick drag of Sam's cock as gravity splays Dean open around it, and for a second of insanity, Dean wants Sam's mouth on his, wants to swallow the joy in the sound. Then Sam twists his hips, fucks up shallowly against Dean's protest, and the moment passes. Dean's kissed him sometimes, brutal, claiming kisses, all teeth and spit, but never like this, never with Sam's cock shoved up inside him. Like this, there's too much chance of forgetting, too great a risk of Dean losing the partition in his brain that separates his bondsman from his brother. Dean kisses this Sam with his eyes open, and like this, with Sam filling him up so full and glorious that he's riding the edge already, Dean's incapable, lids clenched shut.
"Sam," he grits; lifts himself with an effort and lets his weight pull him down, again, again. Sam's breathing tightly, moaning low, and the sound sets a wildfire going in the pit of Dean's stomach, dirty and wrong and good. "Sam," he whines, and he was close already, close from Sam's mouth and his body and his obedience, and this is too much, Sam's dick inside him, his little brother's cock leaking all over his insides.
"Yes," Sam says, and his voice is rough with disuse, dry and hot with sex. "Yeah, Dean. Whatever you want. Anything you want."
It isn't his name in Sam's mouth that sets him off -- or so, at least, Dean tells himself as the orgasm takes root low in his groin, arrows out through his cock until he's shooting between them, slicking hot and wet over the tight muscles of Sam's belly. Beneath him, Sam is close, too, and Dean can feel himself clenching, can feel Sam's cock fattening desperately, impossibly inside of him. His hands are weak with aftershock, but he manages to close them, to tug at Sam's hair.
"Sammy," he murmurs, and there's nobody here but Sam, nobody to tell on him. Nobody who'd care. "Sam --"
Sam comes like a punch, filling him deep and slick, head snapping back as his face contorts in a pleasure that looks incandescent. Sam doesn't often look like that these days, like a person. Like a man touched by grace.
By the time Dean's pulled off him, staggering away on legs still shaking from orgasm, the flash has gone, Sam's face settled blankly back into its usual disaffected calm, overlaid with the breathlessness of sex. This is not his brother. This is not the man Dean has loved for as long as he can remember, as naturally as breathing.
He doesn't need to explain why Sam has to be his. It's a tactical matter. That's all.