Fic: (Non)Lucid
Title:(Non)Lucid
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: All of this happened fictionally between 2 fictional, consenting adults who are both over 18. Also, none you know are belong to us.
Warnings: wincest, cave, candles, blood, lack of logic/coherency, a variation on Sex Pollen
Characters/Pairings: established Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Summary: ~1500 words of PWP Oneshot. Sam and Dean drop by a cave, come up with something better to do than the current hunt.
Written as a gift for hugemind in honour of her birthday! *hugs*
So thank/blame her for the porn. Where the heck all this other shtuff came from, though, I don't have a clue. :)
Beta'ed by tigriswolf.
His fingers find fabric instead of flesh, curling around Sam's sleeve, gravity pulling them both through the rotten boards. He glances off a rock wall, loses his grip, feels a boulder dig into his side, the rush of falling, the shock of stumbling to a stop, rolling with the punches.
Pebbles trip and descend in their wake, dust dances on their breaths.
Dean coughs, body alight with sensation, mind going a mile a minute categorizing, adjusting, bouncing back as he clambers to his feet, eyes useless in the darkness.
There's nothing to see, so he wills the blood out of his ears, the aches into the farthest corner. Sam.
"Sammy?"
There's no answer but a breath rivaling his own. He drops down to feel his way, a groan a little ahead of him eliciting a half-conscious Thank you out of him, fingers floundering, crawling over the body a foot, two in front of him.
"'m fine," comes Sam's groggy answer before long fingers curl around Dean's wrists, raise them to Sam's face, let him feel the warmth, the wetness on Sam's cheek, the pulse pounding beneath.
"You sure?" It's a stupid question; if they're well enough to answer, they're well enough to act. But it's Sam and there's the scent of spilled blood and Dean can't make up his mind about it.
"I'm fine, Dean," Sam repeats, smile in his voice, letting go. It's still as dark as it can be, Sam's clothes rustling as he moves. "Where are we?"
The halo of the lighter is better than nothing, letting Dean see the cut on Sam's cheek, the dust and grime powdering his skin and hair. The younger man blinks, looks around himself.
The ceiling arches above them; Sam could probably reach it if Dean gave him a helping hand.
"Huh," Sam sighs, scrambles forward, Dean on his tail, trying to see over his brother's shoulders.
"Here," Sam says, handing a...candle...over his shoulder, glancing at Dean. "There's more of those, too. And I at least would like to see a little bit more with that ogre around."
"Don't you have your flashlight?"
"I think I landed on it."
"Well, then..."
The candle's dry as bone, the wick dusty like everything else, but it joins the lighter's flame eagerly enough. Dean bends past Sam, reaches to light a few more, sitting steadfastly on the stone.
They're not white candles, more like red, or something. They burn with a steady flame, smoking ever so slightly, smelling sweet, familiar, like something Dean thinks he should recognize.
Sam pulls him out of his thoughts, tugging at his sleeve.
"Dean, see those symbols? All over the wall?"
His eyes follow Sam's gaze, make out the light lines, a circle of characters just above the candles seated on the rock.
"Looks like we're tracking the single living ogre-artist, then," he smirks, running his fingers over the marks.
Sam rises up quickly, sways on his feet, grabs a hold of Dean to steady himself. Dean threads an arm around his waist, lowers him back down, brushes his hand down the side of Sam's head, holds the candle closer.
"You hit your head, didn't you?"
Sam squints, flinches at the flame's nearness, turns to Dean's touch.
"I'm fine," he murmurs. "Just..."
His lips brush Dean's palm, voice tapering off. Dean shifts his hold, turns Sam to face him, the hazel eyes looking up at him, hunger shading everything.
It's really not that hard to lean forward, taste Sam's lips.
It should be harder to forget about the ogre, everything else but the desire to touch and feel and take.
It isn't.
He doesn't know when he lets go off the candle, where it falls, doesn't really even care, his hands on Sam, Sam's hands on him, tearing at the clothes, sensing skin. There's a pulse under his tongue, thrumming against his lips, Sam's skin smooth in the gentle glow, dust clinging to sweat, sighs stuttering as Dean flicks on every nerve he can find, fingers feeling their way ever lower, following the dip of spine to the cleft of buttocks, lips wrapping around Sam.
Sam's hands catch in his hair, urge him onward, stop teasing, his hips bucking, burying himself as deep as possible, Dean withdrawing only enough to stop the gag reflex.
