Fic :: Supernatural :: Bloodsport
Bloodsport
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Violence, bloodplay, incest.
Spoilers: 5x14 (My Bloody Valentine)
Summary: Sam is detoxing again, with too much pent-up tension and a craving for blood.
A/N: Originally written a couple of years ago. Now edited, cleaned up and given context.
*
The fact that it’s voluntary this time - that Sam’s locked up inside the panic room because he put himself inside and closed the door behind him - doesn’t make it any easier. The space seems to be growing smaller and smaller with every circuit of the room Sam walks. He paces back and forth, he touches the walls, he flexes his fingers and wants so many things.
This is your choice, he tells himself, this is your choice, this is your own free will, but a prison is a prison, and the door is locked. The walls are closing in.
“Dean!” he calls. “Dean, open up. Let me out!”
There’s no reply.
“Jesus!” Sam snarls, lashing out with a foot at the small table. It goes flying, jug of water clattering to the ground and table skidding across the floor until it comes to a halt against the wall opposite. Water pools around Sam’s feet. Like blood, he thinks.
Time passes in stops and starts and moments. He chews on a hangnail for five minutes, worrying the torn skin until he draws blood and he bites at it. He shivers. He is a monster after all and he is itching, itching, itching, his hands in his hair.
“Dean!” he shouts again, eventually. Voice wrecked, hands shaking till he clenches them. Softer, “I need water. Come on, man.”
It seems like nobody’s listening, then at last from the other side of the door comes the sound of bolts being drawn, keys turning in locks, and the steel door creaks open just far enough for Dean to slip through before it slams shut again. Dean stands with his fresh jug of water, blinking in the dim light, pale and exhausted and unhappy. He’s the best thing Sam has seen in days, and the fact of that thuds through him, hard and fast.
“You look terrible,” Sam says.
“So do you,” Dean replies.
He’s moving cautiously, speaking softly, as he lowers the jug so gently to the ground and something inside of Sam that has been worn too thin is snapping.
“You have to let me out,” he says, his feet carrying him forward. “I can’t do this.”
Dean startles, straightening up and backing up. “Yes you can,” he says, but his gaze is wary. He stands like he’s ready to run.
Sam says, “Well, I don’t want to.”
Dean backs up against the door, holding out a hand to keep the distance between them. Sam is bigger and normally Sam is stronger, but now he’s weak and shivering half out of his skin in the disorienting grip of the detox.
He takes a step forward anyway, and he says tightly, “Move.”
Dean just glares up at him, feet planted and unmoving, as Sam advances. Sam pulls his shoulders back, drawing himself up as tall as his sore muscles will allow, and he knocks Dean’s hand aside.
“I mean it,” he says.
“Me too,” Dean snaps, bringing his arm back up and jabbing a finger in Sam’s chest. “Back off or I make you back off.”
Dean’s eyebrows are raised in challenge, his jaw set. Sam snorts, grabbing hold of Dean’s wrist.
“Move,” he snarls, tugging Dean’s hand away with a twist and a wrench, feeling the grind of bone beneath the skin beneath his shaky grip. There’s a moment of triumph, the swell of it, as Dean’s shoulder slams back against the door and he hisses sharply with pain, and then half of Sam’s head explodes in agony. A fist to the face. He doubles over, feeling Dean’s hand at his collar, dragging him one step, two steps, away from the exit. Their feet are scuffling for purchase, boots knocking together, and Dean’s fingers are gentle on Sam’s face. Sam lunges without seeing, his knuckles connecting with something solid and sharp, his skin splitting open on it. Mouth, Sam thinks blindly and he swings his fist again.
Dean falls back this time. He grunts in pain, his grip on Sam’s shirt loosening until Sam can pull away and stagger upright. His eyes blink open to the sight of blood on his knuckles and blood on Dean’s face. Dean is bent over and gasping for breath, wiping at his mouth. Sam shudders. He licks his knuckles. The air is bright, bright, bright and heavy with the scent of human blood.
Then Dean is straightening up and his hands are tight on Sam’s shoulders as he pushes Sam back and back again. Sam growls, catching hold of the collar of Dean’s t-shirt and twisting and tugging. Dean hits the wall, shoulders bending into the curve of it.
