Fic: No Remorse, No regrets (Sam/Dean, Explicit)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: M
Word Count: 4,334
Warnings: bottom!Sam, masturbation, lingerie, oral sex, riding, angst, Dean having a very hard time asking about feelings. One scene where Sam is slightly underage (17 years old).
Summary: Written for raise_the_knife's prompt, "In the end, we only regret the chances we didn't take." Sam wakes up after having been drugged to find himself in the custody of an ancient goddess of lust, accusing him of regretting the gift she gave him years ago. After a few overwhelming memories, there is sadness. Then there isn't.
Written for raise_the_knife's prompt "In the end, we only regret the chances we didn't take," for this round of salt_burn_porn.
Sam didn’t so much move gently into wakefulness as he did jump in feet first. This wasn’t exactly unusual for him. Sam had startled out of nightmares rather than rising gradually out of slumber for as long as he could remember, but this particular awakening was different. For one thing, it brought with it a vague nausea, a sharp pain in the front of his head, and a cottony, dry taste in his mouth that strongly suggested that he’d been drugged.
Again.
He refrained from sighing out loud and took stock of his situation. He was surrounded by darkness, but his eyes felt fine and unencumbered. His hands and feet had been left unbound as well, and his clothing undisturbed. So far, this was going about ten times better than his typical abduction experience. He hadn’t even been tied to a chair. He didn’t even feel as though he’d been cut - no blood, as near as he could tell, had been taken. He’d just been drugged. Somewhere nearby he could hear the faint sounds of water running over rocks: a stream of some kind, or maybe a brook. There wasn’t a brook or stream near the bunker, so he had to have been brought at least an hour away.
A bright light flared into being, like a spotlight but without the sound. He raised a hand against the harsh brilliance, trying to shade his eyes. “What the hell?”
“Hell has no place here, Sam Winchester,” a woman’s voice intoned, “whatever men say about me these days.”
Sam turned a little bit to the right. The light still made black spots dance in front of his eyes, but he’d had worse. He could still make out some details. The woman approaching him stood about five foot six, with shoulder-length hair in tight, dark curls and medium-brown skin. She held her head up with aristocratic disdain. “And you would be?” Sam invited.
She snorted. “Men call me Qandisa.”
Sam swallowed. “An ancient Moroccan goddess of lust,” he said, leaving his hands loose at his sides. He’d been deprived of his weapons, he could tell when he’d woken up, but he could probably fashion a stake out of the table he could just barely make out behind her. He had no idea if it was the right kind of wood, and there was no way for him to figure out what else the weapon would need. Divine weapons always needed something else, lamb’s blood or human’s blood or dog’s blood or what have you, but just about anything would be slowed down by a wooden stake through the heart. Heck, even Gabriel had been encouraged to think twice, right?
She smirked. “A human who knows his mythology, who doesn’t lump me in with the demons. I’m impressed. Of course, I’d expect nothing less from the Godslayer.”
Sam jerked his head back. “The Godslayer?”
“You have something of a track record.”
He couldn’t deny that, even if he didn’t think about it that way. “What’s going on here?”
“You’re on trial, Sam. Many years ago, I gave you Winchesters a gift.” Her huge, dark eyes bored into his.
Sam held up his hands. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that. I know it’s been a long few years, but -“
She gestured with her hand, and he shut up. “Think back. Fifteen years. A pool, perhaps?”
Sam considered, memory straining. The edge of a memory teased him, beckoning to his conscious mind across a blackened and mine-scored field. “The one with the mosaics?” he hazarded. “In that abandoned mansion in New Orleans?”
She beamed. “I knew you’d remember. You didn’t know it, but I gave both you and your brother a gift.”
He closed his eyes against the memory. “Dean and I….”
“You and your brother became intimate about two months later,” she said, nodding in confirmation. “You’ve squandered that gift over the past several years. I think you’ve started to regret it.”
Sam’s hands trembled as the meaning of her words slammed into his brain. “Are you telling me that Dean only… that we only had what we had because of supernatural influence?” His stomach roiled, and he doubled over.
“Don’t be absurd, Godslayer. I lowered your fears. That’s all.” She waved a hand. “Nevertheless, you turned away from my gift. I think you regret the blessing that I offered you. You’re being tried for scorning the offering of a goddess. If you’re convicted, you’ll be destroyed.”
“Killed and sent back to Hell, I suppose?” He tried to hide his fear, and he thought his voice sounded convincing.
“What? No. Oblivion. No afterlife, no Heaven, no Hell, no whatever.” Was it his imagination, or had her face softened? “I already told you, Hell has no place here.”
“I don’t suppose that I could just tell you that I don’t regret anything.” He tried to smile and made one corner of his mouth twitch.
“Men lie.” She reached up and touched his forehead, in a surprising display of reach that he supposed probably went a long way toward proving her divinity. He probably could have fought, but she’d have caught up to him anyway and he was too far from any source of information about how to kill her.
He staggered under the onslaught of memories. Up until he took his swan dive, Sam had always had a libido to match his super-sized body. He’d liked sex, with women or with men or with anyone else other enthusiastic partner. He just wasn’t casual about it, not the way Dean was. He liked to have an emotional attachment to the people he was screwing.
