Shadows of Me, Supernatural, NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Shadows of Me
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1231
Summary: Dean doesn't remember, but Sam can't forget...
A/Ns & Warnings: I'm way behind here with the birthdays. Offered up for unrequited666 and oddlyspoken, belatedly, for their birthdays. Non-Con, though not overly graphic.
Dean doesn't remember.
Sam can't look him in the eye, can't see him and not see his eyes gone cold and very not Dean.
It's been two days and Sam's still curled up on the back seat of the Impala as they drive over another state line.
Dean doesn't remember and he's starting to be more than a little freaked out by Sam's silence.
The car slows and Sam's body goes on alert.
"Need some caffeine." Dean murmurs. He's looking at him, Sam knows. He can feel it. Sam manages a nod. Dean sighs and the car shifts as he gets out.
Sam sits up slowly, unfolding his legs from their awkward position and rubbing down his thighs. They're in the middle of nowhere, with a one-stop gas-station/coffee shop/diner. He can see Dean at the counter.
He slides out of the car, getting his feet on solid ground. It feels good. To be not moving, to be stable. His stomach trembles as if to remind him he's anything but stable. He watches Dean get his coffee and load up on junk food. They're on the road to no where in particular and as long as they're moving Sam doesn't have to face it.
As long as Dean doesn't remember, Sam doesn't have to either.
Except, for the life of him, Sam can't forget.
Two Days Earlier
The motel room door is open, the room trashed. Sam steps in out of the rain slowly, gun in his hand. "Dean?" his voice a harsh whisper, the remnants of last weeks cold still working through his throat.
There's movement in the corner, a shadow wrestling with something more solid.
The wind blows the door shut and Dean jumps from the floor, the shadow seeming to settle into him. His neck cracks and he grins as Sam lowers the gun. "You okay?"
Dean nods, but he doesn't look okay. He looks…frightening.
Lightening cracks outside the single window, lighting the room up and casting long shadows over the walls. They aren't alone. Sam murmurs "Christo," under his breath but Dean just smiles.
"Not that easy, Sammy." It's Dean's voice, but Sam's fairly sure it isn't Dean. He steps back, toward the door.
"I know what you're thinking Sammy." Dean's suddenly beside him, his hand hot on Sam's. "But it's me. Dean." His breath is hot, sticky with tequila and lime. The gun is gone and Sam doesn't even know where or why. "This is me…all of me, Sam…the side of me you never get to see."
Another lightening crack. Sam can see the shadows moving now, surrounding him, them. "The side of me that wants things you'll never give me." Dean's voice is rough and rumbling around inside him. His hands are touching Sam in places and ways he's never been touched…and Sam's body betrays him, his befuddled brain no longer in control.
Sam is aware that Dean is guiding him toward the bed, that Dean's hands have his jeans open and that this is going to very quickly go someplace they can't come back from.
"Dean." He pushes back, his head banging against Dean's. "Stop." He fights, his hands moving quickly, but he's not thinking clearly, as if the shadows are mud that have settled into his brain to slow him down and Dean gets the better of him, tangling his arms in his shirt behind his back. "Dean!"
His brother's tongue is on his skin, his hands pulling Sam's jeans down. "Don’t tell me you don't want it too." Dean growls, even as Sam tries yet again to pull free. "I've seen you watch me. Heard you moan my name."
Sam's bare ass is pressed under Dean's weight, his jeans tangled around his knees in his struggles. "Dean, please."
He yells as something penetrates him, wiggles around inside him. "Dean!"
Sam can't get any leverage to move and his struggles are getting weaker as he realizes he can't get away. Dean's weight is holding him down and Sam hears the sound of his brother's zipper, feels the bed move under them. He holds his breath. "Not like this." He barely whispers it, but if Dean hears him, he gives no indication, just presses in, his cock breaching Sam's ass, filling him as Sam yells into the mattress.
Two Days later
"You okay?" Dean asks, handing Sam a large cup of coffee.
Sam nods silently and takes the cup, sipping at the hot liquid.
"Why won't you tell me?"
He looks up at the bruises dusting Dean's face, left cheek bone, right jaw line. They came from the fight before Sam had come back to the motel…with whatever it was, the shadows.
"Damn it Sam. If I hurt you…" Dean sighs and runs a hand over his head. He doesn't remember, nothing past the shadow attacking him and pushing him in the door…not until the sun came up the next morning.