They’re panting and shaking and sore. Sam’s ears are ringing. Dean's lip is split. There's blood dripping down his face, shining red and wet. As Sam watches - as Sam can’t tear his eyes away - a drop shivers on the edge of his chin, until Dean lets out another panting breath and the drop of blood spills over and rolls down into the hollow of Dean’s neck. Sam shifts his grip on the collar of Dean’s shirt, swiping the blood away with his thumb.
Dean’s neck is hot, skin sweat damp, and his pulse flickers under the pad of Sam’s thumb. Sam feels Dean’s breath hitch and he looks up, through the dull adrenaline thump of surprise, to meet Dean’s eyes again. He’s staring at Sam, mouth parted and face pale beneath that bright streak of blood, and Sam’s hand twists tighter in Dean’s tee, reeling him in in jerky, involuntary movements until his breath is shaking out hot against Dean’s tilted-up face.
“Let me-” Sam mumbles, words catching in a twist of want. His chest aches. His fingers are shaking. He leans forward, catching the edge of Dean’s jaw with his tongue and chasing the taste of blood up to its source. The corner of Dean’s mouth, soft and pliant. Dean makes a quiet noise, but he doesn't move, doesn't push Sam away, so Sam tugs Dean's split lip between his teeth and worries it till new blood spills out. He laps it up.
Bites down a little harder.
And that's when Dean starts moving, and for a second Sam thinks he's got another punch coming his way, but Dean just grabs him by the shoulders and spins him round and slams him back against the wall. His face hovering inches from Sam's own, old blood drying on his chin and fresh blood wet on his swollen lip. His eyes dancing wildly across Sam's face
“Did - did I hurt you?” Sam asks, around the hitch in his breathing, and Dean blinks like he'd forgotten anything had even happened. Then he reaches up a hand to his lip, frowns down at the blood that comes away on his fingers. Sam shudders at the sight of it, and they're pressed so tight together, with Dean's free hand still fisted in Sam's shirt, that Dean can surely feel him shake.
“Not too bad,” Dean says lowly, shifting his hand around to the back of Sam's neck, fingers catching in the ends of Sam's hair and pulling a little too tight. His bloody fingers still hovering in the air between them. Sam can't tear his eyes away from the sight of it, except to look at Dean's mouth instead.
“Sorry,” he says, and maybe Dean pushes forward or maybe Sam does, but he's close enough that he can feel his own breath against Dean's cheek. Close enough that he can tip his head forwards and press their faces together - not tasting, just breathing in the coppery scent of Dean's blood and sweat, feeling the wetness of it on his own skin. It's like there's a metal band wrapped around his lungs, and he can't quite tell if it's the withdrawal or simply the feeling of being so close. And then Dean shifts, just a little, his knee pressing in between Sam's legs and when Sam shudders in a tight, hot breath his lips brush against Dean's skin, against the corner of his bloody mouth. And Jesus, he just has to rock forwards into that, just has to shift his hips against Dean's, because if he doesn't start moving he's going to stop breathing.
Dean turns his head away, the movement smearing a fresh burst of blood across his face - across Sam's face - so Sam grabs hold of his head, knuckles stinging from the last time he used his hands, to punch Dean in the face, and he tugs Dean around to look at him again. He's ready for Dean to fight his hold, but Dean just stares at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. Sam gasps out a breath, relaxes his grip to slide his hand down and cup the side of Dean's face. Dean moves pliantly, willingly - silently - as Sam tilts his head, exposing the new smear of blood.
There's a moment of stillness, then, “You can,” Dean murmurs. “You can have it.” He turns his head into Sam's palm, closes his eyes like it's a caress.
His lips move, breath tripping out of him in a whisper of, “Sam.”
Sam has willpower, yeah, but he doesn't have that much willpower, not when there's bright red blood and Dean's face an inch from his own. Not when he's shaking and gasping for breath and he wants - He wants to taste. He wants whatever Dean will give him. He nudges forwards with his mouth, licks a stripe up the side of Dean's face, tastes blood and sweat and salt and a hint of motor oil. Dean shudders against him, which could mean anything, but the way his legs shift and part - just an inch, but an inch is enough - that can only mean yes. It's an invitation; Sam takes it.