And honestly, there had never been anyone that he’d been more attached to than Dean. He had no idea when his feelings for Dean had turned to erotic or romantic love, but he remembered exactly when Dean had given him a graphic demonstration that they were reciprocated.
Sam, all of seventeen, on the narrow cot in that crappy cabin up in the Adirondacks. Dad had dumped them there while he went up into the North Country to hunt down a Dagwanoient, not that he’d listen to Sam about how to kill it. Sam thought he was alone and had stripped himself bare, figuring that he might as well give himself some attention, since he had some privacy and all. If he was thinking about Dean as his hands roamed, no one had to know about it but him. Right?
His right hand stroked from root to tip, slowly at first and then picking up speed. Yeah, it felt good to do this right. No shame, no need to hold himself as still as possible. No need to choke back the occasional moan or groan. No need to rush things, either. Dean was out at the local watering hole; he’d be gone for a while.
Sam drizzled a little bit of lube onto two fingers of his left hand and returned to his previously scheduled jerking. This was something he rarely got to do to himself, because he could only do it when he could really spread out and that never happened. As his right hand stroked along the shaft, adding a little twist at the end, his left slid around to find his hole. One long, lube-slicked finger teased the rim for a moment and Sam let out a strangled moan. Oh, he liked this.
He couldn’t risk letting Dean know, because as much as he might want this to be Dean’s finger instead of his own he knew Dean would mock him endlessly for this. But God he loved this. Loved the teasing, loved the probing. Loved it when something, be it a finger or a cock or even a toy, grazed against that gland that made him see stars.
He worked himself up to two fingers, not caring that he was moaning like there was a camera above him. He dripped with sweat, and he knew it probably wasn’t the best look for him, but whatever. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see him anyway, right?
And then the door slammed open. “Sammy?”
Dean’s eyes widened, and the way he stopped and doubled over would have been funny if it happened on a cartoon. “Dean,” Sam groaned, discovery acting like a bucket of cold water.
His brother recovered himself quickly, shedding his leather jacket and a couple of knives quickly. “Aw, Sammy.” His pupils had already started to dilate as he sat on the bed. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Sam looked at him, really looked, and tried to figure out what it was that Dean was trying to get at. All he could get from his brother right now was lust, though. Slowly, Sam reached out and grabbed his shaft.
Dean licked his lips and reached out. “Let me give you a hand, little brother.
Sam was thrown out of the memory. “You don’t regret that?” Qandisa asked him, eyebrow raised.
“Not even a little bit.” Sam’s voice didn’t waver and he didn’t hesitate before he answered. “That was awesome.”
Her face turned from one of vague contempt to one of marvel. “You’re not ashamed to have been in an intimate relationship with your brother, are you?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Lady, I’m a recovering demon blood addict. I let Lucifer out of his cage. I’ve been possessed by four different entities. I’ve been soulless. I lost my crap after I thought my brother died and left him in Purgatory. I have plenty to be ashamed of. Love isn’t one of them.”
The goddess smiled then, a gentle and soft expression that he wouldn’t expect from a divinity associated with lust instead of love. “No. It isn’t, is it? Do you regret it?”
Sam massaged his temples. “I regret that Dean lost his chance at a real life because of me. That has nothing to do with the sex. His life was screwed to hell as soon as I came into it, long before we started anything and it’s been screwed to hell long after we stopped.” He shrugged.
“Would you resume your relationship?”
He glared. “That’s not up to me. It wasn’t my choice to end it.” He chewed on his thumbnail. “But I don’t regret it, so am I acquitted or whatever?”
She sighed and stood on her tiptoes, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice, Sam. In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take. Back when you and Dean first started up, you were willing to take the chance.” She stroked his cheek once. “You’re free to go.”
Qandisa disappeared, and Sam found candles illuminating a path away from the stream. He followed the path for about a mile, the candles winking out as he passed them, until he got to the waiting Impala.
Sam stopped short. “You knew where I was?”
Dean’s face bore tension lines and had formed itself into a scowl. “Tracked your phone. What is up with you getting kidnapped and dragged away by bad guys, Sam? We taught you better than that.”
“Yeah, because I was expecting to get drugged in the friggin’ bunker,” Sam snapped back.
Dean flinched, and he turned his face forward and put the car in gear without another word to Sam. The two-hour ride to the bunker passed with absolute silence between the brothers. Dean didn’t even put in a tape, so deep was his apparent rage about Sam getting caught by yet another bad guy this time.
Sam shook his head. They were supposed to be safe in the bunker. He shouldn’t have to worry about getting drugged and dragged away by some goddess when he was in the bunker. And of course, it had happened to him, not to Dean. Dean was too much the consummate hunter to ever get dragged away by some god - well, except by Osiris, that one time. Or Veritas. But at the end of the day, it was one more item on the list of Why Sam Can’t Be Trusted To Make His Own Decisions, and there was literally nothing he could have done differently to make the outcome any different -
Wait. Since when did gods need drugs to move mortals around? And he knew damn well that the wards on the bunker were in good shape - after the Darkness had been released Sam had checked them and refreshed them himself.
Sam’s eyes narrowed.
