Supernatural Anonymous Kink Meme: Sade's Masterpost
From blindfold_spn.
I will not own up to all the prompts I posted, but the ficlets? They're a completely different matter.
All are, for safety's sake, rated NC-17, even though there's preciously little porn in a good number of them, imo. Note that the comm will be Members Only, so the original thread-links may not yield desired results if you're not a member.
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us. Or even necessarily real.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Non-con, incest, pre-series
Summary/Prompt: the night before Sam left for Stanford he raped Dean in or on the Impala.
Wordcount: 206
Original thread
Tomorrow this time, he'll be out. Out of this ratty place, this life, this everything.
And never coming back.
But now?
Now he's watching Dean's lips, parted around these broken noises he makes, the way they rub against the smooth metal of the car's hood. Now he's listening to every single one of those sounds, feeling Dean squirm, trapped between his brother and the car, hotter than any body ever before, straining around Sam like Dean's never done this before, never let anybody close enough.
Never let anybody spread him wide open and sink in, thrust after thrust after thrust, feel all that trained flesh offer sweet friction until release is the only option left. Never let anybody flip him around, kiss him and taste the blood from the split, drink the whimpers with fingers buried in the soft mess inside Dean, stabbing and seeking until Dean spills out of his skin with a sob.
Sam once swore he wouldn't act on that dream, wouldn't touch his brother like that.
But now he's leaving.
And he's never coming back.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Uriel
Warnings: Outsider POV
Summary/Prompt: virgin!Castiel, first penetrative time, Dean on top. Uriel in hiding and watching, his PoV.
Wordcount: 367
Original thread
It's always the same, watching something with the emotional capabilities of a lump of clay lure one to Fall.
It always hurts.
Castiel likes him, I told him the truth about that. But even I couldn't foresee this. The ape pawing at Castiel's vessel; my brother accepting it. My brother letting the demon-touched stroke and caress him; my brother melting against the wall, opening his vessel's lips, thighs, welcoming such touches. My brother forgetting who he is, where he comes from, encouraging the ape.
Dean certainly seems like he knows exactly what he's doing. Considering all he's already done, this must not mean much.
But I know my brother. Castiel hasn't walked this earth in a long time, and when he last did, things were different. He was different. All these things, all these touches Dean teases him with must be alluring. And they are, judging by the way Castiel lets Dean bare the flesh of his vessel, the sighs that slip by his lips as Dean's hands do the talking.
I want to go there, tear them apart, stop my brother from letting this happen.
But I cannot. It is not my place; not my job. I am not my brother's keeper, and all I may do is watch, and advise. But my words have fallen on deaf ears, so I merely watch.
Watch Dean lead Castiel by the nose, strip him and lick him and smile like the devil's own that he is as my brother's body answers.
Watch Castiel spreading his legs further, Dean's hand busy between them.
Watch the ape mount my brother like a dog in heat.
And watch as Castiel takes it, face turning to rapture, begging for more as Dean drives in deeper.
My brother Falls for a human, for flesh, and it hurts just as much every time.
But Father has decreed that I must witness it.
Pairing: Uriel/Castiel
Warnings: Non-con
Summary/Prompt: Uriel falls and then rapes Castiel. Destroyed!abused!crying!Castiel. Dean and Sam find him after it's all over and take care of him.
Wordcount: 1469
Original thread
It's easier than he ever believed.
All it takes is just a single thought, putting his feet firmly on the ground and saying so that it was understood in all the languages of man and angel, "No", and Uriel Falls.
"My skin is black upon me and my bones are burned with heat."
But he is no Job, and he rises again, human eyes unable to see his brother behind the frail flesh Castiel has chosen to wear.
The blue eyes look at him sadly.
"My brother," Castiel whispers, raising his hand.
"No more, brother," he snarls back, catching the wrist, slamming it into the wall behind the angel, crowding closer. Castiel draws in a quick breath, and Uriel gets even closer, all that was angelic twisting in the heat of the Fall like metal in a forge, melting and changing, searing him worse than Sun ever could.
He couldn't imagine the torture of it, the pure pain that paces in his veins, lights up his body and makes him mad. He can't flee it, no matter how hard he presses against the body between him and the wall, seeking solace, bones beneath his palms, tongue against his own. Castiel bucks against him, tears their mouths apart, Uriel's lips landing on the vessel's vein, biting down.
He's filled with fire, burning all that he was to cinders; it wants to spill out of him, take everything near him to the terrors below. The heart under his lips beats out denial, shirt stripped open, Castiel's voice far from calm, pleading, begging, praying, the words mangled by the blood and flames in Uriel's ears.
The delicate bones grind against bricks, skin broken, blood smeared, his (no longer) brother crying out; when he lets go, steps back, Castiel falls to his knees, upturned eyes wet, mouth bitten and the flames inside Uriel whisper need-take-have, echoing with yes.
It's easier than breathing to reach, the vessel's hair dark and soft, Castiel looking up at him with pleas behind the blue. Just as easy as it is to release his own flesh, the flames licking along his veins.
"Don't," Castiel whispers, voice a breath; Uriel strokes his hand over the stubbled cheek. "For Father's sake, please-"
The rest is drowned out as Uriel jerks him closer, forces himself past the blood-warm lips, into the moist pleasure beyond. Castiel gags, sounds in the back of his throat desperate, hands useless in his lap. The vessel's skull feels thin under Uriel's fingers, the push-pull made all the more sweeter by the sniffling breaths as Castiel chokes on the length invading him.
The fire's still inside Uriel, but no longer burning bright and pure. Just smoldering and dark and wanting more with every thrust, every mewling noise that escapes Castiel's mouth. More, more, more, until this isn't enough anymore, this hot sweetness and the stains on Castiel's cheeks.
He pulls out for the final time, skin spit-shiny, Castiel's lips swollen. He kneels, too, cups the angel's cheeks, kisses him long and hard until Castiel whines.
Uriel thumbs at Castiel's closed eyes.
"Open, angel," he whispers against flushed skin. "Open your eyes so you can see what will become of us all."
"Please," Castiel breathes brokenly, eyes blinking at him, the blue piercing.
He smiles, runs his hands down, past ribs, over pecs, tears the trousers open with ease.
Castiel inhales quickly, raises his arms; Uriel grabs his wrist, and Castiel cries out, the broken bones jarring against each other. A tug, and Castiel lays down on the floor compliantly, breaths barely anything but sobs.
He is a beautiful creation, Uriel can't deny that, would never have even dreamed of denying that. Both Castiel and his chosen vessel, as beautiful as the morning and the night. But there's a beauty in breaking, too, and Uriel wants to see it all.
Still, the angel tries to kick him away, turn and crawl into a corner when Uriel runs his hands over the trim torso, the slim hips, the disinterested dick.
"Uriel, you can't, please-," spills past his not-brother's lips.
"Shhh..." he breathes, placing a finger there.
The fire's pooled deep in his belly, making him hard where Castiel's soft, whispering of all the ways a fire can spread.
Castiel's thighs part with a sob. Uriel caresses down them, into the shadows between. There's an orifice there, another entrance into the wonders a body can offer, hidden and secret. The angel bites his lip, turns his head, choked cry in his throat as Uriel enters him with a finger.
It's just like fire, again. And maybe Castiel's burning, too, just like Uriel. Maybe they're both damned.
Whatever the case, Uriel knows he's enjoying every moment of this far more than he has the last two thousand years. He runs his other hand down Castiel's throat, over nipples stiff with coolness, follows the line down to the dark curls. The pants' remains are easily tossed aside, Castiel lets his legs fall open; Uriel's hands find their way easily to Castiel's buttocks, and he lifts the angel a little, angles himself.