His free hand smoothes up Dean's stomach, feeling muscles twitch under his palm, and then he grabs a handful of the front of Dean's shirt and pulls him forwards in a short, sharp tug. Dean stumbles, chest slamming against Sam's own and his leg sliding up between Sam's thighs and he catches hold of Sam's shoulder to steady himself.
“Wait,” Sam says, “wait. Not-” and he grabs hold of Dean's wrist, tugging his hand away. The blood on his fingers is drying, will be dried soon, so Sam has to - he pulls Dean's hand up to his lips, watches as Dean's eyes go even wider, and he sucks Dean's fingers into his mouth.
Dean huffs out a breath, the hand in Sam's hair flexing, tugging - “Jesus. Sam - jesus.” - as Sam swirls his tongue up Dean's fingers. Sucks hard, tastes grit beneath the blood, and then he draws them out of his mouth with a slick kind of pop, Dean panting against him. Sam holds Dean's hand up to his face, marvelling at the shine of spit. He licked them clean.
“Okay,” he says. He releases Dean's hand. Dean lets it drop for a second, like he's forgotten how to hold his arm up for himself, and then he snatches at Sam's hip, hooking a finger into his belt-loop and tugging him forwards, closer. Sam goes into it willingly, riding up Dean's thigh, and then Dean rocks back down into it and Sam can feel the press of his dick, burning up through both their pairs of jeans. He groans lowly, has to slump back against the wall, letting Dean move against him. He has to close his eyes, just for a second -
“C'mon, Sam,” Dean growls, hand tightening in Sam's hair and pulling until Sam's eyes blink open. He presses his face against Sam's and Sam mouths at it blindly, automatically, until his lips catch the taste of blood across the line of Dean's jaw. He hitches in a breath, teeth scraping across skin, biting down. Dean groans, releases his grip on Sam's hip to scrabble for purchase at the wall as he surges forwards.
“C'mon,” he says, “c'mon,” tilting his head back, and Sam chases the trail of blood with his tongue, licking thick, wet stripes until he's followed it home to Dean's split lip, red and sore and shining swollen. Dean breathes in slow as Sam tastes the corner of his mouth, and his mouth stays hanging open after. Sam traces Dean’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.
“C'mon,” Dean growls again. He rocks forward against Sam's thigh in one slow, deliberate motion, dick digging in so hard and hot. Sam has to laugh, he has to, in a sharp puff of air as he drops his hands down to Dean's belt, fumbles with the buckle.
Dean grins up at him, blood on his teeth, and then he twists his head around and bites down hard on Sam's bottom lip. There's a burst of blood and pain - jesus, it hurts - so bright and hot that for a second Sam thinks he might come in his pants, head thrown back and panting for breath, hips thrusting helplessly against the friction of Dean's thigh, of his own damn knuckles tugging at Dean's belt. He groans and sucks in a breath, feeling his chest hitch and hitch until all he can do is rub up against Dean's body, his hands on Dean's jeans all that's keeping him from just sliding down the wall.
“Oh fuck, look at you,” Dean says, and then he bites Sam's lip again and doesn't let go. This time is even better, teeth scraping and tongues colliding until eventually they're just kissing, hot and wet and bloody, as Sam yanks Dean's buckle loose and tugs the zipper down. He palms Dean's dick, feels Dean buck against his hand, and then Dean's hands are at his own jeans, tugging them down. The rush of cool air is sudden and overwhelming, Sam's dick straining, his hips rocking in the air in a futile search for friction. Dean steps in closer, pressing their dicks together, and Sam lets out a wordless noise into Dean's mouth - the kind of noise that comes from that deep, animal place in your gut - and then he's rutting against Dean, messy awkward slide of their dicks rubbing together. Dean wriggles his hands down between them, presses Sam back against the wall and then catches hold of both their dicks and squeezes hard.