When they got back to the bunker, he went back to his room. He didn’t stop at the kitchen for food. He didn’t sit down at the table with Dean for whiskey, even though Dean had grabbed two glasses. He’d had enough knockouts for one day, thank you. He just retreated to the one place he had even a little bit of privacy and shut the door. After a moment’s thought, he locked it.
Then, he went through his duffel with shaking hands until he found what he was looking for. The blue satin slid over the calluses on his fingers as he pulled the garments out of their hiding place, rolled up in an old pair of socks. He shouldn’t do this. He’d bought this, about five thousand years ago (or maybe just six), to share with Dean after his brother’s return from Hell.
“Sammy?” Dean’s mouth dropped when he walked into their ratty motel room. To say that he hadn’t been expecting to see Sam - tall, muscular, masculine Sam - in a camisole and tap pants would be an understatement. Sam himself wouldn’t have expected to be wearing such a get-up only a couple of months before, or even to find such things in his size. But they’d passed through Seattle on a job, and they’d found a little shop with a very specific specialty, and Sam knew what Dean liked after all, and why not? His brother had just come back from Hell, literal Hell. He deserved nice things, and Sam might be a piss-poor excuse for a brother and the worst hunter in the world and literal demon-spawn but he could be a nice thing if he tried.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam said with a smile. His cock twitched underneath the satin, just from the look his brother gave him.
Sam snorted. That had been then. It had also been the last time Dean had touched him, sexually anyway. A few days later Castiel had taken him back in time and Dean had found out about how unclean Sam truly was, and Dean had never wanted to put his hands on Sam’s bare skin again.
It had taken Sam a while to give up hoping, but finally even Sam had to admit that he had lost. He still had the lingerie, though. It, along with Dean’s old amulet, had managed to stay hidden through his various deaths and possessions and moves. Either could be counted on to bring him comfort when he wanted, although right now he wanted the satin and not the brass.
He shucked his clothes quickly, replacing them with the clean, smooth satin. He wasn’t going to do anything, of course. He never did, anymore. Didn’t see the point. But he could wrap himself up in memories of another time, a better time, when Dean didn’t see him as a burden or a problem and when he still felt beautiful and like he had something to offer.
To be honest, he liked the little outfit for its own sake. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of getting more just like it. He spent his entire life in rough fabrics, washed with harsh and cheap detergents that never rinsed fully clean and that was fine, it was part of the job and he was a lot stingier about clothes and their laundry than Dean was. (What was the point of spending money on the stuff, when it was just going to get wrecked by blood or muck or sewage or monster goo in the next month or two?) But sometimes he had to admit that he liked the feel of something nice against his skin. He liked the cool feel of the satin against his nipples, against his abs. He loved the way the material hugged his cock, the way that the seam on the little shorts flirted just enough with the crack of his ass to remind him that he had a whole wide wonderful range of sensations available to him back there without actually pressing in.
He grabbed a book off the shelf. Sleep wasn’t going to come easily tonight, if it came at all. He might as well use the time productively.
He’d gotten about an hour into his book, a book about ancient Sumerian deities, before someone tried the door. He smirked when the lock caused a loud curse, and leaned his head back when his brother started knocking loudly. “Sam? Sam, it’s me. Dean. Open up.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Who else did Dean think Sam would think it would be? It wasn’t like they had any friends, or that anyone else would have quite the same demand to their hammering that Dean had. He could, he supposed, pretend to be asleep. At the same time, he’d have to be pretty soundly asleep to sleep through Dean’s drum solo there.
He’d have to be drugged. Heh.
“Gimme a second,” he yelled.
He swung his long legs out of the bed and reached out for his jeans. Dean didn’t need to see this. It had been something they’d shared once, but now it was his, just for him. Except - well, except Sam didn’t want it to be, did he?
In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take.
Qandisa’s words sprang back to his mind. Worst case scenario, Dean would learn a valuable lesson about demanding attention when Sam’s locked door sent a clear frickin’ message, thank you very much. Best case? Well, Sam wasn’t holding out much hope, but Dean had drugged him and handed him over to Qandisa for a reason, right?
Sam walked over to the door. He could feel himself hardening a little bit - not exactly unusual when he knew he was going to see his brother, after all. Nothing to be ashamed of, he reminded himself, knowing that these little shorts left nothing hidden.
He threw the door open. Dean stepped inside immediately. “Sammy, listen, about tonight. I’m sorry - I drugged holy fuck is that what I think it is?” When Dean walked in he didn’t even look at Sam, but when he turned to face his brother his brain processed the out fit and his bottle-green eyes bulged in his head.
Sam raised an eyebrow. His own cock kept filling, but he ignored it. Dean could see it, let him make of that what he would. “Something you wanted to say, Dean?”
Dean fell to his knees, eyes glued to Sam’s satin-clad crotch. “Oh, Sammy. Sammy, Sammy. You’ve gotta, you’ve gotta let me, Sammy.” He leaned forward and brought his mouth up to Sam’s cock, mouthing at the shaft through the thin satin.
Sam let out a little groan. This - this heat, this kind of damp heat and slight pressure, with Dean’s eyes looking up at him - this was all he needed to get fully hard, harder than he’d been in years. “Dean,” he gasped, stroking his brother’s cheek with one hand.
