Fic: Maybe You’re Better Off This Way (Sam/Dean, SPN) NC-17
Okay, I'm trying to get myself back in the Wincest groove of writing, yes? Therefore, I had to dip my toe in ever-so-slightly and MAKE THEM ANGSTY AND SAD AND UNHAPPY AND MELANCHOLY...pick your SAT word.
Anyway. This is short and not-so-sweet. Enjoy!
Title: Maybe You’re Better Off This Way
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: m/m slash, incest, barely!legal sex, pre-series
Word Count: 1, 013
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Another of many “Sam leaves Dean for Stanford” yada-yada fic-cakes. But don’t listen to my crappy summary! Read it!
In the end, Sam doesn’t have to say a word.
He’d said more than plenty to Dad while Dean had hovered (ignored) in the background - face blank, belly roiling - but all he’d gotten was A Look. A hard brush of the shoulder as Sam stalked by, anger and frustration and several other emotions warring for supremacy across then still-youthful features.
The front door slams over his shoulder, John Winchester’s final punctuation on the disastrous confrontation, and Dean moves woodenly down the hall. He stands in the doorway of their room now, watching as Sam tosses heaps of laundry - clean and dirty - into an ancient duffle bag and wipes at his nose. The (necessary) words cling to his tongue, sticky and uncompromising-
What’ll this mean
Were you even going to tell me
- but when he speaks, it’s everything he doesn’t plan to say.
“I guess you’ll need a ride.”
Sam looks up; eyes troubled and lips twisted into a grimace, fingers clenching the hem of some unidentifiable article of clothing. Muscles in his throat work as he folds it into a ball and sends it shooting for the bag. “That’s it?”
Dean’s eye twitches, gaze straying to the bed against the far wall, sloppy and unmade. He tries (unsuccessfully) to imagine that bed without Sam’s overgrown limbs tucked in and spread out across the mattress, and (somehow) finds the image more unsettling than the words he’d overheard mere minutes ago-
I’m done
I’m leaving
I don’t care if you don’t understand
- not spoken to him, but there’s a double-meaning there he can’t help but take like the knife to the gut that Sam (unknowingly?) intends it to be.
“Yeah,” he answers, hearing the hollow finality of his own voice. “That’s pretty much it.”
Sam watches him, licks his lips and then looks away. He shoves another pile of clothes in his bag and laughs, but it seems like he’s forgotten the joke. “Yeah,” he echoes. “Yeah, I’d say it is.”
They’ve never really needed words between them. The desperate need for them now shames him as much as it angers. One minute he’s simmering on slow boil, itching with the desire to hurt/maim/kill, and the next he’s across the room and shoving his brother up against the wall-
You can’t keep me here. I don’t want any of this
- savoring the second Sam’s curse dies on his lips, pupils blown wide and limbs going lax. “This how it’s gonna be then?” But Sam isn’t really asking a question, isn’t really expecting an answer.
They both know the deal.
His teeth bruise and punish that soft, boyish mouth, and Sam equally rises to the occasion. Broad hands coming up to press at either side of Dean’s face, long fingers that feel like a brand, sliding down his neck, his chest, across his belly as if Sam’s preparing to reach in and yank out his bloody insides and dangle them (victoriously) over his head.
His mouth crashes down again, harder (feral), and his vision is dimmed to that one glimpse of Sam, needy and desperate and pissed off - at him, Dad, the whole fucking unfair world. It gives him the strength to reach down, tear at leather belt and metal teeth, kneeling on sore knees (damnstupidfucking wound still hasn’t healed) and press his face into wiry curls and tender, rousing flesh.
He licks, enjoying the unfettered noises escaping his younger brother’s throat, hands clutching the sharp cut of Sam’s hips-
Take, because it’ll be the last thing you ever get from me
- and Sam bucks into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair. “This doesn’t…doesn’t change anything,” he gasps out, sounding as broken and unsure as Dean feels.
His eyes fall shut, lips screwing down tightly over his brother’s cock, drawing and sucking like he could prove to either of them that this (alone) could be enough of a reason for Sam to stay.
“Dean, so good…stop…please don’t stop…” Sam’s head falls back with a thunk, voice thick and regretful-
Leave
Please don’t leave me
- and Dean lets him slide down the wall, sling an arm around his neck and force him to the ground. There’s no fight left in him now, and Sam can sense it. A choked sob catches in his brother’s throat, and then Sam’s pressing against him, keening low and sounding so goddamn young.
“Gonna fuck you so hard…fuck you right up,” Sam’s saying, breaking, the words twisted with mixed emotions and difficult to distinguish. Dean arches back, fingers digging in the (cheap) carpeting as his brother’s cock rubs up against his ass. “Like you’ve done to me…”
Already fucked up, Sammy
But he doesn’t need to say that. Not when it’s obvious in every whine through Sam’s teeth, every shallow burst of his hips against Dean’s. Every white-hot thrust of his brother’s spit-slickened dick in his ass that makes him ask (beg) for more, despite everything.
Everything that’ll happen after this.
Nothing.
“Come with me,” he hears Sam whisper on a shaky sigh, feels the driving burn ease a bit as Sam slows, presses his lips against Dean’s ear. “Just, just leave him, Dean. Come with me.”
It’s Sam begging now, pleading, and there’s a (tiny) part of Dean that’s tempted (goldenstate bewithSammyalways), that wants to loosen his grip and see what else could be out there (for himself)-
You won’t control me the way you do him
This isn’t a life, it’s a fucking mission
- he loves Sam and he loves the hunt. He can’t claim one above the other, not when they’re both wrapped and twisted up so tight that he can’t tell the difference between a chupacabra claw to the gut and Sam’s biting, angry sarcasm.