“Fuck fuck,” Sam pants, dropping his head down onto Dean's shoulder. He grabs hold of Dean's hips, steadying himself on their rhythm, on the rhythm of Dean's hand moving slow slow and so tight between them, with one hand splayed across Sam's stomach to keep him from just rubbing in a helpless mess like he needs to. Sam twists his face into Dean's neck, breathes in sweat and dirt, feels Dean's rapid pulse drumming through his jugular.
Dean squeezes their dicks too hard again, twists his fist in a corkscrew up their length, and that's it. Sam bites down on Dean’s heartbeat and comes in a shock - in a thick, wet pulse that tightens in his chest and heart and fingers and spirals out of him, jesus christ, as he thrusts in helpless little motions into Dean's hand, leaving him slumped boneless against Dean's chest, panting hard. Dean's thumb is brushing back and forth over the sticky slit of his dick and the ache of it is so good Sam thinks he just might cry.
He drops down to his knees, instead. Breathes in deep and looks up at Dean - Dean, who's staring back down at him with wide eyes, face flushed, hand still working at his hard - so hard it must hurt- dick even as Sam nudges his face against his knuckles.
“Quit it,” Sam says. Dean drops his hand, then lifts it again to brush through Sam's sweaty hair as Sam bites down on his lip, worries it between his teeth where Dean tore the skin only, what? only five minutes ago. Blood fills his mouth. Sam rocks forward on his knees and runs his tongue up the length of Dean's dick and it comes away bloody - Sam's own blood shining on Dean's dick as it twitches right before Sam's eyes, and it's just about the hottest thing Sam's ever seen. He must've been taking too long to appreciate, because then Dean's fingers are tugging on his hair, pulling him in. Sam goes easily, mouth opening wide to lap up his own blood and then his tongue licks down and back up the head. There's a thumping noise above him, and Sam looks up to see Dean gripping onto the wall in front of him, steadying himself against it. Sam can see Dean's shoulders heaving.
He smirks, ducking back down again, and this time he takes Dean's dick fully into his mouth, no warning. He sucks down hard, hums around it, and then Dean's pulling at his hair so hard it hurts. Dean's dick hits the back of Sam's mouth and he has to swallow heavily to keep from gagging and he can hear Dean moan above him. Dean's grip on his head tightens, holding him still, and Dean thrusts into his mouth, movements jerky and uncoordinated. Sam's lips are stretched too wide and he can feel saliva sliding down his chin, but he can taste salt and blood and precome and it's making his dick twitch again, spiralling pangs of pleasure that make his body ache. He moans, opening his mouth wider and breathing in the scent of Dean through his nose, eyes closed as his hand fumbles blindly for Dean's balls. His thumb brushes across them and he can feel them drawing up, tightening -
Dean pulls back so suddenly it almost sends Sam toppling over, mouth cold and sore without Dean's dick filling it, but then Dean's hand is holding him still and Dean's other hand is jerking at his dick once, twice and Dean comes with a shout, releasing Sam's head to smack his palm against the wall as come spurts out of him in thick streaks across Sam's face and neck and hair.
“Jesus,” Sam groans, closing his eyes. He hears, feels, Dean drop down to his knees before him, Dean's hand tilting his chin up and then Dean's mouth - fuck, his tongue - sliding up Sam's face, through the mess Dean put there. Sam holds his breath, moving his head willingly as Dean turns it from side to side, and Dean laps up every goddamn drop.
When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean's staring at him, sticky-lipped. One last, missed speck of blood flaking at the corner of his mouth. Sam wipes it away.
“I can’t let you out,” Dean says with Sam’s hand still on his lips, the tip of his tongue to the pads of Sam’s fingers.
“I know,” Sam says. “It’s fine. I’ll stay.”
He lowers his hand, rubbing his fingers together where the blood has stained them. Dean is the one who stands, the one who stands and stares down at Sam for one long moment before he does up his belt and straightens his shirt and runs slow fingers through his hair. He crosses to the steel door and knocks on it.
Sam, rubbing his fingers, hears the viewing panel rattle open. He hears Castiel’s low voice and then locks are turning and the door is clanging open and Dean is gone. The panic room is very quiet and very empty and very still.
Sam licks his fingers. He licks his lips. He tastes the blood.