“Sammy?” Dean asked, pulling away. Doubt clouded his lust filled eyes.
“Dean, do you actually want this?” Sam looked down at him and bit his lip.
By way of answer, Dean rose to his feet and kicked the door shut in one fluid motion. He shoved Sam over to the bed and then into a sitting position, legs over the side. “You know how much I love this outfit, Sammy,” he growled. “But these shorts’ve gotta go.”
Sam considered arguing but decided against it. They were already damp with spit and precome; they’d get gross soon. He let Dean help slide them down onto the ground, where his brother placed them reverently onto the desk before digging for the lube.
Dean laid him down and knelt between his legs, sucking him down slowly like he had to coax Sam’s cock into his throat or something. He’d always done this, and it had always driven Sam right up a wall with anticipation. Sam couldn’t help but buck his hips a little bit as the wet heat of his brother’s mouth gave way to his throat, but a strong (and blessedly Mark-free) forearm across his pelvis kept him exactly where Dean wanted him.
God, but Dean was good at this. He even had the bottle of lube right where his hand would rest as he held Sam down, so he could slick up the fingers on his other hand as he hummed what was probably Metallica around Sam’s leaking cock.
One finger teased the edge of his rim, playing with him. Sam clenched his teeth together and tried not to whine. Dean switched from something that felt, based on experience, like “Battery” to a low and throaty chuckle, pulsing around the head of Sam’s dick. Sam moaned.
The cool, lube-slick finger slipped inside. Sam cried out. It had been a long time since he’d had this in any way, never mind any way that had been designed to please, never mind from Dean. And Dean, bless him, praise him, Dean moved like it hadn’t been six years and a chasm a mile wide between them. He moved like he still remembered every nuance of Sam’s body, like he’d kept up with every change.
A second finger joined the first, and they dragged across his prostate. Sam came with a shout, no time to warn Dean or anything. Dean didn’t seem to mind, just worked him through the aftershocks until he’d gone soft while still stretching him open. Only when Sam had completely finished did Dean let him slip out of his mouth with a dirty little snicker. “I think I’ve still got it, little brother.”
“Fuck,” Sam groaned, stars still exploding before his eyes.
Dean added a third finger and Sam moaned. Fortunately, his brother didn’t seem inclined to draw out the stretching process. They’d done that sometimes, if they had time and if they’d been reasonably sated, but Sam didn’t want to wait that long to have Dean inside him and based on Dean’s reaction to seeing him in his lingerie he didn’t think that the older Winchester would be all that keen on taking it slow either. “Come on, Dean,” he urged when he felt like he had the use of his limbs again. “I’m ready. You going to keep me waiting?”
Dean pulled back, leaving Sam to frown at the sudden feeling of emptiness. He wasn’t about to leave Sam waiting long, though. He ripped his shirt off and threw it in the general direction of the door. His jeans and boxers got flung the same way, ripped off at the same time to free his thick, beautiful, erect cock.
Sam sprung. He grabbed his brother without warning, flipping him onto his back and laying him out on the bed with a little growl that he hadn’t entirely expected of himself. Then he grabbed the lube and slicked Dean up with it before mounting and slowly sinking down onto his brother.
The look on Dean’s face almost made the six-year wait worth it. His eyes met Sam’s, wide with wonder and adoration in a way that they hadn’t been since before Stanford. His mouth hung open in a gasp as his hands gripped Sam’s trembling biceps. “Sam,” he whispered.
Sam held still for a moment, waiting for his body to adjust. He’d always liked this position, and he would again, but it had been a long time since he’d bottomed and he hadn’t exactly done this slowly and gently. He needed a second for the burn to ease before he could move. Once that point came, though, he could ride to his hearts content.
His cock filled again as he set an enthusiastic pace. Yeah, he liked this. It felt so incredibly good to have Dean inside him, bare and hard. Sam’s own cock bounced against his belly, dark and leaking as he fucked himself against Dean. The entire rest of the world fell away - impersonal room, scratchy sheets, the incessant hum of the air circulation system - nothing existed except for him and Dean coming together. There was no sound except their grunts and groans and pants, no scent except the smell of sex and sweat, no taste except the taste of Dean on his tongue as he licked his way into Dean’s mouth.
Neither of them could last all that long, not that Sam had ever been much of a clock-watcher when it came to sex. It had been too long for both of them, at least too long without the other, and the need was too great. Dean came with a strangled cry and reached a hand between them to give Sam a hand. It only took a couple of tugs to send Sam over the edge and he collapsed on top of Dean.
After a second, Dean carefully pulled out of Sam and patted him on the back. “I don’t care how much weight you’ve lost,” he grumbled. “You’re still too heavy to play blanket. Come on. You can be an octopus in my room. Your bed sucks.”
Sam yawned. “Your room?”
Dean looked for a towel and finally just tossed his own shirt to Sam for cleanup. “Yes. Come on and sleep with me, would you? I know how much you like to cuddle.”
Sam smothered a laugh. Dean was the cuddler of the pair. “’Kay,” he agreed. “Bu the next time you want to find out if I’m up for sex, just ask. No more drugging me and getting an ancient North African lust goddess to talk for you, okay?”