"I'm fine, Dean." Sam says, though his voice sounds strange. He does his best not to flinch and almost manages. "You…scared me."
The Morning After
The first signs of morning are slipping around the motel curtains. Sam hasn't slept, hasn’t moved since Dean's rutting had ended in a rush of heat and his collapse to the bed.
He's not sure what to do, what Dean will be like when he wakes. Sam climbs slowly out of bed, letting his jeans pool on the floor and stepping out of them. He's sore, but it isn't too bad…Dean had been rough, but he hadn't hurt him.
Sam heads for the bathroom, showers, shaves. Tries not to notice the bruises on his upper arm in the shape of Dean's fingers. In the quiet, he pulls on clean jeans and a shirt.
Dean's still asleep, one arm cast casually over his eyes. Sam scans the room for signs of what had happened. The bed they didn't use is trashed, pillows thrown to the floor, comforter torn off. The table is on its side, paper and books scattered on the floor.
Sam feels eyes and looks up. Dean is watching him, his face dark, that same scary look in his eyes. Like shadow. Sam blinks, reaches for the window. He knows how to deal with shadows. He yanks the curtain open, letting in the morning sun and Dean shrinks back, his arms held up as if to defend himself.
When they drop, Dean seems himself again. Sam watches warily as Dean climbs out of bed. "Sam?"
Sam nods slowly.
"What happened?"
Sam shakes his head, just as slowly. "Don't know exactly. I was hoping you could tell me."
Dean rubs his forehead. "Last thing I remember I was coming back from that bar…I saw a shadow, then something pushed me."
"You fought, but it got inside." Sam said softly. "I think it's gone now."
Dean reaches for Sam, for his arm and the bruises, but Sam pulls away. "We should go…" Sam scoops up his duffle, starts gathering their things while Dean just watches.
"Did I do something?"
Sam swallows the panicked laughter. "No. No. It's fine. We should just go."
Dean doesn't believe him, but Sam can't stand to look, can't bear to see if it comes back. Because Dean did. Dean touched him in ways brother's don't touch. Dean hurt him in ways that left Sam feeling vulnerable and alone.
And Dean doesn't remember any of it.
Title: Shadows of Me
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1231
Summary: Dean doesn't remember, but Sam can't forget...
A/Ns & Warnings: I'm way behind here with the birthdays. Offered up for unrequited666 and oddlyspoken, belatedly, for their birthdays. Non-Con, though not overly graphic.
Dean doesn't remember.
Sam can't look him in the eye, can't see him and not see his eyes gone cold and very not Dean.
It's been two days and Sam's still curled up on the back seat of the Impala as they drive over another state line.
Dean doesn't remember and he's starting to be more than a little freaked out by Sam's silence.
The car slows and Sam's body goes on alert.
"Need some caffeine." Dean murmurs. He's looking at him, Sam knows. He can feel it. Sam manages a nod. Dean sighs and the car shifts as he gets out.
Sam sits up slowly, unfolding his legs from their awkward position and rubbing down his thighs. They're in the middle of nowhere, with a one-stop gas-station/coffee shop/diner. He can see Dean at the counter.
He slides out of the car, getting his feet on solid ground. It feels good. To be not moving, to be stable. His stomach trembles as if to remind him he's anything but stable. He watches Dean get his coffee and load up on junk food. They're on the road to no where in particular and as long as they're moving Sam doesn't have to face it.
As long as Dean doesn't remember, Sam doesn't have to either.
Except, for the life of him, Sam can't forget.
Two Days Earlier
The motel room door is open, the room trashed. Sam steps in out of the rain slowly, gun in his hand. "Dean?" his voice a harsh whisper, the remnants of last weeks cold still working through his throat.
There's movement in the corner, a shadow wrestling with something more solid.
The wind blows the door shut and Dean jumps from the floor, the shadow seeming to settle into him. His neck cracks and he grins as Sam lowers the gun. "You okay?"
Dean nods, but he doesn't look okay. He looks…frightening.
Lightening cracks outside the single window, lighting the room up and casting long shadows over the walls. They aren't alone. Sam murmurs "Christo," under his breath but Dean just smiles.
"Not that easy, Sammy." It's Dean's voice, but Sam's fairly sure it isn't Dean. He steps back, toward the door.