*
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Violence, bloodplay, incest.
Spoilers: 5x14 (My Bloody Valentine)
Summary: Sam is detoxing again, with too much pent-up tension and a craving for blood.
A/N: Originally written a couple of years ago. Now edited, cleaned up and given context.
*
The fact that it’s voluntary this time - that Sam’s locked up inside the panic room because he put himself inside and closed the door behind him - doesn’t make it any easier. The space seems to be growing smaller and smaller with every circuit of the room Sam walks. He paces back and forth, he touches the walls, he flexes his fingers and wants so many things.
This is your choice, he tells himself, this is your choice, this is your own free will, but a prison is a prison, and the door is locked. The walls are closing in.
“Dean!” he calls. “Dean, open up. Let me out!”
There’s no reply.
“Jesus!” Sam snarls, lashing out with a foot at the small table. It goes flying, jug of water clattering to the ground and table skidding across the floor until it comes to a halt against the wall opposite. Water pools around Sam’s feet. Like blood, he thinks.
Time passes in stops and starts and moments. He chews on a hangnail for five minutes, worrying the torn skin until he draws blood and he bites at it. He shivers. He is a monster after all and he is itching, itching, itching, his hands in his hair.
“Dean!” he shouts again, eventually. Voice wrecked, hands shaking till he clenches them. Softer, “I need water. Come on, man.”
It seems like nobody’s listening, then at last from the other side of the door comes the sound of bolts being drawn, keys turning in locks, and the steel door creaks open just far enough for Dean to slip through before it slams shut again. Dean stands with his fresh jug of water, blinking in the dim light, pale and exhausted and unhappy. He’s the best thing Sam has seen in days, and the fact of that thuds through him, hard and fast.
“You look terrible,” Sam says.
“So do you,” Dean replies.
He’s moving cautiously, speaking softly, as he lowers the jug so gently to the ground and something inside of Sam that has been worn too thin is snapping.
“You have to let me out,” he says, his feet carrying him forward. “I can’t do this.”
Dean startles, straightening up and backing up. “Yes you can,” he says, but his gaze is wary. He stands like he’s ready to run.
Sam says, “Well, I don’t want to.”
Dean backs up against the door, holding out a hand to keep the distance between them. Sam is bigger and normally Sam is stronger, but now he’s weak and shivering half out of his skin in the disorienting grip of the detox.
He takes a step forward anyway, and he says tightly, “Move.”
Dean just glares up at him, feet planted and unmoving, as Sam advances. Sam pulls his shoulders back, drawing himself up as tall as his sore muscles will allow, and he knocks Dean’s hand aside.
“I mean it,” he says.
“Me too,” Dean snaps, bringing his arm back up and jabbing a finger in Sam’s chest. “Back off or I make you back off.”
Dean’s eyebrows are raised in challenge, his jaw set. Sam snorts, grabbing hold of Dean’s wrist.
“Move,” he snarls, tugging Dean’s hand away with a twist and a wrench, feeling the grind of bone beneath the skin beneath his shaky grip. There’s a moment of triumph, the swell of it, as Dean’s shoulder slams back against the door and he hisses sharply with pain, and then half of Sam’s head explodes in agony. A fist to the face. He doubles over, feeling Dean’s hand at his collar, dragging him one step, two steps, away from the exit. Their feet are scuffling for purchase, boots knocking together, and Dean’s fingers are gentle on Sam’s face. Sam lunges without seeing, his knuckles connecting with something solid and sharp, his skin splitting open on it. Mouth, Sam thinks blindly and he swings his fist again.
Dean falls back this time. He grunts in pain, his grip on Sam’s shirt loosening until Sam can pull away and stagger upright. His eyes blink open to the sight of blood on his knuckles and blood on Dean’s face. Dean is bent over and gasping for breath, wiping at his mouth. Sam shudders. He licks his knuckles. The air is bright, bright, bright and heavy with the scent of human blood.
Then Dean is straightening up and his hands are tight on Sam’s shoulders as he pushes Sam back and back again. Sam growls, catching hold of the collar of Dean’s t-shirt and twisting and tugging. Dean hits the wall, shoulders bending into the curve of it.