Dean blushed.
Rating: M
Word Count: 4,334
Warnings: bottom!Sam, masturbation, lingerie, oral sex, riding, angst, Dean having a very hard time asking about feelings. One scene where Sam is slightly underage (17 years old).
Summary: Written for raise_the_knife's prompt, "In the end, we only regret the chances we didn't take." Sam wakes up after having been drugged to find himself in the custody of an ancient goddess of lust, accusing him of regretting the gift she gave him years ago. After a few overwhelming memories, there is sadness. Then there isn't.
Written for raise_the_knife's prompt "In the end, we only regret the chances we didn't take," for this round of salt_burn_porn.
Sam didn’t so much move gently into wakefulness as he did jump in feet first. This wasn’t exactly unusual for him. Sam had startled out of nightmares rather than rising gradually out of slumber for as long as he could remember, but this particular awakening was different. For one thing, it brought with it a vague nausea, a sharp pain in the front of his head, and a cottony, dry taste in his mouth that strongly suggested that he’d been drugged.
Again.
He refrained from sighing out loud and took stock of his situation. He was surrounded by darkness, but his eyes felt fine and unencumbered. His hands and feet had been left unbound as well, and his clothing undisturbed. So far, this was going about ten times better than his typical abduction experience. He hadn’t even been tied to a chair. He didn’t even feel as though he’d been cut - no blood, as near as he could tell, had been taken. He’d just been drugged. Somewhere nearby he could hear the faint sounds of water running over rocks: a stream of some kind, or maybe a brook. There wasn’t a brook or stream near the bunker, so he had to have been brought at least an hour away.
A bright light flared into being, like a spotlight but without the sound. He raised a hand against the harsh brilliance, trying to shade his eyes. “What the hell?”
“Hell has no place here, Sam Winchester,” a woman’s voice intoned, “whatever men say about me these days.”
Sam turned a little bit to the right. The light still made black spots dance in front of his eyes, but he’d had worse. He could still make out some details. The woman approaching him stood about five foot six, with shoulder-length hair in tight, dark curls and medium-brown skin. She held her head up with aristocratic disdain. “And you would be?” Sam invited.
She snorted. “Men call me Qandisa.”
Sam swallowed. “An ancient Moroccan goddess of lust,” he said, leaving his hands loose at his sides. He’d been deprived of his weapons, he could tell when he’d woken up, but he could probably fashion a stake out of the table he could just barely make out behind her. He had no idea if it was the right kind of wood, and there was no way for him to figure out what else the weapon would need. Divine weapons always needed something else, lamb’s blood or human’s blood or dog’s blood or what have you, but just about anything would be slowed down by a wooden stake through the heart. Heck, even Gabriel had been encouraged to think twice, right?
She smirked. “A human who knows his mythology, who doesn’t lump me in with the demons. I’m impressed. Of course, I’d expect nothing less from the Godslayer.”
Sam jerked his head back. “The Godslayer?”
“You have something of a track record.”
He couldn’t deny that, even if he didn’t think about it that way. “What’s going on here?”
“You’re on trial, Sam. Many years ago, I gave you Winchesters a gift.” Her huge, dark eyes bored into his.
Sam held up his hands. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that. I know it’s been a long few years, but -“
She gestured with her hand, and he shut up. “Think back. Fifteen years. A pool, perhaps?”
Sam considered, memory straining. The edge of a memory teased him, beckoning to his conscious mind across a blackened and mine-scored field. “The one with the mosaics?” he hazarded. “In that abandoned mansion in New Orleans?”
She beamed. “I knew you’d remember. You didn’t know it, but I gave both you and your brother a gift.”
He closed his eyes against the memory. “Dean and I….”
“You and your brother became intimate about two months later,” she said, nodding in confirmation. “You’ve squandered that gift over the past several years. I think you’ve started to regret it.”
Sam’s hands trembled as the meaning of her words slammed into his brain. “Are you telling me that Dean only… that we only had what we had because of supernatural influence?” His stomach roiled, and he doubled over.
“Don’t be absurd, Godslayer. I lowered your fears. That’s all.” She waved a hand. “Nevertheless, you turned away from my gift. I think you regret the blessing that I offered you. You’re being tried for scorning the offering of a goddess. If you’re convicted, you’ll be destroyed.”
“Killed and sent back to Hell, I suppose?” He tried to hide his fear, and he thought his voice sounded convincing.
“What? No. Oblivion. No afterlife, no Heaven, no Hell, no whatever.” Was it his imagination, or had her face softened? “I already told you, Hell has no place here.”
“I don’t suppose that I could just tell you that I don’t regret anything.” He tried to smile and made one corner of his mouth twitch.
“Men lie.” She reached up and touched his forehead, in a surprising display of reach that he supposed probably went a long way toward proving her divinity. He probably could have fought, but she’d have caught up to him anyway and he was too far from any source of information about how to kill her.
He staggered under the onslaught of memories. Up until he took his swan dive, Sam had always had a libido to match his super-sized body. He’d liked sex, with women or with men or with anyone else other enthusiastic partner. He just wasn’t casual about it, not the way Dean was. He liked to have an emotional attachment to the people he was screwing.