Castiel goes taut, his back bending off the floor, the dry cry a sharp shatter in the silence. It burns Uriel all over again, the flames inside and out of his skin, blazing a path for him to drive in, pull out only to dive deeper with each move, find solace where he ends and Castiel begins, the fire spilling out of him and into the inferno inside the angel.
It's almost like rapture, even if just a pale imitation of being bathed in God's light.
For the first time, Uriel thinks he might have made a mistake. But he cannot feel regret.
Gradually his blood grows calmer, the mad beats slow down. Castiel lies still, eyes closed again, head turned to the side, breaths erratic; light reflects off the wet traces on his face. Uriel's hands are still clasped tight around the yielding flesh of the angel's thighs, holding him as close as he can, trying to lengthen the sensation, remain buried as deep as he can a moment longer.
Alas, all good things must end.
Uriel reaches, touches Castiel's cheek, lips. Leans forward, sighs as he slips out, his own lips trailing over the angel's jawline, stubble scratchy.
"Thank you, brother," he murmurs against Castiel's lips, thumbing at the tie. Castiel shivers, but doesn't move, make a sound other than sobs. Uriel wants to do it all over again, dig in even deeper, take his time; he pushes against the wet flesh, sore and wanting, too soft to penetrate.
Later, then.
He kisses Castiel, pries open half-hearted lips and sucks at the unwilling tongue, tasting the taint of blood. The angel chokes out a pitiful sound, trying to turn away. Uriel strokes his hand down the side of Castiel's face, kisses his still-closed eyes.
"Be seeing you, Castiel," he whispers, rising up, making himself presentable before turning and walking away.
Behind him, Castiel shudders, sobs, curls up and waits for death.
Instead of a reaper, the brothers find him, Dean's touch searing in its reality, his words wounding even when they promise salvation. It's too much, far too much, and Castiel slips away.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, mention of Sam
Warnings: sort of sequel to above, H/C, shmoop-ish
Summary/Prompt: H/C. The aftermath of rape.
Wordcount: 888
Original thread
It's wrong.
Dean knows it's wrong and probably not wise, and still he goes along with it. Still he lets it happen.
It began when they found Castiel, the vessel just as shattered as the extramundane being behind the blue eyes, the desire to protect, to take care and make better Dean's come to associate with Sam flaring up when Castiel slipped away.
After an argument, the two of them took the angel under their wing. It wasn't probably wise, a hospital far better suited for such situations, but that option felt wrong for reasons Dean couldn't name.
Castiel's lips are soft when he leans closer, the kiss gentle.
They'd bandaged the broken bones, cleaned the angel up as well as they could; burned the torn clothes, bathed the body. Sam had stayed in the shadows, helping, claiming it wasn't wise; Dean countered that it would've been wrong not to help Castiel after what he'd done.
That had been that.
The angel's hand is warm on his cheek, the kiss questing.
Castiel slept; Dean drew him gradually back into the waking world. There was terror and doubt, but above all else, sadness. The angel had fidgeted in Dean's borrowed clothes, flinched from touch, fumbled with his damaged hands. Looked lost and scared and beautiful; thoughts wrong in all the ways possible and wise in none awakening within Dean.
Dean opens under the touch, the kiss, whispering yes even though he really should say no.
***
Castiel's snuggled closer to him on the bench, body pressed against Dean's, fingertips light where they touch.
Dean wants to reach over, cup Castiel's head, deepen the kiss, but he can't. He doesn't dare, Castiel still marked, the bandages still around his wrists. But Dean can't draw away from it, either.
He parts his lips, invites the angel further in.
Instead, Castiel draws back, his hand still on Dean's cheek, the blue eyes wide.
"It's okay," Dean whispers, gaze locked on the angel. "If you want this, it's okay."
Castiel's eyes flick down to Dean's lips, his thumb at their corner.
Dean waits, watching the other man.
"I..." Castiel begins, voice brittle, thumb restless, eyes not rising. "I told you I had doubts. That I... can't be sure about what's right anymore. And still, I...I don't know. What happened..."
He licks his lips; Dean's hands itch to touch, stroke into silence the shame in Castiel's voice.
The blue eyes climb, hesitant and slow, face Dean's.
Dean closes the gap between them, kisses Castiel like Castiel kissed him, timid and slow, letting his own hands wander over the angel's shoulder, up the length of neck, over the line of jaw. Just kissing, lips on lips and trying not to think, trying to let Castiel call the shots.
The man shivers, his muscles tense as Dean's hand travels lower, curls around one of the angel's wrists gently. Breaking the kiss, Dean lays his lips briefly on Castiel's palm, kisses his way down, over the bandages.
"I won't hurt you," Dean whispers against the grain of gauze, fingers barely even there. Castiel shivers again, but doesn't move, doesn't say anything, breaths quickening as Dean measures the lengths of the angel's arm, the pulse a path beneath the flannel. He moves closer, lips light over the shoulder, against the side of Castiel's neck, feeling the rabbit-rapid heartbeats. "Just say, and we'll stop. Any time you feel like it, Cas."
Instead of words, there's only this half-sob, Castiel's hand in Dean's hair, twisting his head until they can kiss again, the angel's lips hungry, clumsy like he doesn't know what to do with them. Dean lets him, guides him, opening up and concentrating on the feel of it, the taste of it, the sounds like whimpers Castiel's making.
It doesn't last long, the angel tearing himself off Dean's lips, burying his head in Dean's shoulder, arms around Dean, holding him tight as Castiel gasps, breaths broken like he's run a marathon.
"I want - I shouldn't - can't," the words come out in a rush, meaningless and mad, spattered with sobs. Dean returns the embrace, stroking Castiel's back.
"Shh, shh, shh... it's okay," he whispers into the dark hair. "It's okay, Cas. We've got time. There's no hurry."
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam, Azazel's daughter
Warnings: Non-con, possession, dirty talk
Summary/Prompt: Sam has to watch while trapped in his own body.
Wordcount: 1969
Original thread
Oh, Sam, the spite and malice whispers. Didn't know you could be such a sweet talker, love... But then, betcha didn't know dear old brother had a thing for you, right?
Stop it, he begs it. Please...
"Come on, Dean," he hears himself saying, watches Dean watching him back with lust in his eyes. Feels his own tongue tracing his own lips slowly, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at his brother, one hand on Dean's belt, the other curled around his leg. "I'll be good. I'll lick you from head to balls, little tiny kitten licks. I'll swallow you, all of you, every inch as much as I can fit in and you could come in my throat, buried to the balls. Or mark me up, spill your spunk on my face, in my hair, all over me."
"Sammy..." Dean groans and something dies a little inside Sam. The other just laughs. You really think I'd stop when the fun's just about to start?
He nuzzles Dean's crotch, the denim there smelling of beer, of sweat, of sex.
"Please, Dean? Or do you like to see me begging? Here on my knees, looking up at you, until I'm desperate, dying to taste you. Please?"
Dean's hand twists in his hair and he wants to complain. He wants this to stop, all of this, erase this completely from existence.
Oh, no, love, whispers the voice that's not his, not hers, not anyone's really. You'll get to see the whole show.
"Tell me you want it, Sammy," Dean growls, other hand covering Sam's on his belt, near the buckle. "Tell me how much you want it."
He feels himself licking his own lips again, Dean's boot under his own crotch. Wants to deny the hardness against Dean's jeans, inside the confines of his own.
It's not me, he says firmly inside his own head. This isn't us. You're making this up.
You keep telling yourself that, Sammy-boy, the demon laughs back. Maybe one day you'll even believe it.