They’re panting and shaking and sore. Sam’s ears are ringing. Dean's lip is split. There's blood dripping down his face, shining red and wet. As Sam watches - as Sam can’t tear his eyes away - a drop shivers on the edge of his chin, until Dean lets out another panting breath and the drop of blood spills over and rolls down into the hollow of Dean’s neck. Sam shifts his grip on the collar of Dean’s shirt, swiping the blood away with his thumb.
Dean’s neck is hot, skin sweat damp, and his pulse flickers under the pad of Sam’s thumb. Sam feels Dean’s breath hitch and he looks up, through the dull adrenaline thump of surprise, to meet Dean’s eyes again. He’s staring at Sam, mouth parted and face pale beneath that bright streak of blood, and Sam’s hand twists tighter in Dean’s tee, reeling him in in jerky, involuntary movements until his breath is shaking out hot against Dean’s tilted-up face.
“Let me-” Sam mumbles, words catching in a twist of want. His chest aches. His fingers are shaking. He leans forward, catching the edge of Dean’s jaw with his tongue and chasing the taste of blood up to its source. The corner of Dean’s mouth, soft and pliant. Dean makes a quiet noise, but he doesn't move, doesn't push Sam away, so Sam tugs Dean's split lip between his teeth and worries it till new blood spills out. He laps it up.
Bites down a little harder.
And that's when Dean starts moving, and for a second Sam thinks he's got another punch coming his way, but Dean just grabs him by the shoulders and spins him round and slams him back against the wall. His face hovering inches from Sam's own, old blood drying on his chin and fresh blood wet on his swollen lip. His eyes dancing wildly across Sam's face
“Did - did I hurt you?” Sam asks, around the hitch in his breathing, and Dean blinks like he'd forgotten anything had even happened. Then he reaches up a hand to his lip, frowns down at the blood that comes away on his fingers. Sam shudders at the sight of it, and they're pressed so tight together, with Dean's free hand still fisted in Sam's shirt, that Dean can surely feel him shake.
“Not too bad,” Dean says lowly, shifting his hand around to the back of Sam's neck, fingers catching in the ends of Sam's hair and pulling a little too tight. His bloody fingers still hovering in the air between them. Sam can't tear his eyes away from the sight of it, except to look at Dean's mouth instead.
“Sorry,” he says, and maybe Dean pushes forward or maybe Sam does, but he's close enough that he can feel his own breath against Dean's cheek. Close enough that he can tip his head forwards and press their faces together - not tasting, just breathing in the coppery scent of Dean's blood and sweat, feeling the wetness of it on his own skin. It's like there's a metal band wrapped around his lungs, and he can't quite tell if it's the withdrawal or simply the feeling of being so close. And then Dean shifts, just a little, his knee pressing in between Sam's legs and when Sam shudders in a tight, hot breath his lips brush against Dean's skin, against the corner of his bloody mouth. And Jesus, he just has to rock forwards into that, just has to shift his hips against Dean's, because if he doesn't start moving he's going to stop breathing.
Dean turns his head away, the movement smearing a fresh burst of blood across his face - across Sam's face - so Sam grabs hold of his head, knuckles stinging from the last time he used his hands, to punch Dean in the face, and he tugs Dean around to look at him again. He's ready for Dean to fight his hold, but Dean just stares at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. Sam gasps out a breath, relaxes his grip to slide his hand down and cup the side of Dean's face. Dean moves pliantly, willingly - silently - as Sam tilts his head, exposing the new smear of blood.
There's a moment of stillness, then, “You can,” Dean murmurs. “You can have it.” He turns his head into Sam's palm, closes his eyes like it's a caress.
His lips move, breath tripping out of him in a whisper of, “Sam.”
Sam has willpower, yeah, but he doesn't have that much willpower, not when there's bright red blood and Dean's face an inch from his own. Not when he's shaking and gasping for breath and he wants - He wants to taste. He wants whatever Dean will give him. He nudges forwards with his mouth, licks a stripe up the side of Dean's face, tastes blood and sweat and salt and a hint of motor oil. Dean shudders against him, which could mean anything, but the way his legs shift and part - just an inch, but an inch is enough - that can only mean yes. It's an invitation; Sam takes it.