And honestly, there had never been anyone that he’d been more attached to than Dean. He had no idea when his feelings for Dean had turned to erotic or romantic love, but he remembered exactly when Dean had given him a graphic demonstration that they were reciprocated.
Sam, all of seventeen, on the narrow cot in that crappy cabin up in the Adirondacks. Dad had dumped them there while he went up into the North Country to hunt down a Dagwanoient, not that he’d listen to Sam about how to kill it. Sam thought he was alone and had stripped himself bare, figuring that he might as well give himself some attention, since he had some privacy and all. If he was thinking about Dean as his hands roamed, no one had to know about it but him. Right?
His right hand stroked from root to tip, slowly at first and then picking up speed. Yeah, it felt good to do this right. No shame, no need to hold himself as still as possible. No need to choke back the occasional moan or groan. No need to rush things, either. Dean was out at the local watering hole; he’d be gone for a while.
Sam drizzled a little bit of lube onto two fingers of his left hand and returned to his previously scheduled jerking. This was something he rarely got to do to himself, because he could only do it when he could really spread out and that never happened. As his right hand stroked along the shaft, adding a little twist at the end, his left slid around to find his hole. One long, lube-slicked finger teased the rim for a moment and Sam let out a strangled moan. Oh, he liked this.
He couldn’t risk letting Dean know, because as much as he might want this to be Dean’s finger instead of his own he knew Dean would mock him endlessly for this. But God he loved this. Loved the teasing, loved the probing. Loved it when something, be it a finger or a cock or even a toy, grazed against that gland that made him see stars.
He worked himself up to two fingers, not caring that he was moaning like there was a camera above him. He dripped with sweat, and he knew it probably wasn’t the best look for him, but whatever. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see him anyway, right?
And then the door slammed open. “Sammy?”
Dean’s eyes widened, and the way he stopped and doubled over would have been funny if it happened on a cartoon. “Dean,” Sam groaned, discovery acting like a bucket of cold water.
His brother recovered himself quickly, shedding his leather jacket and a couple of knives quickly. “Aw, Sammy.” His pupils had already started to dilate as he sat on the bed. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Sam looked at him, really looked, and tried to figure out what it was that Dean was trying to get at. All he could get from his brother right now was lust, though. Slowly, Sam reached out and grabbed his shaft.
Dean licked his lips and reached out. “Let me give you a hand, little brother.
Sam was thrown out of the memory. “You don’t regret that?” Qandisa asked him, eyebrow raised.
“Not even a little bit.” Sam’s voice didn’t waver and he didn’t hesitate before he answered. “That was awesome.”
Her face turned from one of vague contempt to one of marvel. “You’re not ashamed to have been in an intimate relationship with your brother, are you?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Lady, I’m a recovering demon blood addict. I let Lucifer out of his cage. I’ve been possessed by four different entities. I’ve been soulless. I lost my crap after I thought my brother died and left him in Purgatory. I have plenty to be ashamed of. Love isn’t one of them.”
The goddess smiled then, a gentle and soft expression that he wouldn’t expect from a divinity associated with lust instead of love. “No. It isn’t, is it? Do you regret it?”
Sam massaged his temples. “I regret that Dean lost his chance at a real life because of me. That has nothing to do with the sex. His life was screwed to hell as soon as I came into it, long before we started anything and it’s been screwed to hell long after we stopped.” He shrugged.
“Would you resume your relationship?”
He glared. “That’s not up to me. It wasn’t my choice to end it.” He chewed on his thumbnail. “But I don’t regret it, so am I acquitted or whatever?”
She sighed and stood on her tiptoes, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice, Sam. In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take. Back when you and Dean first started up, you were willing to take the chance.” She stroked his cheek once. “You’re free to go.”
Qandisa disappeared, and Sam found candles illuminating a path away from the stream. He followed the path for about a mile, the candles winking out as he passed them, until he got to the waiting Impala.
Sam stopped short. “You knew where I was?”
Dean’s face bore tension lines and had formed itself into a scowl. “Tracked your phone. What is up with you getting kidnapped and dragged away by bad guys, Sam? We taught you better than that.”
“Yeah, because I was expecting to get drugged in the friggin’ bunker,” Sam snapped back.
Dean flinched, and he turned his face forward and put the car in gear without another word to Sam. The two-hour ride to the bunker passed with absolute silence between the brothers. Dean didn’t even put in a tape, so deep was his apparent rage about Sam getting caught by yet another bad guy this time.
Sam shook his head. They were supposed to be safe in the bunker. He shouldn’t have to worry about getting drugged and dragged away by some goddess when he was in the bunker. And of course, it had happened to him, not to Dean. Dean was too much the consummate hunter to ever get dragged away by some god - well, except by Osiris, that one time. Or Veritas. But at the end of the day, it was one more item on the list of Why Sam Can’t Be Trusted To Make His Own Decisions, and there was literally nothing he could have done differently to make the outcome any different -
Wait. Since when did gods need drugs to move mortals around? And he knew damn well that the wards on the bunker were in good shape - after the Darkness had been released Sam had checked them and refreshed them himself.
Sam’s eyes narrowed.