"I want you, Dean," Sam hears his own voice say, his body beginning to grind against Dean's. "I want you worse than air, Dean. Need to feel you in my mouth, on my tongue. Need to feel your pulse buried deep inside me. Need to taste you, all of you. So hungry for you, Dean. So thirsty...so empty without a cock inside me, pulsing in me, filling me to the brim, again and again and again."
You think Dean's going to buy shit like that? he demands the bitch.
What makes you think he doesn't? 'she' purrs back, forces him to face Dean's eyes, dark and dangerous and so very wrong when they're trained on Sam.
The hand in his hair tightens, tilts his head backwards.
"Yeah? And why should I give it to you?"
His body stays blessedly still, but Dean's other hand is caressing the buckle now.
"Because I'm good. I'll be your fucktoy, your slut, your pretty whore. You could take me every way you want to, any opening, any time, anywhere. And I can take it, take all of you. Swallow you down like a pro, drink every last drop out of your balls."
It's all a lie; porn speech and far from truth, but Dean makes this sound in the back of his throat, his whole body sort of twitching at the words spilling without censure from Sam's lips.
No, he whispers inside his head. He's drunk. Or high. You did something to him.
Watch and learn, Sammy-boy.
"You can bend me over anything you'd like, in any position. Shove anything in my tight ass, your cock in my mouth, tell me not to come. And I'd take it. I'd take anything to have you in me, feel you all heavy and full, spreading me wide open, stretching me to my limits and then some. Please, Dean..."
His body's rocking against Dean, his brother's eyes slitted, the breath hissing past Dean's lips.
His own lips mouth along Dean's crotch, the pressure behind the zipper, his hands on Dean's hips.
"All yours, Dean. You could bend me over the table, take me up against the wall, in public. Anywhere, Dean. Any time. Please..."
He knows it's not me. I'd never say anything like that.
Oh, really? Then what about David?
At the mention of the name, Sam grows cold inside, his body rutting against Dean's, his hands busy with his brother's belt.
I was drugged.
Then you really are as lightweight as Dean claims... And the chuckle's there again, freezing him to his core, sensations and senses he cannot ignore, that he has no control over whatsoever streaming into his consciousness.
"Wanna feel you, Dean. All of you, all the way, every way. Have you buried to the balls inside me where it's hot and tight and perfect..."
Dean twists his fingers in Sam's hair, looks at him straight in the eyes and undoes his belt, draws down his zipper. Sam can smell the flesh, sweat turning into musk; inside, he hopes he didn't have a clue.
Inside, his only answer is the malicious purr of the demon in control.
"This what you want, Sammy?" Dean rasps out, one hand still in Sam's hair, the other on his own cock. "Me? My dick?"
"Yes..." Sam's body breathes, the slap of flesh on flesh a surprise, Dean's cockhead caressing his lips. Obediently, without his consent, they open, but Dean draws back. Sam hears himself whine.
Please, he begs again. Stop this. Don't do this. Anything but this.
You sure about that, love? 'she' counters, razor-sharp and thrice as deadly. Just a word, Sammy, that's all it'll take, and I'll find my fun with you two another way.
And when 'she' puts it like that, maybe this is better. At least Dean's not being forced. And dear Lord, how much Sam wishes that that's true.
The cock's just out of the reach of his lips, Dean's hands stroking it firmer.
"Please, Dean," Sam hears himself whimper. "Let me suck you off. Let me lick you till you can't take it anymore, let me swallow you down, let me drink you up. I need your cock in me, deeper and deeper and deeper. Need to feel you come in me, on me, taste your dick, your spunk. Drink it all up. Lick it off my hands, my face, clean you up with my tongue...please..."
Dean's cock is dragging over Sam's cheek, his lips, almost passing his mouth. Sam's tongue darts out, he can taste the slight sourness, the hint of salt. Dean's breathing harder, staying still, his hand looser in Sam's hair. Sam's neck stretches, his lips open, trying to wrap around the thick, red head.
Inside, he ignores the way his brother's fingers feel like, his scents and sounds. Sinking deeper into himself, slipping away to somewhere else where nothing like this could ever happen.
No, Sammy, the presence next to him purrs, I want you to remember this.
That's all it takes; Sam's slammed back into his body, locked to his senses, denied control. The shock of sensations steals his breath, the panic pacing in when he feels himself choking, Dean's cock driven into his mouth, heavy on his tongue, pulling out only to venture deeper with every push. Sam can't breathe, the cockhead cajoling him to gag, all of this seeking to make him sick.
Instead, he finds his hands holding on harder, his mouth moaning for more.
'Her' laughter delighted, only for his ears to hear.
Dean looks like he's loving every moment of it; Sam feels like drowning, not enough air in the meager inhales, hard fingers in his hair, his brother fucking his face.
He wants to flee.
A rough jerk tears his too-eager lips off Dean's cock, forces his head backwards, his neck exposed. He can feel the grin spreading on his face, the sweet air flowing into his lungs unobstructed.
Dean's staring at him hard, as hard as his dick.
Sam wills him to see that this is wrong, this isn't him, there's someone else pulling the strings.
"Come, Dean," Sam hears himself whisper. "Mark me up, make me yours. Rub it into my skin, mess up my hair. Wanna feel it, Dean." His tongue slips out, slowly runs over his lips. "Wanna taste it, Dean. Wanna taste your cum."
Dean groans, hand on his cock, eyes half-lidded again.
"Fuck, Sam..."
Sam's hand crawls over to cover Dean's, stroking the length without hesitation.
"Come, Dean. Come on me. Come on my face."
Their pace quickens, Dean bites his lip, Sam wants to look away.
"Oh, oh, yes..." Dean murmurs, eyes shut tight now, hand going fast, fast, faster... and stilling.
Sam can't even close his own eyes.
The heavy rain falls on him together with Dean's drawn out moan, the spatters landing all over his face, sliding down his skin. His tongue flicks out to catch what it can, taste the bitterness. Dean jerks, twitches, muscles spasming; in the circle of their hands, Dean's cock weeps out the last of its hardness.
Sam hopes it's over, now.
'She' laughs, and his soul freezes.
Haven't you heard of foreplay, Sammy?
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean, John
Warnings: domestic violence
Summary/Prompt: John walks in on Dean and Sam doing something NC-17 and flips. John throws Sam in the shower and beats the absolute crap out of him. The shower must be on, everyone must be over 16, and you can add in some John/Sam non-con if you like. Dean should be around at the end to pick up the pieces.
Wordcount: 907
Original thread
Sam runs his hands down Dean's back, wide at the shoulders, tapering to the waist, the indents of spine, the dimples above Dean's buttocks like an arrow. Dean bucks against him, Sam's cock caught in the cleft, rubbing against the soft skin there.
"Fuck, Dean," he whispers, fingers curling around his brother's hips, rutting against him, seeking to sweeten the sensations.
"Come on, Sam," Dean huffs in answer, body pressing more insistently back against Sam.
"Just-just," Sam stutters, his pace picking up, one of his hands sneaking under Dean, grabbing his cock, stroking it in time with Sam's thrusts, his own dick caught between them.
They fail to hear the footsteps in time; the door opening snaps both of them back out of their bodies and into the present, Sam stumbling off his brother no matter how much every instinct he possesses tells him finish.
John's eyes are hard as he watches them, flicking from Sam to Dean, half-naked and aroused; his hand's harder when it grabs Sam's arm, the papers forgotten, fluttering on the floor.
"Dad, wait!" Dean calls after them, but John doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, Sam struggling to keep up, not lose his balance, pants falling, twisting around his ankles.
John doesn't say a word, dragging his youngest son out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, tossing him into a corner.
Sam cowers, arms raised to protect his head, knees drawn up, cock still eager.