His free hand smoothes up Dean's stomach, feeling muscles twitch under his palm, and then he grabs a handful of the front of Dean's shirt and pulls him forwards in a short, sharp tug. Dean stumbles, chest slamming against Sam's own and his leg sliding up between Sam's thighs and he catches hold of Sam's shoulder to steady himself.
“Wait,” Sam says, “wait. Not-” and he grabs hold of Dean's wrist, tugging his hand away. The blood on his fingers is drying, will be dried soon, so Sam has to - he pulls Dean's hand up to his lips, watches as Dean's eyes go even wider, and he sucks Dean's fingers into his mouth.
Dean huffs out a breath, the hand in Sam's hair flexing, tugging - “Jesus. Sam - jesus.” - as Sam swirls his tongue up Dean's fingers. Sucks hard, tastes grit beneath the blood, and then he draws them out of his mouth with a slick kind of pop, Dean panting against him. Sam holds Dean's hand up to his face, marvelling at the shine of spit. He licked them clean.
“Okay,” he says. He releases Dean's hand. Dean lets it drop for a second, like he's forgotten how to hold his arm up for himself, and then he snatches at Sam's hip, hooking a finger into his belt-loop and tugging him forwards, closer. Sam goes into it willingly, riding up Dean's thigh, and then Dean rocks back down into it and Sam can feel the press of his dick, burning up through both their pairs of jeans. He groans lowly, has to slump back against the wall, letting Dean move against him. He has to close his eyes, just for a second -
“C'mon, Sam,” Dean growls, hand tightening in Sam's hair and pulling until Sam's eyes blink open. He presses his face against Sam's and Sam mouths at it blindly, automatically, until his lips catch the taste of blood across the line of Dean's jaw. He hitches in a breath, teeth scraping across skin, biting down. Dean groans, releases his grip on Sam's hip to scrabble for purchase at the wall as he surges forwards.
“C'mon,” he says, “c'mon,” tilting his head back, and Sam chases the trail of blood with his tongue, licking thick, wet stripes until he's followed it home to Dean's split lip, red and sore and shining swollen. Dean breathes in slow as Sam tastes the corner of his mouth, and his mouth stays hanging open after. Sam traces Dean’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.
“C'mon,” Dean growls again. He rocks forward against Sam's thigh in one slow, deliberate motion, dick digging in so hard and hot. Sam has to laugh, he has to, in a sharp puff of air as he drops his hands down to Dean's belt, fumbles with the buckle.
Dean grins up at him, blood on his teeth, and then he twists his head around and bites down hard on Sam's bottom lip. There's a burst of blood and pain - jesus, it hurts - so bright and hot that for a second Sam thinks he might come in his pants, head thrown back and panting for breath, hips thrusting helplessly against the friction of Dean's thigh, of his own damn knuckles tugging at Dean's belt. He groans and sucks in a breath, feeling his chest hitch and hitch until all he can do is rub up against Dean's body, his hands on Dean's jeans all that's keeping him from just sliding down the wall.
“Oh fuck, look at you,” Dean says, and then he bites Sam's lip again and doesn't let go. This time is even better, teeth scraping and tongues colliding until eventually they're just kissing, hot and wet and bloody, as Sam yanks Dean's buckle loose and tugs the zipper down. He palms Dean's dick, feels Dean buck against his hand, and then Dean's hands are at his own jeans, tugging them down. The rush of cool air is sudden and overwhelming, Sam's dick straining, his hips rocking in the air in a futile search for friction. Dean steps in closer, pressing their dicks together, and Sam lets out a wordless noise into Dean's mouth - the kind of noise that comes from that deep, animal place in your gut - and then he's rutting against Dean, messy awkward slide of their dicks rubbing together. Dean wriggles his hands down between them, presses Sam back against the wall and then catches hold of both their dicks and squeezes hard.
