Magic Man - Sam/Dean NC-17
Written for salt_burn_porn. I'm barely making it in under the wire and may rework this later. I guess we'll see. I hope you like it.
Magic Man
By Ancasta
It was a doll no bigger than his hand, crudely made of burlap, with buttons for eyes and a lock of shiny brown hair gathered together and sewn to the top of its head. It looked like an arts and crafts project gone terribly wrong, something a kid might make at summer camp, then throw away when they packed their bags for home. Yet it was connected to his brother through an ancient and powerful magic, and Dean Winchester didn’t know how to get rid of it, not without hurting Sam more than he’d already been hurt.
So they were on their way to New Orleans and the voodoo mambo Bobby knew from way back. She claimed she could safely separate Sam from the doll. Safe wasn’t a word Dean associated with the thing. The man who’d created it, Brother Lucien, might have been a conman and a murderer, but all his talk of descending from a long line of mighty hougans seemed like it might have been more than empty boasts. Dean didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of his brother writhing on the floor in agony, while Lucien tortured Sam’s effigy with a straight pin.
Lips pressed flat, Dean glanced over to his right. Exhausted after his ordeal, Sam was dead to the world, sprawled atop the sheets, dressed only in his boxers, his skin thankfully whole. They would have to choose the one motel on the interstate having trouble with its AC. If Dean had learned nothing else that day it was that Florida in July was like a steam room with palmetto trees. At Sam’s urgings, they’d pulled off the road outside Tallahassee.
“It’s either crash for the night or crash on the road, Dean. We’ve gotten next to no sleep the last two nights and, I don’t know about you, but it’s beginning to catch up with me. It’s almost fourteen hours from Miami to New Orleans. Let’s stop here and get some shut-eye. We’ve got the doll and Lucien is dead. What danger there was has passed.”
That made sense. Dean knew it did. But that doll. That freakin’ doll…
It made Dean uneasy.
Sliding quietly from bed so as not to wake Sam, Dean padded barefoot to his duffel. Reaching inside, he pulled out the little troublemaker. He’d wrapped it in a t-shirt to cushion it for the journey. He wasn’t sure why he’d felt that was necessary. The stupid thing was stuffed full of something soft and had potato sack skin. It wasn’t exactly breakable. Yet with its link to Sam, he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Looking after Sam was so ingrained in Dean, it didn’t feel all that odd to protect this version of his brother as well.
Dean unwrapped the doll carefully and set the t-shirt aside. Holding the figure balanced on the palm of his hand, he looked at it again, comparing its blank, unmarked face to that of Sam.
The doll didn’t have a livid bruise high on its cheek like the person it was modeled after, and while Sam’s lip was split, the doll didn’t even have a mouth. So not much matched there.
But the hair. The hair was all Sam, stolen from him while he lay unconscious on the floor of Lucien’s storefront church. Dean ran his finger over the strands, stroking softly along their silky length.
Lying on his side, Sam rolled his head on the pillow and sighed.
Surprised, Dean looked over at him. That was weird.
Watching Sam this time instead of his own fingers, Dean repeated the touch. Instantly, Sam lifted his cheek as if following the caress. Dean smiled.
When they were kids, the surest way to soothe his little brother had been for Dean to pet Sam’s hair. Nightmares, thunderstorms, and the occasional fever had all been borne much more bravely on the younger Winchester’s part if Dean was able to smooth his hand over Sam’s head, calming him. As they’d gotten older, that kind of physical affection had become too telling, and the habit had died. Dean missed it sometimes. He thought Sam might miss it too. Otherwise why the hell did Sam wear his hair so damned long, almost as if he were hoping for more such attention from his big brother.
Dean had to admit-it was nice hair, even if he did sometimes threaten to buy Sam barrettes if Sam didn’t sit his butt down in a barber chair every once and awhile. Soft and sleek. Dean stroked over the little doll’s head again, and watched as Sam seemed to relax and quiet even more. It appeared not much had changed. They both still got enjoyment from so simple a thing.
Gaze intent on the bed opposite him, Dean decided to expand on his little experiment. He gently slid his fingertips along the doll’s forehead and down its cheek, taking care to avoid where Sam had been injured. He rubbed his thumb high on its face, where the doll’s temple would be, then over between its button eyes. He wanted to erase the crease lining that same space on his brother’s brow, the wrinkle a result of what Sam had suffered at Lucien’s hand.
After a moment or two, it vanished. Mission accomplished. Apparently Dean had the knack.