"Whose idea?" John's voice is like gravel, devoid of emotion.
Sam doesn't answer. Can't.
Behind the door, Dean's banging at it, voice muffled.
John takes the shower head in his hand, turns it on, the pressure high; he switches it onto cold, affixes it back to the base. Sam cries out in surprise under the spray, curling up.
"Whose idea was it, son?" John asks again.
Sam doesn't answer him: John reaches, pulls his wet son up, shakes him.
Sam bites his lip, blinking away the water in his eyes, refuses to face his father's gaze.
"Answer me," John growls.
"Mine," Sam whispers, his cock twitching, his own hands on John's, shivering under the spray.
The dark eyes grow darker, the slap sharp on Sam's cheek.
"Look at me when you talk to me, boy," comes the cold order.
Hesitantly, Sam raises his gaze. There's nothing he can read in his father's eyes, no emotion, nothing but the darkness he's seen only directed at John's prey, those who've hurt him.
"Whose idea was it?" John repeats.
"Mine," but Sam's voice has left him, shriveled up like his rebellious body should, too.
John stares at him a moment longer, fingers curled into a tight fist in Sam's shirt.
"Yours?" He spits, hurling Sam back into the corner; the sound of a body hitting wet tiles is nearly drowned out by the noises in the plumbing. John towers over his son, both hands fisted at his sides. The kick's swift and sudden, Sam's yelp a satisfaction in itself. "Yours?"
The adrenaline's sweet in his veins, the fury brief and blinding; he tears his son back up from the floor, slams him against the wall, the cold rain falling on them both. Dean's racket on the other side of the door barely even penetrates the mess of noises in the bathroom when John loses control.
"What the hell made you think of doing that with your brother? Girls not enough? Boys not enough? Just too fucking curious for your own sake? What?"
Sam doesn't say anything, just raises his arms against the blows that fall as well as he can, helpless between John and the hard, ceramic tiles, slippery with water.
Eventually, John's rage burns itself out.
He's breathing hard, his clothes clinging to his body, his hair slick against his scalp. Sam lies in a bundle at his feet. The shower's still running; when John steps out of the bathroom, he leaves it on. Dean's eyes are bright and wide, wet, when his father passes him by. John doesn't pay him attention, but he hears his eldest slip into the bathroom behind him, the shower dying, soft murmur of words.
He changes his clothes and leaves the house; experience tells him that the bottle's not the solution, but at least it's a far better companion than anything else available.
It doesn't take even a week for Sam to leave, take off towards Stanford.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: rosary!bondage
Summary/Prompt: I would love some Sam/Dean or J² that involves Latin and Rosaries and/or one of the boys dressing as or being a priest and the other one confessing. I know there's one with priest!Sam and confessing!Dean a few pages back but I really, REALLY want the rosary to be there! Big BIG plus if it happens in a church.
Wordcount: 276
Original thread
The beads bite into his flesh, wrapped tight around his wrists, reminding him where he is, who he is with each minute movement. Dean trails kisses down the inside of his arm, whispering the Latin into his skin as he goes, rubbing it in with the blood and the sperm and the saliva; the components of a spell, together with the holy jewelry, beads as old as time.
One binds his hands, so they may not act against God's orders.
One lies around his neck, the crucifix, the three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers in his mouth so he wouldn't speak against God.
One binds his cock, the beads loose now that he's come, spilled his seed while Dean recited the Act of Contrition. It's there so that his flesh would not be tempted.
One is in Dean's hands, never stopping as long as the ritual lasts.
The air's cool, the night quiet, the votive candles dispelling some of the darkness in the church.
Sam hasn't dared to speak; it's not his place, not the part he plays in all this. And if this is what it will take to save him, make sure he stays on the right path, so be it.
He lies, quiet as a lamb and naked as a baby on the altar cloth smelling of sex and incense, and waits as Dean reads the rosary, whispers every single decade into Sam's body, inside and out.
Pairing/Characters: Misha, Jared/Jensen
Warnings: RPS, hand!kink, imagined threesome
Summary/Prompt: Hand!kink. Misha dreaming of Jared and Jensen, imagining them together, touching and feeling and fucking each other (and him), and getting off on that.
Wordcount: 847
Original thread
The first thing Misha noticed about Jared Padalecki were the man's hands. No, scrap that. The very first thing was the wide grin and the eyes. He hadn't noticed Jared's hands before the 6'5" man had reached to greet him. And dear Lord what hands they were. Large, with long, well-tended fingers, enveloping Misha's own in a handshake that made his knees weak and stole his ability to concentrate on what was being said.
And then there was Jensen Ackles. Good God.
Granted, his hands were smaller, but still... A shiver ran over Misha's spine at the mere thought of those hands and lips and eyes bigger than any he'd seen before.
He'd had to bite his tongue when the stars of Supernatural had rolled up their sleeves a while later, Misha's eyes drawn over the backs of the men's hands to their wrists, the bumps of bones, the forearms. He'd known the men were gorgeous before being introduced to them, but in person they were even better, no photographer in between them to leave out the best parts in favour of faces that would still be retouched before they were let out into the ether.
That night, head full of first-hand impressions, Misha can't sleep. His thoughts keep on returning to the way the men's hands felt, shaking his. The veins and sinews in Jared's, the massive strength even in the fingertips. The well-manicured softness of Jensen's. The hair that covered their forearms, leading up to the elbow Misha could almost taste under his tongue.
Just the very idea of working with them, hours after hours spent near them, getting to watch them, their hands and arms up close and personal... he whimpers, his own hand crawling lower to take a hold of his hardening dick. It's so easy to imagine those hands caressing skin, Jared's long fingers dwarfing everything just like the man himself does, and Jensen's, smeared so he licks them, pink tongue flicking out over the tips, pushing them between the full lips to really get everything.
Misha bites his own lip, eyes closed, soft sounds in the back of his throat, the visuals clear.
Jared tracing those lips, coaxing them to open for his fingers, dipping them into Jensen's wet mouth; just the forefinger at first, letting it slowly enter until it's in there completely, and then drawing it slowly over Jensen's tongue, almost out. Going back in with two, three, spit-shiny to the knuckles. Those fingers curling around Misha's length then, enveloping it easily, that grin on Jared's lips, his other hand climbing up over Misha's torso, pinching his nipples with surprising gentleness; Jensen standing behind Jared, his hands on Jared's chest, small like a woman's in comparison, nails clipped short, filed smooth, digging in enough to leave behind fading red lines.
Jared's fingers crawling over Misha's throat, his chin, slipping past his lips, repeating what he did with Jensen. Letting Misha's tongue trace every single digit, memorize the edges of the nails, the length of the joints, whispering encouragement as Jared thrusts his fingers in, deeper and deeper, and out again, teasing. Misha moans, Jared's hand steady on his cock, the other exploring his mouth.
Jensen's hands have slipped lower, massaging Jared's muscles, voice a mere murmur behind the wide back.
The grin on Jared's lips grows. He pulls his fingers free without a warning, leaving Misha's mouth empty, whining.
"Trust me," the huge man whispers, leaning down to kiss the line on Misha's stomach.
He can feel Jared trailing his hand ever lower, past his pubes, past his balls, tenderly touching the rim of his asshole.
"Think he can take it?" asks Jensen, hands now on Jared's face, pulling him down into a kiss.
"We'll see, won't we?" Jared answers, deepening the kiss. Misha wants it, the very thought of having Jared's finger, god, his whole hand up inside him, filling him like nothing ever before...
With a cry, he comes, bowstring tight and harder than in ages.
When his senses return, the room's empty save for him, and just as dark, the come cool on his skin, no hands but his own on himself.
And starting tomorrow, he's going to be spending hours with Jared and Jensen.
