SPN fic for salt_burn_porn [Sam/Dean - NC-17 - 1814 words]
Oh god, this was written super quickly while I was 1. Exhausted, 2. A little bit drunk and 3. stressed out. With no time for proper editing or a beta, so I hope it makes sense. I HATE MYSELF A LITTLE BIT RIGHT NOW. AND THEN OUR LANDLORD CAME TO DO A FLAT INSPECTION AND WANDERED AROUND MY ROOM WHILE I WAS WRITING THE PORN. Oh god oh god oh god *flails and dies*
Title: We were made through one another
Author: bloodnfire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: 5.10 spoiler, hell flashback, past underage (Sam at sixteen), angst.
Summary: Sam's blunt fingernail draws a pattern across Dean's skin; light and teasing, opening up a flesh wound in his mind and an endless stream of memories come bleeding out.
Notes: Written for salt_burn_porn for the prompt: your hands have travelled this stretch of flesh so many times before.
The room is dark, pre-dawn chill filtering through the sweat 'n sex smell that's been hanging hot and heavy around them. Dean is drifting, half lucid, between sleep and waking. It's nice, feeling light and free of his body, his life; it's been a long time since he let himself relax like this, he doesn't trust sleep, it's is always just as full of horror as his waking hours. Sam's breath is warm on the back of his neck, his body pressed firm behind him. Fingers stroke a path along Dean's ribs, drawing him closer to wakefulness. He stirs a little, mutters something unintelligible, even to himself, and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Sam's wandering hand finds its resting place, splayed across Dean's chest, right above his heart. It's pleasantly familiar, like Dean's flesh remembers Sam's skin and the two cling to one another.
*
Sam's blunt fingernail draws a pattern across Dean's skin; light and teasing, opening up a flesh wound in his mind and an endless stream of memories come bleeding out. It starts with Sammy, of course it does, six years old and looking at Dean with wide, solemn eyes. Sammy seeking comfort when he was afraid of the dark, or the thing under his bed, looking to Dean for reassurance. Saying, "You promise? Cross you heart?" his little fingers making an X over his own.
Sam changes with an uncomfortable jerk of Dean's consciousness, shifting to when he was sixteen and sullen. His hands seeming huge in comparison, pushing Dean down into the mattress's of million motel rooms while they bucked and twisted, frantically grinding together. Dean's fingers would tangle in Sam's stupidly long hair and he's use the grip to pull their mouths together, licking and biting at his brother's lips and living with the constant twist in his gut that said maybe this time Dad's gonna come home early. Maybe this time he's gonna see what his son's are doing to each other; Sam's fingers, wrapped around Dean's cock, digging into his hip to hold him steady, and Dean's teeth scraping along Sam's neck as they mark each other up, and Sam's slick cock pushes home with a sharp stinging pain that Dean always relished. Sam's heat inside Dean, his firm grip working Dean's dick as Dean's head spins and his hips jerk up up up, trying to take Sam deeper still. Dean's head is thrown back, pressure building up inside him until he's sure he's about to break, he's about to -
It's seven years later and Dean is dying. Well, not immediately, he's got a few days left and every day Sam's jaw is clenched tighter, his shoulders tenser. Dean's scared and so fucking guilty for what he's doing to his brother but really, he never had a choice. Dean Winchester was never going to make it to thirty anyway, at least this way his death is worth something.
Sam is sitting at the flimsy ply-wood table, books and computer spread out before him, but they both know what ever he finds ain't gonna do a scrap of good. Dean makes up his mind, doesn't want to spend the remainder of their time together like this. Crossing the room with determined strides he jerks Sam's chair back, ignoring the startled noise Sam makes and the irritated one that follows it, straddling his brother's lap. He keeps most of his weight on his own legs, pretty sure this chair couldn't hold them both, and smirks down at Sam, quirking an eyebrow in suggestion. Sam draws in a deep breath, looks like he might protest and Dean lets a little of his desperation shine through and Sam's hand slides under Dean's t-shirt to rest on the small of his back, holding him in place. Dean leans forward to kiss him, it's soft and chaste at first but then Sam surges up, deepening the kiss and his tongue claiming possession of Dean's mouth.
Soon their shirts are on the floor, and Sam's licking at Dean's nipple, catching it between his teeth and tracing the intricate lines of Dean's tattoo with his tongue. Dean's head is thrown back and Sam's hands holding him up are the only thing keeping him from falling backwards and cracking his head on the table. Sam's huge hands memorising every inch of Dean's body, his grip bruising tight, and Dean thinks that he's gonna go to the grave with Sam's marks all over him. Seems fitting.