But all Sam wants is a security blanket when he takes off for whatever the hell he deems more important than Dad and Dean and the life (mission) they’ve chosen.
They’ve never needed words between them. Except, apparently, one. And in the end-
No
- it's the only one that matters.
Anyway. This is short and not-so-sweet. Enjoy!
Title: Maybe You’re Better Off This Way
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: m/m slash, incest, barely!legal sex, pre-series
Word Count: 1, 013
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Another of many “Sam leaves Dean for Stanford” yada-yada fic-cakes. But don’t listen to my crappy summary! Read it!
In the end, Sam doesn’t have to say a word.
He’d said more than plenty to Dad while Dean had hovered (ignored) in the background - face blank, belly roiling - but all he’d gotten was A Look. A hard brush of the shoulder as Sam stalked by, anger and frustration and several other emotions warring for supremacy across then still-youthful features.
The front door slams over his shoulder, John Winchester’s final punctuation on the disastrous confrontation, and Dean moves woodenly down the hall. He stands in the doorway of their room now, watching as Sam tosses heaps of laundry - clean and dirty - into an ancient duffle bag and wipes at his nose. The (necessary) words cling to his tongue, sticky and uncompromising-
What’ll this mean
Were you even going to tell me
- but when he speaks, it’s everything he doesn’t plan to say.
“I guess you’ll need a ride.”
Sam looks up; eyes troubled and lips twisted into a grimace, fingers clenching the hem of some unidentifiable article of clothing. Muscles in his throat work as he folds it into a ball and sends it shooting for the bag. “That’s it?”
Dean’s eye twitches, gaze straying to the bed against the far wall, sloppy and unmade. He tries (unsuccessfully) to imagine that bed without Sam’s overgrown limbs tucked in and spread out across the mattress, and (somehow) finds the image more unsettling than the words he’d overheard mere minutes ago-
I’m done
I’m leaving
I don’t care if you don’t understand
- not spoken to him, but there’s a double-meaning there he can’t help but take like the knife to the gut that Sam (unknowingly?) intends it to be.
“Yeah,” he answers, hearing the hollow finality of his own voice. “That’s pretty much it.”
Sam watches him, licks his lips and then looks away. He shoves another pile of clothes in his bag and laughs, but it seems like he’s forgotten the joke. “Yeah,” he echoes. “Yeah, I’d say it is.”
They’ve never really needed words between them. The desperate need for them now shames him as much as it angers. One minute he’s simmering on slow boil, itching with the desire to hurt/maim/kill, and the next he’s across the room and shoving his brother up against the wall-
You can’t keep me here. I don’t want any of this
- savoring the second Sam’s curse dies on his lips, pupils blown wide and limbs going lax. “This how it’s gonna be then?” But Sam isn’t really asking a question, isn’t really expecting an answer.
They both know the deal.
His teeth bruise and punish that soft, boyish mouth, and Sam equally rises to the occasion. Broad hands coming up to press at either side of Dean’s face, long fingers that feel like a brand, sliding down his neck, his chest, across his belly as if Sam’s preparing to reach in and yank out his bloody insides and dangle them (victoriously) over his head.
His mouth crashes down again, harder (feral), and his vision is dimmed to that one glimpse of Sam, needy and desperate and pissed off - at him, Dad, the whole fucking unfair world. It gives him the strength to reach down, tear at leather belt and metal teeth, kneeling on sore knees (damnstupidfucking wound still hasn’t healed) and press his face into wiry curls and tender, rousing flesh.
He licks, enjoying the unfettered noises escaping his younger brother’s throat, hands clutching the sharp cut of Sam’s hips-
Take, because it’ll be the last thing you ever get from me
- and Sam bucks into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair. “This doesn’t…doesn’t change anything,” he gasps out, sounding as broken and unsure as Dean feels.
His eyes fall shut, lips screwing down tightly over his brother’s cock, drawing and sucking like he could prove to either of them that this (alone) could be enough of a reason for Sam to stay.
“Dean, so good…stop…please don’t stop…” Sam’s head falls back with a thunk, voice thick and regretful-
Leave
Please don’t leave me
- and Dean lets him slide down the wall, sling an arm around his neck and force him to the ground. There’s no fight left in him now, and Sam can sense it. A choked sob catches in his brother’s throat, and then Sam’s pressing against him, keening low and sounding so goddamn young.
“Gonna fuck you so hard…fuck you right up,” Sam’s saying, breaking, the words twisted with mixed emotions and difficult to distinguish. Dean arches back, fingers digging in the (cheap) carpeting as his brother’s cock rubs up against his ass. “Like you’ve done to me…”
Already fucked up, Sammy
But he doesn’t need to say that. Not when it’s obvious in every whine through Sam’s teeth, every shallow burst of his hips against Dean’s. Every white-hot thrust of his brother’s spit-slickened dick in his ass that makes him ask (beg) for more, despite everything.
Everything that’ll happen after this.
Nothing.
“Come with me,” he hears Sam whisper on a shaky sigh, feels the driving burn ease a bit as Sam slows, presses his lips against Dean’s ear. “Just, just leave him, Dean. Come with me.”
It’s Sam begging now, pleading, and there’s a (tiny) part of Dean that’s tempted (goldenstate bewithSammyalways), that wants to loosen his grip and see what else could be out there (for himself)-
You won’t control me the way you do him
This isn’t a life, it’s a fucking mission
- he loves Sam and he loves the hunt. He can’t claim one above the other, not when they’re both wrapped and twisted up so tight that he can’t tell the difference between a chupacabra claw to the gut and Sam’s biting, angry sarcasm.
But all Sam wants is a security blanket when he takes off for whatever the hell he deems more important than Dad and Dean and the life (mission) they’ve chosen.
They’ve never needed words between them. Except, apparently, one. And in the end-
No
- it's the only one that matters.