He's so going to die.
I will not own up to all the prompts I posted, but the ficlets? They're a completely different matter.
All are, for safety's sake, rated NC-17, even though there's preciously little porn in a good number of them, imo. Note that the comm will be Members Only, so the original thread-links may not yield desired results if you're not a member.
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us. Or even necessarily real.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Non-con, incest, pre-series
Summary/Prompt: the night before Sam left for Stanford he raped Dean in or on the Impala.
Wordcount: 206
Original thread
Tomorrow this time, he'll be out. Out of this ratty place, this life, this everything.
And never coming back.
But now?
Now he's watching Dean's lips, parted around these broken noises he makes, the way they rub against the smooth metal of the car's hood. Now he's listening to every single one of those sounds, feeling Dean squirm, trapped between his brother and the car, hotter than any body ever before, straining around Sam like Dean's never done this before, never let anybody close enough.
Never let anybody spread him wide open and sink in, thrust after thrust after thrust, feel all that trained flesh offer sweet friction until release is the only option left. Never let anybody flip him around, kiss him and taste the blood from the split, drink the whimpers with fingers buried in the soft mess inside Dean, stabbing and seeking until Dean spills out of his skin with a sob.
Sam once swore he wouldn't act on that dream, wouldn't touch his brother like that.
But now he's leaving.
And he's never coming back.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Uriel
Warnings: Outsider POV
Summary/Prompt: virgin!Castiel, first penetrative time, Dean on top. Uriel in hiding and watching, his PoV.
Wordcount: 367
Original thread
It's always the same, watching something with the emotional capabilities of a lump of clay lure one to Fall.
It always hurts.
Castiel likes him, I told him the truth about that. But even I couldn't foresee this. The ape pawing at Castiel's vessel; my brother accepting it. My brother letting the demon-touched stroke and caress him; my brother melting against the wall, opening his vessel's lips, thighs, welcoming such touches. My brother forgetting who he is, where he comes from, encouraging the ape.
Dean certainly seems like he knows exactly what he's doing. Considering all he's already done, this must not mean much.
But I know my brother. Castiel hasn't walked this earth in a long time, and when he last did, things were different. He was different. All these things, all these touches Dean teases him with must be alluring. And they are, judging by the way Castiel lets Dean bare the flesh of his vessel, the sighs that slip by his lips as Dean's hands do the talking.
I want to go there, tear them apart, stop my brother from letting this happen.
But I cannot. It is not my place; not my job. I am not my brother's keeper, and all I may do is watch, and advise. But my words have fallen on deaf ears, so I merely watch.
Watch Dean lead Castiel by the nose, strip him and lick him and smile like the devil's own that he is as my brother's body answers.
Watch Castiel spreading his legs further, Dean's hand busy between them.
Watch the ape mount my brother like a dog in heat.
And watch as Castiel takes it, face turning to rapture, begging for more as Dean drives in deeper.
My brother Falls for a human, for flesh, and it hurts just as much every time.
But Father has decreed that I must witness it.
Pairing: Uriel/Castiel
Warnings: Non-con
Summary/Prompt: Uriel falls and then rapes Castiel. Destroyed!abused!crying!Castiel. Dean and Sam find him after it's all over and take care of him.
Wordcount: 1469
Original thread
It's easier than he ever believed.
All it takes is just a single thought, putting his feet firmly on the ground and saying so that it was understood in all the languages of man and angel, "No", and Uriel Falls.
"My skin is black upon me and my bones are burned with heat."
But he is no Job, and he rises again, human eyes unable to see his brother behind the frail flesh Castiel has chosen to wear.
The blue eyes look at him sadly.
"My brother," Castiel whispers, raising his hand.
"No more, brother," he snarls back, catching the wrist, slamming it into the wall behind the angel, crowding closer. Castiel draws in a quick breath, and Uriel gets even closer, all that was angelic twisting in the heat of the Fall like metal in a forge, melting and changing, searing him worse than Sun ever could.
He couldn't imagine the torture of it, the pure pain that paces in his veins, lights up his body and makes him mad. He can't flee it, no matter how hard he presses against the body between him and the wall, seeking solace, bones beneath his palms, tongue against his own. Castiel bucks against him, tears their mouths apart, Uriel's lips landing on the vessel's vein, biting down.
He's filled with fire, burning all that he was to cinders; it wants to spill out of him, take everything near him to the terrors below. The heart under his lips beats out denial, shirt stripped open, Castiel's voice far from calm, pleading, begging, praying, the words mangled by the blood and flames in Uriel's ears.
The delicate bones grind against bricks, skin broken, blood smeared, his (no longer) brother crying out; when he lets go, steps back, Castiel falls to his knees, upturned eyes wet, mouth bitten and the flames inside Uriel whisper need-take-have, echoing with yes.
It's easier than breathing to reach, the vessel's hair dark and soft, Castiel looking up at him with pleas behind the blue. Just as easy as it is to release his own flesh, the flames licking along his veins.
"Don't," Castiel whispers, voice a breath; Uriel strokes his hand over the stubbled cheek. "For Father's sake, please-"
The rest is drowned out as Uriel jerks him closer, forces himself past the blood-warm lips, into the moist pleasure beyond. Castiel gags, sounds in the back of his throat desperate, hands useless in his lap. The vessel's skull feels thin under Uriel's fingers, the push-pull made all the more sweeter by the sniffling breaths as Castiel chokes on the length invading him.
The fire's still inside Uriel, but no longer burning bright and pure. Just smoldering and dark and wanting more with every thrust, every mewling noise that escapes Castiel's mouth. More, more, more, until this isn't enough anymore, this hot sweetness and the stains on Castiel's cheeks.
He pulls out for the final time, skin spit-shiny, Castiel's lips swollen. He kneels, too, cups the angel's cheeks, kisses him long and hard until Castiel whines.
Uriel thumbs at Castiel's closed eyes.
"Open, angel," he whispers against flushed skin. "Open your eyes so you can see what will become of us all."
"Please," Castiel breathes brokenly, eyes blinking at him, the blue piercing.
He smiles, runs his hands down, past ribs, over pecs, tears the trousers open with ease.
Castiel inhales quickly, raises his arms; Uriel grabs his wrist, and Castiel cries out, the broken bones jarring against each other. A tug, and Castiel lays down on the floor compliantly, breaths barely anything but sobs.
He is a beautiful creation, Uriel can't deny that, would never have even dreamed of denying that. Both Castiel and his chosen vessel, as beautiful as the morning and the night. But there's a beauty in breaking, too, and Uriel wants to see it all.
Still, the angel tries to kick him away, turn and crawl into a corner when Uriel runs his hands over the trim torso, the slim hips, the disinterested dick.
"Uriel, you can't, please-," spills past his not-brother's lips.
"Shhh..." he breathes, placing a finger there.
The fire's pooled deep in his belly, making him hard where Castiel's soft, whispering of all the ways a fire can spread.
Castiel's thighs part with a sob. Uriel caresses down them, into the shadows between. There's an orifice there, another entrance into the wonders a body can offer, hidden and secret. The angel bites his lip, turns his head, choked cry in his throat as Uriel enters him with a finger.
It's just like fire, again. And maybe Castiel's burning, too, just like Uriel. Maybe they're both damned.
Whatever the case, Uriel knows he's enjoying every moment of this far more than he has the last two thousand years. He runs his other hand down Castiel's throat, over nipples stiff with coolness, follows the line down to the dark curls. The pants' remains are easily tossed aside, Castiel lets his legs fall open; Uriel's hands find their way easily to Castiel's buttocks, and he lifts the angel a little, angles himself.