They're scrabbling to free each other of their jeans when one of the abused legs of the chair gives out and they find themselves sprawled on the floors, amazingly neither of them impaled by the splintered wood. Sam lying flat on his back, Dean half on top of him, both of them laughing. Sam spreads his legs and Dean's fingers trace around the edge of his hole, pushing forward and -
Dean is in Hell and Alastair's blade is caressing his skin, opening him up like a lover and carving his heart out of his chest. Alastair reaches between Dean's ribs, hand emerging red and glistening. He holds the bloody organ up, as if considering it. He licks at it, which in the past would have made Dean's stomach turn, not anymore though. He turns to Dean and smiles his scarlet smile, says, "Shall we send this to Sam, hmm? Something nice for him to remember you by?"
But then Alastair is gone and it's Jo's blood covered face looking at him, Ellen's behind her; both of them smiling like skulls, surrounded by a battle field covered with charred limbs.
*
Dean's eyes snap open and he realizes that his heart is pounding, and there's no shroud of sleep to hide behind anymore. Sam's body is still curled around him, and despite himself Dean jerks away, feeling flayed to the bone.
His brother sits up, says, "Hey, you okay?" and Dean laughs, a wild, desperate noise that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
"I don't know, Sam. Are you?" They don't talk about their nightmares these days, but Sam's answer is a sharp intake of breath and a snort. Dean wonders when they both became so bitter but doesn't want to follow the thought because he thinks he might actually find the answer. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, his bare feet resting on the dirty carpet, and he tries to stop his heart from racing. He feels Sam move closer, doesn't move away when Sam's arm curls around him and draws him back against his chest.
Warm wetness presses against the crook of his neck, with just a hint of teeth, the promise of pain if Dean needs it. Sam's hand claims his heart beat and they breath together until Dean finds himself lax in Sam's arms. He twists his head around so they can kiss, his mouth is stale with sleep and so is Sam's but neither of them complain, and before he knows it Dean is crawling into Sam's lap.
Sam's cock is half hard from being pressed up against Dean's ass half the night, and it twitches at the renewed contact. Dean palms it, jerking Sam's breath out of him faster and faster, until he's practically panting, face buried against Dean's shoulder. Dean loves watching him like this, seeing Sam unravel and knowing exactly how to put him back together. Sam can do the same to him, working Dean up into a frenzy with years of past knowledge to guide him, knowing where to kiss and where to bite, the places that can get Dean to come without his dick even being touched. But right now it's Sam's dick that Dean is focused on, his hand gives it a squeeze and Sam groans, teeth sinking into Dean's throat and the pain is grounding, chasing away the clinging remnants of his dreams. Sam is hard in Dean's hand, slick with precome, and that's all he needs, still loose and slick from earlier when they exhausted their bodies and emptied their minds enough to be able to catch a few hours sleep. He pushes Sam back and he goes with it, watches with dark eyes as Dean positions Sam's cock at his entrance and slowly sinks down, rolling his hips to get him deeper, until Sam is all the way in. He sits like that for a moment before Sam's hands slide over his thighs and come to rest on Dean's hips, urging him up and then back down. Dean wants to moan but the sound catches in his throat and he lets Sam take control, practically lifting Dean up and pulling him down the length of his dick. Dean's half expecting it when Sam flips them over, it's a maneuver Dean taught him over ten years ago but it's still one of Sam's favourites.
Sam fists Dean's cock, pumping it expertly, his grip just the right side of too rough; out of time with the rhythm of Sam's dick, thrusting long and deep into Dean's ass, hitting his prostate and making his vision spark. Sam's teeth find their way back to his favourite spot on Dean's neck, his hand still working Dean's cock and Dean's mind is clear, focused on nothing but Sam and the need to come.
"Sam," Dean manages to say, "gotta come, now."
Sam licks a line up Dean's neck then says, "Not yet, man. Wanna come with you, can you wait for me?"
His grip on Dean's dick tightens and Dean nods. Sam stops jerking him off, just holds him while he drives into him, picking up the momentum and harder and harder, breathing in sharp bursts. Dean can't hold off much longer, needs it now, fucking now. And then Sam's fist is pumping him frantically and they're both coming, Sam pulsing hot inside him and Dean slick all over his belly. Sam leans down to lick it off and then kisses Dean deeply, letting him taste himself on Sam's tongue before they both collapse, pliant into the mattress, limbs tangled together.
They're both sticky with sweat and come, it's kind of gross and he wouldn't mind a shower but Dean still feels boneless from orgasm. Sam's lying on his stomach with an arm sprawled across Dean's chest. They have a couple of hours until they need to check out and Dean's bones still ache for rest. He closes his eyes and prays for a dreamless sleep. Sam shifts, somehow manages to move even closer so he's curled up against Dean's chest. He plants a kiss against Dean's pulse point, right on the bruise that's starting to bloom there. He makes a trail along Dean's collar bone, then stills, laying with his ear over Dean's heart.