When they got back to the bunker, he went back to his room. He didn’t stop at the kitchen for food. He didn’t sit down at the table with Dean for whiskey, even though Dean had grabbed two glasses. He’d had enough knockouts for one day, thank you. He just retreated to the one place he had even a little bit of privacy and shut the door. After a moment’s thought, he locked it.
Then, he went through his duffel with shaking hands until he found what he was looking for. The blue satin slid over the calluses on his fingers as he pulled the garments out of their hiding place, rolled up in an old pair of socks. He shouldn’t do this. He’d bought this, about five thousand years ago (or maybe just six), to share with Dean after his brother’s return from Hell.
“Sammy?” Dean’s mouth dropped when he walked into their ratty motel room. To say that he hadn’t been expecting to see Sam - tall, muscular, masculine Sam - in a camisole and tap pants would be an understatement. Sam himself wouldn’t have expected to be wearing such a get-up only a couple of months before, or even to find such things in his size. But they’d passed through Seattle on a job, and they’d found a little shop with a very specific specialty, and Sam knew what Dean liked after all, and why not? His brother had just come back from Hell, literal Hell. He deserved nice things, and Sam might be a piss-poor excuse for a brother and the worst hunter in the world and literal demon-spawn but he could be a nice thing if he tried.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam said with a smile. His cock twitched underneath the satin, just from the look his brother gave him.
Sam snorted. That had been then. It had also been the last time Dean had touched him, sexually anyway. A few days later Castiel had taken him back in time and Dean had found out about how unclean Sam truly was, and Dean had never wanted to put his hands on Sam’s bare skin again.
It had taken Sam a while to give up hoping, but finally even Sam had to admit that he had lost. He still had the lingerie, though. It, along with Dean’s old amulet, had managed to stay hidden through his various deaths and possessions and moves. Either could be counted on to bring him comfort when he wanted, although right now he wanted the satin and not the brass.
He shucked his clothes quickly, replacing them with the clean, smooth satin. He wasn’t going to do anything, of course. He never did, anymore. Didn’t see the point. But he could wrap himself up in memories of another time, a better time, when Dean didn’t see him as a burden or a problem and when he still felt beautiful and like he had something to offer.
To be honest, he liked the little outfit for its own sake. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of getting more just like it. He spent his entire life in rough fabrics, washed with harsh and cheap detergents that never rinsed fully clean and that was fine, it was part of the job and he was a lot stingier about clothes and their laundry than Dean was. (What was the point of spending money on the stuff, when it was just going to get wrecked by blood or muck or sewage or monster goo in the next month or two?) But sometimes he had to admit that he liked the feel of something nice against his skin. He liked the cool feel of the satin against his nipples, against his abs. He loved the way the material hugged his cock, the way that the seam on the little shorts flirted just enough with the crack of his ass to remind him that he had a whole wide wonderful range of sensations available to him back there without actually pressing in.
He grabbed a book off the shelf. Sleep wasn’t going to come easily tonight, if it came at all. He might as well use the time productively.
He’d gotten about an hour into his book, a book about ancient Sumerian deities, before someone tried the door. He smirked when the lock caused a loud curse, and leaned his head back when his brother started knocking loudly. “Sam? Sam, it’s me. Dean. Open up.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Who else did Dean think Sam would think it would be? It wasn’t like they had any friends, or that anyone else would have quite the same demand to their hammering that Dean had. He could, he supposed, pretend to be asleep. At the same time, he’d have to be pretty soundly asleep to sleep through Dean’s drum solo there.
He’d have to be drugged. Heh.
“Gimme a second,” he yelled.
He swung his long legs out of the bed and reached out for his jeans. Dean didn’t need to see this. It had been something they’d shared once, but now it was his, just for him. Except - well, except Sam didn’t want it to be, did he?
In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take.
Qandisa’s words sprang back to his mind. Worst case scenario, Dean would learn a valuable lesson about demanding attention when Sam’s locked door sent a clear frickin’ message, thank you very much. Best case? Well, Sam wasn’t holding out much hope, but Dean had drugged him and handed him over to Qandisa for a reason, right?
Sam walked over to the door. He could feel himself hardening a little bit - not exactly unusual when he knew he was going to see his brother, after all. Nothing to be ashamed of, he reminded himself, knowing that these little shorts left nothing hidden.
He threw the door open. Dean stepped inside immediately. “Sammy, listen, about tonight. I’m sorry - I drugged holy fuck is that what I think it is?” When Dean walked in he didn’t even look at Sam, but when he turned to face his brother his brain processed the out fit and his bottle-green eyes bulged in his head.
Sam raised an eyebrow. His own cock kept filling, but he ignored it. Dean could see it, let him make of that what he would. “Something you wanted to say, Dean?”
Dean fell to his knees, eyes glued to Sam’s satin-clad crotch. “Oh, Sammy. Sammy, Sammy. You’ve gotta, you’ve gotta let me, Sammy.” He leaned forward and brought his mouth up to Sam’s cock, mouthing at the shaft through the thin satin.
Sam let out a little groan. This - this heat, this kind of damp heat and slight pressure, with Dean’s eyes looking up at him - this was all he needed to get fully hard, harder than he’d been in years. “Dean,” he gasped, stroking his brother’s cheek with one hand.