Castiel goes taut, his back bending off the floor, the dry cry a sharp shatter in the silence. It burns Uriel all over again, the flames inside and out of his skin, blazing a path for him to drive in, pull out only to dive deeper with each move, find solace where he ends and Castiel begins, the fire spilling out of him and into the inferno inside the angel.
It's almost like rapture, even if just a pale imitation of being bathed in God's light.
For the first time, Uriel thinks he might have made a mistake. But he cannot feel regret.
Gradually his blood grows calmer, the mad beats slow down. Castiel lies still, eyes closed again, head turned to the side, breaths erratic; light reflects off the wet traces on his face. Uriel's hands are still clasped tight around the yielding flesh of the angel's thighs, holding him as close as he can, trying to lengthen the sensation, remain buried as deep as he can a moment longer.
Alas, all good things must end.
Uriel reaches, touches Castiel's cheek, lips. Leans forward, sighs as he slips out, his own lips trailing over the angel's jawline, stubble scratchy.
"Thank you, brother," he murmurs against Castiel's lips, thumbing at the tie. Castiel shivers, but doesn't move, make a sound other than sobs. Uriel wants to do it all over again, dig in even deeper, take his time; he pushes against the wet flesh, sore and wanting, too soft to penetrate.
Later, then.
He kisses Castiel, pries open half-hearted lips and sucks at the unwilling tongue, tasting the taint of blood. The angel chokes out a pitiful sound, trying to turn away. Uriel strokes his hand down the side of Castiel's face, kisses his still-closed eyes.
"Be seeing you, Castiel," he whispers, rising up, making himself presentable before turning and walking away.
Behind him, Castiel shudders, sobs, curls up and waits for death.
Instead of a reaper, the brothers find him, Dean's touch searing in its reality, his words wounding even when they promise salvation. It's too much, far too much, and Castiel slips away.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, mention of Sam
Warnings: sort of sequel to above, H/C, shmoop-ish
Summary/Prompt: H/C. The aftermath of rape.
Wordcount: 888
Original thread
It's wrong.
Dean knows it's wrong and probably not wise, and still he goes along with it. Still he lets it happen.
It began when they found Castiel, the vessel just as shattered as the extramundane being behind the blue eyes, the desire to protect, to take care and make better Dean's come to associate with Sam flaring up when Castiel slipped away.
After an argument, the two of them took the angel under their wing. It wasn't probably wise, a hospital far better suited for such situations, but that option felt wrong for reasons Dean couldn't name.
Castiel's lips are soft when he leans closer, the kiss gentle.
They'd bandaged the broken bones, cleaned the angel up as well as they could; burned the torn clothes, bathed the body. Sam had stayed in the shadows, helping, claiming it wasn't wise; Dean countered that it would've been wrong not to help Castiel after what he'd done.
That had been that.
The angel's hand is warm on his cheek, the kiss questing.
Castiel slept; Dean drew him gradually back into the waking world. There was terror and doubt, but above all else, sadness. The angel had fidgeted in Dean's borrowed clothes, flinched from touch, fumbled with his damaged hands. Looked lost and scared and beautiful; thoughts wrong in all the ways possible and wise in none awakening within Dean.
Dean opens under the touch, the kiss, whispering yes even though he really should say no.
***
Castiel's snuggled closer to him on the bench, body pressed against Dean's, fingertips light where they touch.
Dean wants to reach over, cup Castiel's head, deepen the kiss, but he can't. He doesn't dare, Castiel still marked, the bandages still around his wrists. But Dean can't draw away from it, either.
He parts his lips, invites the angel further in.
Instead, Castiel draws back, his hand still on Dean's cheek, the blue eyes wide.
"It's okay," Dean whispers, gaze locked on the angel. "If you want this, it's okay."
Castiel's eyes flick down to Dean's lips, his thumb at their corner.
Dean waits, watching the other man.
"I..." Castiel begins, voice brittle, thumb restless, eyes not rising. "I told you I had doubts. That I... can't be sure about what's right anymore. And still, I...I don't know. What happened..."
He licks his lips; Dean's hands itch to touch, stroke into silence the shame in Castiel's voice.
The blue eyes climb, hesitant and slow, face Dean's.
Dean closes the gap between them, kisses Castiel like Castiel kissed him, timid and slow, letting his own hands wander over the angel's shoulder, up the length of neck, over the line of jaw. Just kissing, lips on lips and trying not to think, trying to let Castiel call the shots.
The man shivers, his muscles tense as Dean's hand travels lower, curls around one of the angel's wrists gently. Breaking the kiss, Dean lays his lips briefly on Castiel's palm, kisses his way down, over the bandages.
"I won't hurt you," Dean whispers against the grain of gauze, fingers barely even there. Castiel shivers again, but doesn't move, doesn't say anything, breaths quickening as Dean measures the lengths of the angel's arm, the pulse a path beneath the flannel. He moves closer, lips light over the shoulder, against the side of Castiel's neck, feeling the rabbit-rapid heartbeats. "Just say, and we'll stop. Any time you feel like it, Cas."
Instead of words, there's only this half-sob, Castiel's hand in Dean's hair, twisting his head until they can kiss again, the angel's lips hungry, clumsy like he doesn't know what to do with them. Dean lets him, guides him, opening up and concentrating on the feel of it, the taste of it, the sounds like whimpers Castiel's making.
It doesn't last long, the angel tearing himself off Dean's lips, burying his head in Dean's shoulder, arms around Dean, holding him tight as Castiel gasps, breaths broken like he's run a marathon.
"I want - I shouldn't - can't," the words come out in a rush, meaningless and mad, spattered with sobs. Dean returns the embrace, stroking Castiel's back.
"Shh, shh, shh... it's okay," he whispers into the dark hair. "It's okay, Cas. We've got time. There's no hurry."
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam, Azazel's daughter
Warnings: Non-con, possession, dirty talk
Summary/Prompt: Sam has to watch while trapped in his own body.
Wordcount: 1969
Original thread
Oh, Sam, the spite and malice whispers. Didn't know you could be such a sweet talker, love... But then, betcha didn't know dear old brother had a thing for you, right?
Stop it, he begs it. Please...
"Come on, Dean," he hears himself saying, watches Dean watching him back with lust in his eyes. Feels his own tongue tracing his own lips slowly, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at his brother, one hand on Dean's belt, the other curled around his leg. "I'll be good. I'll lick you from head to balls, little tiny kitten licks. I'll swallow you, all of you, every inch as much as I can fit in and you could come in my throat, buried to the balls. Or mark me up, spill your spunk on my face, in my hair, all over me."
"Sammy..." Dean groans and something dies a little inside Sam. The other just laughs. You really think I'd stop when the fun's just about to start?
He nuzzles Dean's crotch, the denim there smelling of beer, of sweat, of sex.
"Please, Dean? Or do you like to see me begging? Here on my knees, looking up at you, until I'm desperate, dying to taste you. Please?"
Dean's hand twists in his hair and he wants to complain. He wants this to stop, all of this, erase this completely from existence.
Oh, no, love, whispers the voice that's not his, not hers, not anyone's really. You'll get to see the whole show.
"Tell me you want it, Sammy," Dean growls, other hand covering Sam's on his belt, near the buckle. "Tell me how much you want it."
He feels himself licking his own lips again, Dean's boot under his own crotch. Wants to deny the hardness against Dean's jeans, inside the confines of his own.
It's not me, he says firmly inside his own head. This isn't us. You're making this up.
You keep telling yourself that, Sammy-boy, the demon laughs back. Maybe one day you'll even believe it.