He murmurs, "We're still here, Dean. It's still you and me. Always has been, always will be."
Title: We were made through one another
Author: bloodnfire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: 5.10 spoiler, hell flashback, past underage (Sam at sixteen), angst.
Summary: Sam's blunt fingernail draws a pattern across Dean's skin; light and teasing, opening up a flesh wound in his mind and an endless stream of memories come bleeding out.
Notes: Written for salt_burn_porn for the prompt: your hands have travelled this stretch of flesh so many times before.
The room is dark, pre-dawn chill filtering through the sweat 'n sex smell that's been hanging hot and heavy around them. Dean is drifting, half lucid, between sleep and waking. It's nice, feeling light and free of his body, his life; it's been a long time since he let himself relax like this, he doesn't trust sleep, it's is always just as full of horror as his waking hours. Sam's breath is warm on the back of his neck, his body pressed firm behind him. Fingers stroke a path along Dean's ribs, drawing him closer to wakefulness. He stirs a little, mutters something unintelligible, even to himself, and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Sam's wandering hand finds its resting place, splayed across Dean's chest, right above his heart. It's pleasantly familiar, like Dean's flesh remembers Sam's skin and the two cling to one another.
*
Sam's blunt fingernail draws a pattern across Dean's skin; light and teasing, opening up a flesh wound in his mind and an endless stream of memories come bleeding out. It starts with Sammy, of course it does, six years old and looking at Dean with wide, solemn eyes. Sammy seeking comfort when he was afraid of the dark, or the thing under his bed, looking to Dean for reassurance. Saying, "You promise? Cross you heart?" his little fingers making an X over his own.
Sam changes with an uncomfortable jerk of Dean's consciousness, shifting to when he was sixteen and sullen. His hands seeming huge in comparison, pushing Dean down into the mattress's of million motel rooms while they bucked and twisted, frantically grinding together. Dean's fingers would tangle in Sam's stupidly long hair and he's use the grip to pull their mouths together, licking and biting at his brother's lips and living with the constant twist in his gut that said maybe this time Dad's gonna come home early. Maybe this time he's gonna see what his son's are doing to each other; Sam's fingers, wrapped around Dean's cock, digging into his hip to hold him steady, and Dean's teeth scraping along Sam's neck as they mark each other up, and Sam's slick cock pushes home with a sharp stinging pain that Dean always relished. Sam's heat inside Dean, his firm grip working Dean's dick as Dean's head spins and his hips jerk up up up, trying to take Sam deeper still. Dean's head is thrown back, pressure building up inside him until he's sure he's about to break, he's about to -
It's seven years later and Dean is dying. Well, not immediately, he's got a few days left and every day Sam's jaw is clenched tighter, his shoulders tenser. Dean's scared and so fucking guilty for what he's doing to his brother but really, he never had a choice. Dean Winchester was never going to make it to thirty anyway, at least this way his death is worth something.
Sam is sitting at the flimsy ply-wood table, books and computer spread out before him, but they both know what ever he finds ain't gonna do a scrap of good. Dean makes up his mind, doesn't want to spend the remainder of their time together like this. Crossing the room with determined strides he jerks Sam's chair back, ignoring the startled noise Sam makes and the irritated one that follows it, straddling his brother's lap. He keeps most of his weight on his own legs, pretty sure this chair couldn't hold them both, and smirks down at Sam, quirking an eyebrow in suggestion. Sam draws in a deep breath, looks like he might protest and Dean lets a little of his desperation shine through and Sam's hand slides under Dean's t-shirt to rest on the small of his back, holding him in place. Dean leans forward to kiss him, it's soft and chaste at first but then Sam surges up, deepening the kiss and his tongue claiming possession of Dean's mouth.
Soon their shirts are on the floor, and Sam's licking at Dean's nipple, catching it between his teeth and tracing the intricate lines of Dean's tattoo with his tongue. Dean's head is thrown back and Sam's hands holding him up are the only thing keeping him from falling backwards and cracking his head on the table. Sam's huge hands memorising every inch of Dean's body, his grip bruising tight, and Dean thinks that he's gonna go to the grave with Sam's marks all over him. Seems fitting.