The first tentative touch has Sam gasping, pushing against Dean's fingers, trying to get more, more, more and Dean's happy to comply, kissing Sam's length goodbye, going down.
Sam stammers his pleas, unable to do anything but grind himself against Dean, seek friction, writhe around the fingers and tongue, the sounds he makes nothing but encouragement, here-please-now, Dean's fingers slick inside him. The blood's dark against his cheek, his breaths heavy, long fingers wrapping around Dean's shoulders, yanking him up, out, searing lips on his.
"Now, Dean," Sam hisses into the kiss.
Yes, Dean's blood sings. No, not yet, Dean's heart pleads. Not ready, not enough.
Sam tugs him closer, reaches down between them, grabs Dean and shoves him closer, against that tight ring of muscle. Dean pushes himself up, back onto his knees, a broken mewl leaving Sam.
No saint could keep it in his pants faced with that sight.
Not enough, his heart begs. He likes it, he wants it, his blood croons.
He spits in his palm, slicks himself as best he can, falls into the willing flesh, drinks in Sam's pain/pleasure as he breaches that opening, drives home, settles in hot-tight-heaven.
It's no longer in his hands, if it ever was. Sam whimpers with each move, each thrust, each slip-slide of Dean, the friction dancing on the thin line between perfect and too much. Sam's pulse beats, frantic, under the sweat-sweet skin, all around Dean, the crimson wine in the candle glow.
He's close, so close, the walls falling in on him, but that stain calls to him. The rhythm he's picked grows faster, erratic, Sam tightening around him as Dean reaches to turn Sam's head. He licks at the cheek, tastes the copper-iron, the world washing away in the flood of release.
Time loses meaning, then returns with reason, their bodies sticky, Sam warm and alive under him.
Breaths and beats calm and quiet, Dean manages to gather some of his senses enough to raise himself off, out of Sam, the small sound escaping his brother's lips freezing his heart.
"Sam?" he calls, brushing his fingers over the cheek, the residue of blood making something twitch with interest deep in his belly.
Sam opens his eyes, clear but for the remains of release. He stares at Dean momentarily, blinks, leans on his elbows, taking in their surroundings.
There's a smile on his lips as he locks on Dean again.
"Don't think the ogre even knows what to do with the candles," he says, voice thick, words light.
"You okay? I-"
"Not like I'm made of glass, man," Sam scoffs, rising to sit. "Or like this was even the first time."
He reaches for Dean, then, catching his brother's eyes.
"You okay? Dean? You fell, too, you know."
Dean gives him a crooked grin, shrugs off his hand, reaches for their clothes. Something else was driving for a while, and yeah, it was a blast, but losing control like that? Has never sat well with him.
Sam accepts his own gear without a word, not bothering to clean himself as they dress up in silence, the candle-glow soft, warm.
"What the fuck happened, Sam?"
The words taste bitter on his tongue, the memory of not caring about anything but getting, taking what he wanted painful.
Sam swallows, licks his lips, glances at the circle of symbols on the wall.
"I'm not sure. Some sort of spell or curse, I guess... Maybe the candles? Maybe those markings? Maybe both?"
Then Sam's there, pushing Dean against a wall, pressing against him, kissing him fervently, claiming.
"But it's okay," he whispers, breath hot against Dean's ear. "We're fine." He bites, sucks on the tender skin of Dean's neck, that twitch from earlier giving another try, more insistent now, Dean's breath rushing out. "So let's go waste that ogre and get the hell out of here..."
His voice is full of promises, his body grinding once more against Dean's before Sam steps away from him and grabs one of the candles, glances back at Dean, cat-eyes glittering.
"You comin'?"
Dean shakes himself, banishes the last cobwebs out of his head, steps to the candles, too. Worries his lower lip for a moment before blowing out all but one of the lit tapers, and then gathering them all in his arms, turning back to inquisitive Sam.
As best he can, Dean shrugs.
"If it's the candles, we gotta take care people won't get hurt."
"And do what with them, exactly?"
Another shrug, slow smile rising to his lips. "I'm a professional, Sammy."
Sam rolls his eyes at that, scoffs.
Dean steps up to him, nuzzles his neck, lips above Sam's pulse.
"I never said what I'm a professional of..."
Rationality's way too over-appreciated, anyway...
But I still can't believe I wrote fantasy-porn without any appropriate lube and a minimum of angst... *headdesk*