"I want you, Dean," Sam hears his own voice say, his body beginning to grind against Dean's. "I want you worse than air, Dean. Need to feel you in my mouth, on my tongue. Need to feel your pulse buried deep inside me. Need to taste you, all of you. So hungry for you, Dean. So thirsty...so empty without a cock inside me, pulsing in me, filling me to the brim, again and again and again."
You think Dean's going to buy shit like that? he demands the bitch.
What makes you think he doesn't? 'she' purrs back, forces him to face Dean's eyes, dark and dangerous and so very wrong when they're trained on Sam.
The hand in his hair tightens, tilts his head backwards.
"Yeah? And why should I give it to you?"
His body stays blessedly still, but Dean's other hand is caressing the buckle now.
"Because I'm good. I'll be your fucktoy, your slut, your pretty whore. You could take me every way you want to, any opening, any time, anywhere. And I can take it, take all of you. Swallow you down like a pro, drink every last drop out of your balls."
It's all a lie; porn speech and far from truth, but Dean makes this sound in the back of his throat, his whole body sort of twitching at the words spilling without censure from Sam's lips.
No, he whispers inside his head. He's drunk. Or high. You did something to him.
Watch and learn, Sammy-boy.
"You can bend me over anything you'd like, in any position. Shove anything in my tight ass, your cock in my mouth, tell me not to come. And I'd take it. I'd take anything to have you in me, feel you all heavy and full, spreading me wide open, stretching me to my limits and then some. Please, Dean..."
His body's rocking against Dean, his brother's eyes slitted, the breath hissing past Dean's lips.
His own lips mouth along Dean's crotch, the pressure behind the zipper, his hands on Dean's hips.
"All yours, Dean. You could bend me over the table, take me up against the wall, in public. Anywhere, Dean. Any time. Please..."
He knows it's not me. I'd never say anything like that.
Oh, really? Then what about David?
At the mention of the name, Sam grows cold inside, his body rutting against Dean's, his hands busy with his brother's belt.
I was drugged.
Then you really are as lightweight as Dean claims... And the chuckle's there again, freezing him to his core, sensations and senses he cannot ignore, that he has no control over whatsoever streaming into his consciousness.
"Wanna feel you, Dean. All of you, all the way, every way. Have you buried to the balls inside me where it's hot and tight and perfect..."
Dean twists his fingers in Sam's hair, looks at him straight in the eyes and undoes his belt, draws down his zipper. Sam can smell the flesh, sweat turning into musk; inside, he hopes he didn't have a clue.
Inside, his only answer is the malicious purr of the demon in control.
"This what you want, Sammy?" Dean rasps out, one hand still in Sam's hair, the other on his own cock. "Me? My dick?"
"Yes..." Sam's body breathes, the slap of flesh on flesh a surprise, Dean's cockhead caressing his lips. Obediently, without his consent, they open, but Dean draws back. Sam hears himself whine.
Please, he begs again. Stop this. Don't do this. Anything but this.
You sure about that, love? 'she' counters, razor-sharp and thrice as deadly. Just a word, Sammy, that's all it'll take, and I'll find my fun with you two another way.
And when 'she' puts it like that, maybe this is better. At least Dean's not being forced. And dear Lord, how much Sam wishes that that's true.
The cock's just out of the reach of his lips, Dean's hands stroking it firmer.
"Please, Dean," Sam hears himself whimper. "Let me suck you off. Let me lick you till you can't take it anymore, let me swallow you down, let me drink you up. I need your cock in me, deeper and deeper and deeper. Need to feel you come in me, on me, taste your dick, your spunk. Drink it all up. Lick it off my hands, my face, clean you up with my tongue...please..."
Dean's cock is dragging over Sam's cheek, his lips, almost passing his mouth. Sam's tongue darts out, he can taste the slight sourness, the hint of salt. Dean's breathing harder, staying still, his hand looser in Sam's hair. Sam's neck stretches, his lips open, trying to wrap around the thick, red head.
Inside, he ignores the way his brother's fingers feel like, his scents and sounds. Sinking deeper into himself, slipping away to somewhere else where nothing like this could ever happen.
No, Sammy, the presence next to him purrs, I want you to remember this.
That's all it takes; Sam's slammed back into his body, locked to his senses, denied control. The shock of sensations steals his breath, the panic pacing in when he feels himself choking, Dean's cock driven into his mouth, heavy on his tongue, pulling out only to venture deeper with every push. Sam can't breathe, the cockhead cajoling him to gag, all of this seeking to make him sick.
Instead, he finds his hands holding on harder, his mouth moaning for more.
'Her' laughter delighted, only for his ears to hear.
Dean looks like he's loving every moment of it; Sam feels like drowning, not enough air in the meager inhales, hard fingers in his hair, his brother fucking his face.
He wants to flee.
A rough jerk tears his too-eager lips off Dean's cock, forces his head backwards, his neck exposed. He can feel the grin spreading on his face, the sweet air flowing into his lungs unobstructed.
Dean's staring at him hard, as hard as his dick.
Sam wills him to see that this is wrong, this isn't him, there's someone else pulling the strings.
"Come, Dean," Sam hears himself whisper. "Mark me up, make me yours. Rub it into my skin, mess up my hair. Wanna feel it, Dean." His tongue slips out, slowly runs over his lips. "Wanna taste it, Dean. Wanna taste your cum."
Dean groans, hand on his cock, eyes half-lidded again.
"Fuck, Sam..."
Sam's hand crawls over to cover Dean's, stroking the length without hesitation.
"Come, Dean. Come on me. Come on my face."
Their pace quickens, Dean bites his lip, Sam wants to look away.
"Oh, oh, yes..." Dean murmurs, eyes shut tight now, hand going fast, fast, faster... and stilling.
Sam can't even close his own eyes.
The heavy rain falls on him together with Dean's drawn out moan, the spatters landing all over his face, sliding down his skin. His tongue flicks out to catch what it can, taste the bitterness. Dean jerks, twitches, muscles spasming; in the circle of their hands, Dean's cock weeps out the last of its hardness.
Sam hopes it's over, now.
'She' laughs, and his soul freezes.
Haven't you heard of foreplay, Sammy?
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean, John
Warnings: domestic violence
Summary/Prompt: John walks in on Dean and Sam doing something NC-17 and flips. John throws Sam in the shower and beats the absolute crap out of him. The shower must be on, everyone must be over 16, and you can add in some John/Sam non-con if you like. Dean should be around at the end to pick up the pieces.
Wordcount: 907
Original thread
Sam runs his hands down Dean's back, wide at the shoulders, tapering to the waist, the indents of spine, the dimples above Dean's buttocks like an arrow. Dean bucks against him, Sam's cock caught in the cleft, rubbing against the soft skin there.
"Fuck, Dean," he whispers, fingers curling around his brother's hips, rutting against him, seeking to sweeten the sensations.
"Come on, Sam," Dean huffs in answer, body pressing more insistently back against Sam.
"Just-just," Sam stutters, his pace picking up, one of his hands sneaking under Dean, grabbing his cock, stroking it in time with Sam's thrusts, his own dick caught between them.
They fail to hear the footsteps in time; the door opening snaps both of them back out of their bodies and into the present, Sam stumbling off his brother no matter how much every instinct he possesses tells him finish.
John's eyes are hard as he watches them, flicking from Sam to Dean, half-naked and aroused; his hand's harder when it grabs Sam's arm, the papers forgotten, fluttering on the floor.
"Dad, wait!" Dean calls after them, but John doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, Sam struggling to keep up, not lose his balance, pants falling, twisting around his ankles.
John doesn't say a word, dragging his youngest son out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, tossing him into a corner.
Sam cowers, arms raised to protect his head, knees drawn up, cock still eager.
"Whose idea?" John's voice is like gravel, devoid of emotion.