“Fuck fuck,” Sam pants, dropping his head down onto Dean's shoulder. He grabs hold of Dean's hips, steadying himself on their rhythm, on the rhythm of Dean's hand moving slow slow and so tight between them, with one hand splayed across Sam's stomach to keep him from just rubbing in a helpless mess like he needs to. Sam twists his face into Dean's neck, breathes in sweat and dirt, feels Dean's rapid pulse drumming through his jugular.
Dean squeezes their dicks too hard again, twists his fist in a corkscrew up their length, and that's it. Sam bites down on Dean’s heartbeat and comes in a shock - in a thick, wet pulse that tightens in his chest and heart and fingers and spirals out of him, jesus christ, as he thrusts in helpless little motions into Dean's hand, leaving him slumped boneless against Dean's chest, panting hard. Dean's thumb is brushing back and forth over the sticky slit of his dick and the ache of it is so good Sam thinks he just might cry.
He drops down to his knees, instead. Breathes in deep and looks up at Dean - Dean, who's staring back down at him with wide eyes, face flushed, hand still working at his hard - so hard it must hurt- dick even as Sam nudges his face against his knuckles.
“Quit it,” Sam says. Dean drops his hand, then lifts it again to brush through Sam's sweaty hair as Sam bites down on his lip, worries it between his teeth where Dean tore the skin only, what? only five minutes ago. Blood fills his mouth. Sam rocks forward on his knees and runs his tongue up the length of Dean's dick and it comes away bloody - Sam's own blood shining on Dean's dick as it twitches right before Sam's eyes, and it's just about the hottest thing Sam's ever seen. He must've been taking too long to appreciate, because then Dean's fingers are tugging on his hair, pulling him in. Sam goes easily, mouth opening wide to lap up his own blood and then his tongue licks down and back up the head. There's a thumping noise above him, and Sam looks up to see Dean gripping onto the wall in front of him, steadying himself against it. Sam can see Dean's shoulders heaving.
He smirks, ducking back down again, and this time he takes Dean's dick fully into his mouth, no warning. He sucks down hard, hums around it, and then Dean's pulling at his hair so hard it hurts. Dean's dick hits the back of Sam's mouth and he has to swallow heavily to keep from gagging and he can hear Dean moan above him. Dean's grip on his head tightens, holding him still, and Dean thrusts into his mouth, movements jerky and uncoordinated. Sam's lips are stretched too wide and he can feel saliva sliding down his chin, but he can taste salt and blood and precome and it's making his dick twitch again, spiralling pangs of pleasure that make his body ache. He moans, opening his mouth wider and breathing in the scent of Dean through his nose, eyes closed as his hand fumbles blindly for Dean's balls. His thumb brushes across them and he can feel them drawing up, tightening -
Dean pulls back so suddenly it almost sends Sam toppling over, mouth cold and sore without Dean's dick filling it, but then Dean's hand is holding him still and Dean's other hand is jerking at his dick once, twice and Dean comes with a shout, releasing Sam's head to smack his palm against the wall as come spurts out of him in thick streaks across Sam's face and neck and hair.
“Jesus,” Sam groans, closing his eyes. He hears, feels, Dean drop down to his knees before him, Dean's hand tilting his chin up and then Dean's mouth - fuck, his tongue - sliding up Sam's face, through the mess Dean put there. Sam holds his breath, moving his head willingly as Dean turns it from side to side, and Dean laps up every goddamn drop.
When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean's staring at him, sticky-lipped. One last, missed speck of blood flaking at the corner of his mouth. Sam wipes it away.
“I can’t let you out,” Dean says with Sam’s hand still on his lips, the tip of his tongue to the pads of Sam’s fingers.
“I know,” Sam says. “It’s fine. I’ll stay.”
He lowers his hand, rubbing his fingers together where the blood has stained them. Dean is the one who stands, the one who stands and stares down at Sam for one long moment before he does up his belt and straightens his shirt and runs slow fingers through his hair. He crosses to the steel door and knocks on it.
Sam, rubbing his fingers, hears the viewing panel rattle open. He hears Castiel’s low voice and then locks are turning and the door is clanging open and Dean is gone. The panic room is very quiet and very empty and very still.
Sam licks his fingers. He licks his lips. He tastes the blood.
*