“Sammy?” Dean asked, pulling away. Doubt clouded his lust filled eyes.
“Dean, do you actually want this?” Sam looked down at him and bit his lip.
By way of answer, Dean rose to his feet and kicked the door shut in one fluid motion. He shoved Sam over to the bed and then into a sitting position, legs over the side. “You know how much I love this outfit, Sammy,” he growled. “But these shorts’ve gotta go.”
Sam considered arguing but decided against it. They were already damp with spit and precome; they’d get gross soon. He let Dean help slide them down onto the ground, where his brother placed them reverently onto the desk before digging for the lube.
Dean laid him down and knelt between his legs, sucking him down slowly like he had to coax Sam’s cock into his throat or something. He’d always done this, and it had always driven Sam right up a wall with anticipation. Sam couldn’t help but buck his hips a little bit as the wet heat of his brother’s mouth gave way to his throat, but a strong (and blessedly Mark-free) forearm across his pelvis kept him exactly where Dean wanted him.
God, but Dean was good at this. He even had the bottle of lube right where his hand would rest as he held Sam down, so he could slick up the fingers on his other hand as he hummed what was probably Metallica around Sam’s leaking cock.
One finger teased the edge of his rim, playing with him. Sam clenched his teeth together and tried not to whine. Dean switched from something that felt, based on experience, like “Battery” to a low and throaty chuckle, pulsing around the head of Sam’s dick. Sam moaned.
The cool, lube-slick finger slipped inside. Sam cried out. It had been a long time since he’d had this in any way, never mind any way that had been designed to please, never mind from Dean. And Dean, bless him, praise him, Dean moved like it hadn’t been six years and a chasm a mile wide between them. He moved like he still remembered every nuance of Sam’s body, like he’d kept up with every change.
A second finger joined the first, and they dragged across his prostate. Sam came with a shout, no time to warn Dean or anything. Dean didn’t seem to mind, just worked him through the aftershocks until he’d gone soft while still stretching him open. Only when Sam had completely finished did Dean let him slip out of his mouth with a dirty little snicker. “I think I’ve still got it, little brother.”
“Fuck,” Sam groaned, stars still exploding before his eyes.
Dean added a third finger and Sam moaned. Fortunately, his brother didn’t seem inclined to draw out the stretching process. They’d done that sometimes, if they had time and if they’d been reasonably sated, but Sam didn’t want to wait that long to have Dean inside him and based on Dean’s reaction to seeing him in his lingerie he didn’t think that the older Winchester would be all that keen on taking it slow either. “Come on, Dean,” he urged when he felt like he had the use of his limbs again. “I’m ready. You going to keep me waiting?”
Dean pulled back, leaving Sam to frown at the sudden feeling of emptiness. He wasn’t about to leave Sam waiting long, though. He ripped his shirt off and threw it in the general direction of the door. His jeans and boxers got flung the same way, ripped off at the same time to free his thick, beautiful, erect cock.
Sam sprung. He grabbed his brother without warning, flipping him onto his back and laying him out on the bed with a little growl that he hadn’t entirely expected of himself. Then he grabbed the lube and slicked Dean up with it before mounting and slowly sinking down onto his brother.
The look on Dean’s face almost made the six-year wait worth it. His eyes met Sam’s, wide with wonder and adoration in a way that they hadn’t been since before Stanford. His mouth hung open in a gasp as his hands gripped Sam’s trembling biceps. “Sam,” he whispered.
Sam held still for a moment, waiting for his body to adjust. He’d always liked this position, and he would again, but it had been a long time since he’d bottomed and he hadn’t exactly done this slowly and gently. He needed a second for the burn to ease before he could move. Once that point came, though, he could ride to his hearts content.
His cock filled again as he set an enthusiastic pace. Yeah, he liked this. It felt so incredibly good to have Dean inside him, bare and hard. Sam’s own cock bounced against his belly, dark and leaking as he fucked himself against Dean. The entire rest of the world fell away - impersonal room, scratchy sheets, the incessant hum of the air circulation system - nothing existed except for him and Dean coming together. There was no sound except their grunts and groans and pants, no scent except the smell of sex and sweat, no taste except the taste of Dean on his tongue as he licked his way into Dean’s mouth.
Neither of them could last all that long, not that Sam had ever been much of a clock-watcher when it came to sex. It had been too long for both of them, at least too long without the other, and the need was too great. Dean came with a strangled cry and reached a hand between them to give Sam a hand. It only took a couple of tugs to send Sam over the edge and he collapsed on top of Dean.
After a second, Dean carefully pulled out of Sam and patted him on the back. “I don’t care how much weight you’ve lost,” he grumbled. “You’re still too heavy to play blanket. Come on. You can be an octopus in my room. Your bed sucks.”
Sam yawned. “Your room?”
Dean looked for a towel and finally just tossed his own shirt to Sam for cleanup. “Yes. Come on and sleep with me, would you? I know how much you like to cuddle.”
Sam smothered a laugh. Dean was the cuddler of the pair. “’Kay,” he agreed. “Bu the next time you want to find out if I’m up for sex, just ask. No more drugging me and getting an ancient North African lust goddess to talk for you, okay?”
Dean blushed.