They're scrabbling to free each other of their jeans when one of the abused legs of the chair gives out and they find themselves sprawled on the floors, amazingly neither of them impaled by the splintered wood. Sam lying flat on his back, Dean half on top of him, both of them laughing. Sam spreads his legs and Dean's fingers trace around the edge of his hole, pushing forward and -
Dean is in Hell and Alastair's blade is caressing his skin, opening him up like a lover and carving his heart out of his chest. Alastair reaches between Dean's ribs, hand emerging red and glistening. He holds the bloody organ up, as if considering it. He licks at it, which in the past would have made Dean's stomach turn, not anymore though. He turns to Dean and smiles his scarlet smile, says, "Shall we send this to Sam, hmm? Something nice for him to remember you by?"
But then Alastair is gone and it's Jo's blood covered face looking at him, Ellen's behind her; both of them smiling like skulls, surrounded by a battle field covered with charred limbs.
*
Dean's eyes snap open and he realizes that his heart is pounding, and there's no shroud of sleep to hide behind anymore. Sam's body is still curled around him, and despite himself Dean jerks away, feeling flayed to the bone.
His brother sits up, says, "Hey, you okay?" and Dean laughs, a wild, desperate noise that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
"I don't know, Sam. Are you?" They don't talk about their nightmares these days, but Sam's answer is a sharp intake of breath and a snort. Dean wonders when they both became so bitter but doesn't want to follow the thought because he thinks he might actually find the answer. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, his bare feet resting on the dirty carpet, and he tries to stop his heart from racing. He feels Sam move closer, doesn't move away when Sam's arm curls around him and draws him back against his chest.
Warm wetness presses against the crook of his neck, with just a hint of teeth, the promise of pain if Dean needs it. Sam's hand claims his heart beat and they breath together until Dean finds himself lax in Sam's arms. He twists his head around so they can kiss, his mouth is stale with sleep and so is Sam's but neither of them complain, and before he knows it Dean is crawling into Sam's lap.
Sam's cock is half hard from being pressed up against Dean's ass half the night, and it twitches at the renewed contact. Dean palms it, jerking Sam's breath out of him faster and faster, until he's practically panting, face buried against Dean's shoulder. Dean loves watching him like this, seeing Sam unravel and knowing exactly how to put him back together. Sam can do the same to him, working Dean up into a frenzy with years of past knowledge to guide him, knowing where to kiss and where to bite, the places that can get Dean to come without his dick even being touched. But right now it's Sam's dick that Dean is focused on, his hand gives it a squeeze and Sam groans, teeth sinking into Dean's throat and the pain is grounding, chasing away the clinging remnants of his dreams. Sam is hard in Dean's hand, slick with precome, and that's all he needs, still loose and slick from earlier when they exhausted their bodies and emptied their minds enough to be able to catch a few hours sleep. He pushes Sam back and he goes with it, watches with dark eyes as Dean positions Sam's cock at his entrance and slowly sinks down, rolling his hips to get him deeper, until Sam is all the way in. He sits like that for a moment before Sam's hands slide over his thighs and come to rest on Dean's hips, urging him up and then back down. Dean wants to moan but the sound catches in his throat and he lets Sam take control, practically lifting Dean up and pulling him down the length of his dick. Dean's half expecting it when Sam flips them over, it's a maneuver Dean taught him over ten years ago but it's still one of Sam's favourites.
Sam fists Dean's cock, pumping it expertly, his grip just the right side of too rough; out of time with the rhythm of Sam's dick, thrusting long and deep into Dean's ass, hitting his prostate and making his vision spark. Sam's teeth find their way back to his favourite spot on Dean's neck, his hand still working Dean's cock and Dean's mind is clear, focused on nothing but Sam and the need to come.
"Sam," Dean manages to say, "gotta come, now."
Sam licks a line up Dean's neck then says, "Not yet, man. Wanna come with you, can you wait for me?"
His grip on Dean's dick tightens and Dean nods. Sam stops jerking him off, just holds him while he drives into him, picking up the momentum and harder and harder, breathing in sharp bursts. Dean can't hold off much longer, needs it now, fucking now. And then Sam's fist is pumping him frantically and they're both coming, Sam pulsing hot inside him and Dean slick all over his belly. Sam leans down to lick it off and then kisses Dean deeply, letting him taste himself on Sam's tongue before they both collapse, pliant into the mattress, limbs tangled together.
They're both sticky with sweat and come, it's kind of gross and he wouldn't mind a shower but Dean still feels boneless from orgasm. Sam's lying on his stomach with an arm sprawled across Dean's chest. They have a couple of hours until they need to check out and Dean's bones still ache for rest. He closes his eyes and prays for a dreamless sleep. Sam shifts, somehow manages to move even closer so he's curled up against Dean's chest. He plants a kiss against Dean's pulse point, right on the bruise that's starting to bloom there. He makes a trail along Dean's collar bone, then stills, laying with his ear over Dean's heart.
He murmurs, "We're still here, Dean. It's still you and me. Always has been, always will be."