"I know what you're thinking Sammy." Dean's suddenly beside him, his hand hot on Sam's. "But it's me. Dean." His breath is hot, sticky with tequila and lime. The gun is gone and Sam doesn't even know where or why. "This is me…all of me, Sam…the side of me you never get to see."
Another lightening crack. Sam can see the shadows moving now, surrounding him, them. "The side of me that wants things you'll never give me." Dean's voice is rough and rumbling around inside him. His hands are touching Sam in places and ways he's never been touched…and Sam's body betrays him, his befuddled brain no longer in control.
Sam is aware that Dean is guiding him toward the bed, that Dean's hands have his jeans open and that this is going to very quickly go someplace they can't come back from.
"Dean." He pushes back, his head banging against Dean's. "Stop." He fights, his hands moving quickly, but he's not thinking clearly, as if the shadows are mud that have settled into his brain to slow him down and Dean gets the better of him, tangling his arms in his shirt behind his back. "Dean!"
His brother's tongue is on his skin, his hands pulling Sam's jeans down. "Don’t tell me you don't want it too." Dean growls, even as Sam tries yet again to pull free. "I've seen you watch me. Heard you moan my name."
Sam's bare ass is pressed under Dean's weight, his jeans tangled around his knees in his struggles. "Dean, please."
He yells as something penetrates him, wiggles around inside him. "Dean!"
Sam can't get any leverage to move and his struggles are getting weaker as he realizes he can't get away. Dean's weight is holding him down and Sam hears the sound of his brother's zipper, feels the bed move under them. He holds his breath. "Not like this." He barely whispers it, but if Dean hears him, he gives no indication, just presses in, his cock breaching Sam's ass, filling him as Sam yells into the mattress.
Two Days later
"You okay?" Dean asks, handing Sam a large cup of coffee.
Sam nods silently and takes the cup, sipping at the hot liquid.
"Why won't you tell me?"
He looks up at the bruises dusting Dean's face, left cheek bone, right jaw line. They came from the fight before Sam had come back to the motel…with whatever it was, the shadows.
"Damn it Sam. If I hurt you…" Dean sighs and runs a hand over his head. He doesn't remember, nothing past the shadow attacking him and pushing him in the door…not until the sun came up the next morning.
"I'm fine, Dean." Sam says, though his voice sounds strange. He does his best not to flinch and almost manages. "You…scared me."
The Morning After
The first signs of morning are slipping around the motel curtains. Sam hasn't slept, hasn’t moved since Dean's rutting had ended in a rush of heat and his collapse to the bed.
He's not sure what to do, what Dean will be like when he wakes. Sam climbs slowly out of bed, letting his jeans pool on the floor and stepping out of them. He's sore, but it isn't too bad…Dean had been rough, but he hadn't hurt him.
Sam heads for the bathroom, showers, shaves. Tries not to notice the bruises on his upper arm in the shape of Dean's fingers. In the quiet, he pulls on clean jeans and a shirt.
Dean's still asleep, one arm cast casually over his eyes. Sam scans the room for signs of what had happened. The bed they didn't use is trashed, pillows thrown to the floor, comforter torn off. The table is on its side, paper and books scattered on the floor.
Sam feels eyes and looks up. Dean is watching him, his face dark, that same scary look in his eyes. Like shadow. Sam blinks, reaches for the window. He knows how to deal with shadows. He yanks the curtain open, letting in the morning sun and Dean shrinks back, his arms held up as if to defend himself.
When they drop, Dean seems himself again. Sam watches warily as Dean climbs out of bed. "Sam?"
Sam nods slowly.
"What happened?"
Sam shakes his head, just as slowly. "Don't know exactly. I was hoping you could tell me."
Dean rubs his forehead. "Last thing I remember I was coming back from that bar…I saw a shadow, then something pushed me."
"You fought, but it got inside." Sam said softly. "I think it's gone now."
Dean reaches for Sam, for his arm and the bruises, but Sam pulls away. "We should go…" Sam scoops up his duffle, starts gathering their things while Dean just watches.
"Did I do something?"
Sam swallows the panicked laughter. "No. No. It's fine. We should just go."
Dean doesn't believe him, but Sam can't stand to look, can't bear to see if it comes back. Because Dean did. Dean touched him in ways brother's don't touch. Dean hurt him in ways that left Sam feeling vulnerable and alone.
And Dean doesn't remember any of it.