Sam doesn't answer. Can't.
Behind the door, Dean's banging at it, voice muffled.
John takes the shower head in his hand, turns it on, the pressure high; he switches it onto cold, affixes it back to the base. Sam cries out in surprise under the spray, curling up.
"Whose idea was it, son?" John asks again.
Sam doesn't answer him: John reaches, pulls his wet son up, shakes him.
Sam bites his lip, blinking away the water in his eyes, refuses to face his father's gaze.
"Answer me," John growls.
"Mine," Sam whispers, his cock twitching, his own hands on John's, shivering under the spray.
The dark eyes grow darker, the slap sharp on Sam's cheek.
"Look at me when you talk to me, boy," comes the cold order.
Hesitantly, Sam raises his gaze. There's nothing he can read in his father's eyes, no emotion, nothing but the darkness he's seen only directed at John's prey, those who've hurt him.
"Whose idea was it?" John repeats.
"Mine," but Sam's voice has left him, shriveled up like his rebellious body should, too.
John stares at him a moment longer, fingers curled into a tight fist in Sam's shirt.
"Yours?" He spits, hurling Sam back into the corner; the sound of a body hitting wet tiles is nearly drowned out by the noises in the plumbing. John towers over his son, both hands fisted at his sides. The kick's swift and sudden, Sam's yelp a satisfaction in itself. "Yours?"
The adrenaline's sweet in his veins, the fury brief and blinding; he tears his son back up from the floor, slams him against the wall, the cold rain falling on them both. Dean's racket on the other side of the door barely even penetrates the mess of noises in the bathroom when John loses control.
"What the hell made you think of doing that with your brother? Girls not enough? Boys not enough? Just too fucking curious for your own sake? What?"
Sam doesn't say anything, just raises his arms against the blows that fall as well as he can, helpless between John and the hard, ceramic tiles, slippery with water.
Eventually, John's rage burns itself out.
He's breathing hard, his clothes clinging to his body, his hair slick against his scalp. Sam lies in a bundle at his feet. The shower's still running; when John steps out of the bathroom, he leaves it on. Dean's eyes are bright and wide, wet, when his father passes him by. John doesn't pay him attention, but he hears his eldest slip into the bathroom behind him, the shower dying, soft murmur of words.
He changes his clothes and leaves the house; experience tells him that the bottle's not the solution, but at least it's a far better companion than anything else available.
It doesn't take even a week for Sam to leave, take off towards Stanford.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: rosary!bondage
Summary/Prompt: I would love some Sam/Dean or J² that involves Latin and Rosaries and/or one of the boys dressing as or being a priest and the other one confessing. I know there's one with priest!Sam and confessing!Dean a few pages back but I really, REALLY want the rosary to be there! Big BIG plus if it happens in a church.
Wordcount: 276
Original thread
The beads bite into his flesh, wrapped tight around his wrists, reminding him where he is, who he is with each minute movement. Dean trails kisses down the inside of his arm, whispering the Latin into his skin as he goes, rubbing it in with the blood and the sperm and the saliva; the components of a spell, together with the holy jewelry, beads as old as time.
One binds his hands, so they may not act against God's orders.
One lies around his neck, the crucifix, the three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers in his mouth so he wouldn't speak against God.
One binds his cock, the beads loose now that he's come, spilled his seed while Dean recited the Act of Contrition. It's there so that his flesh would not be tempted.
One is in Dean's hands, never stopping as long as the ritual lasts.
The air's cool, the night quiet, the votive candles dispelling some of the darkness in the church.
Sam hasn't dared to speak; it's not his place, not the part he plays in all this. And if this is what it will take to save him, make sure he stays on the right path, so be it.
He lies, quiet as a lamb and naked as a baby on the altar cloth smelling of sex and incense, and waits as Dean reads the rosary, whispers every single decade into Sam's body, inside and out.
Pairing/Characters: Misha, Jared/Jensen
Warnings: RPS, hand!kink, imagined threesome
Summary/Prompt: Hand!kink. Misha dreaming of Jared and Jensen, imagining them together, touching and feeling and fucking each other (and him), and getting off on that.
Wordcount: 847
Original thread
The first thing Misha noticed about Jared Padalecki were the man's hands. No, scrap that. The very first thing was the wide grin and the eyes. He hadn't noticed Jared's hands before the 6'5" man had reached to greet him. And dear Lord what hands they were. Large, with long, well-tended fingers, enveloping Misha's own in a handshake that made his knees weak and stole his ability to concentrate on what was being said.
And then there was Jensen Ackles. Good God.
Granted, his hands were smaller, but still... A shiver ran over Misha's spine at the mere thought of those hands and lips and eyes bigger than any he'd seen before.
He'd had to bite his tongue when the stars of Supernatural had rolled up their sleeves a while later, Misha's eyes drawn over the backs of the men's hands to their wrists, the bumps of bones, the forearms. He'd known the men were gorgeous before being introduced to them, but in person they were even better, no photographer in between them to leave out the best parts in favour of faces that would still be retouched before they were let out into the ether.
That night, head full of first-hand impressions, Misha can't sleep. His thoughts keep on returning to the way the men's hands felt, shaking his. The veins and sinews in Jared's, the massive strength even in the fingertips. The well-manicured softness of Jensen's. The hair that covered their forearms, leading up to the elbow Misha could almost taste under his tongue.
Just the very idea of working with them, hours after hours spent near them, getting to watch them, their hands and arms up close and personal... he whimpers, his own hand crawling lower to take a hold of his hardening dick. It's so easy to imagine those hands caressing skin, Jared's long fingers dwarfing everything just like the man himself does, and Jensen's, smeared so he licks them, pink tongue flicking out over the tips, pushing them between the full lips to really get everything.
Misha bites his own lip, eyes closed, soft sounds in the back of his throat, the visuals clear.
Jared tracing those lips, coaxing them to open for his fingers, dipping them into Jensen's wet mouth; just the forefinger at first, letting it slowly enter until it's in there completely, and then drawing it slowly over Jensen's tongue, almost out. Going back in with two, three, spit-shiny to the knuckles. Those fingers curling around Misha's length then, enveloping it easily, that grin on Jared's lips, his other hand climbing up over Misha's torso, pinching his nipples with surprising gentleness; Jensen standing behind Jared, his hands on Jared's chest, small like a woman's in comparison, nails clipped short, filed smooth, digging in enough to leave behind fading red lines.
Jared's fingers crawling over Misha's throat, his chin, slipping past his lips, repeating what he did with Jensen. Letting Misha's tongue trace every single digit, memorize the edges of the nails, the length of the joints, whispering encouragement as Jared thrusts his fingers in, deeper and deeper, and out again, teasing. Misha moans, Jared's hand steady on his cock, the other exploring his mouth.
Jensen's hands have slipped lower, massaging Jared's muscles, voice a mere murmur behind the wide back.
The grin on Jared's lips grows. He pulls his fingers free without a warning, leaving Misha's mouth empty, whining.
"Trust me," the huge man whispers, leaning down to kiss the line on Misha's stomach.
He can feel Jared trailing his hand ever lower, past his pubes, past his balls, tenderly touching the rim of his asshole.
"Think he can take it?" asks Jensen, hands now on Jared's face, pulling him down into a kiss.
"We'll see, won't we?" Jared answers, deepening the kiss. Misha wants it, the very thought of having Jared's finger, god, his whole hand up inside him, filling him like nothing ever before...
With a cry, he comes, bowstring tight and harder than in ages.
When his senses return, the room's empty save for him, and just as dark, the come cool on his skin, no hands but his own on himself.
And starting tomorrow, he's going to be spending hours with Jared and Jensen.
He's so going to die.