His breathing even and slow, Sam rolled over onto his back, his arms wide at his sides as if surrendering his body to Dean’s ministrations.
Running his fingers softly over the doll’s limbs, Dean considered his brother, and for half a second questioned what he was doing. Sam was unaware, deeply asleep and utterly vulnerable. Dean was taking advantage; he knew he was.
But he wasn’t hurting Sam. He would never willingly hurt Sam. They’d both done enough of that already to last a lifetime or more. Dean just wanted to take care of Sam, to be good to him and help him feel better. And yet…
He’d wanted to touch Sam like this so many times before. With tenderness and with need. And Sam had given Dean signs he’d welcome such attention. But they’d both danced around any attraction, for years it seemed. They were so important to each other already, it was almost as if each feared doing something that might destroy what they had. Dean knew that fear well. Sam’s trust was too precious to risk.
For two pretty brave guys, they could both be fucking cowards when they put their minds to it.
This wasn’t an especially courageous moment, Dean mused as he lightly traced along the doll’s neck with his index finger. Sam bared his throat, his chin pointing upward, as if to allow Dean the very best access. Dean recognized what he was doing might be objectionable. But it was a start. He wouldn’t take anything for himself. He’d give pleasure to Sammy. This was for him, not for Dean.
Dean could live with that. He would have to.
Slowly, he dragged his fingers down the front of the doll, stopping at what would be the figure’s waist. On the bed, Sam hummed and shifted. He seemed to approve of the touch. Eyes now on Sam, Dean zeroed in where he guessed one of Sam’s nipples might be and began circling his thumb, slow and tight. He watched with a kind of amazement as Sam’s nipple began to tighten in response and peak, half a room away. Dean paid equal attention to the other side, and smiled when Sam began to shift restlessly against the sheets, almost as if seeking the one responsible.
Here was where things could get tricky. The doll wasn’t exactly anatomically correct, so Dean wasn’t entirely certain how much further he could go. But he was willing to give it a try.
Taking his thumb, he rubbed it firmly yet gently in the vee created by the doll’s legs. It took a moment, but Sam’s legs fell open on the bed, and he moaned. It wasn’t long before Dean spied a noticeable bulge tenting Sam’s boxers.
“Thatta boy,” Dean murmured, as he varied his stroke.
Back and forth, and up and down, every so often he changed things up by swirling his fingertip near the top of the range. Sam seemed to like that. His skin was flushed, and he was making low, wordless sounds.
It was wild for Dean to see Sam like this. For as well as Dean knew his brother and as much time as they spent together, he hadn't known this--the way Sam would move, what he'd look like, the noises he would make.
It was better than Dean had imagined. He wondered how long he could make this last, how high he could make Sam fly.
He took a step closer towards the bed, wanting to be near, to get the very best view. Gently, so very gently, he pressed his thumb nail right about where he imagined the tip of Sam’s cock must be.
Sam’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t make a sound. His back arched.
Oh yeah. That’s the stuff.
Sam needed more. Dean knew he needed more, but Dean wasn’t exactly sure how to give it to him. He took his thumb and index finger and placed them low on the doll’s belly. Pressing down slightly, he drew them together in a very careful pinch.
Sam groaned. Sweat shone at the base of his throat and at his hairline. Dean didn’t think the Florida heat was solely to blame.
Dean could feel his own dick thickening, could feel his blood hum and his temperature rise. God, he wished he was on that bed with Sam; wished he was touching skin, not cloth; wished Sam could touch him back.
But that wasn’t who they were, wasn’t what Sam wanted to be. Dean was stealing this, this intimacy, this oh so important trust. And all at once he didn’t want to experiment or drag things out, didn’t want to think about what might happen when this strange interlude was finished.
So he lifted the doll to his mouth, a distant part of him realizing how truly bizarre the situation was, and right where the legs touched and were attached to the torso, he closed his lips tightly around the cloth and sucked. Hard.
Sam thrashed on the bed; yelled, short and low; and came, his body shuddering its release. When it was over, wetness stained the front of his boxers and he lay, collapsed against the mattress, every bit of tension gone.
A little stunned by what had just happened, Dean stood there transfixed. He didn’t realize Sam’s eyes were open until Sam spoke.
“Dean.”
Oh, shit.
“Sammy…” he said, not meeting his brother’s gaze.
“What just…? Are you…?" Slowly Sam sat up and pushed his hand through his hair. He didn’t seem entirely awake. Then their eyes met, and any fogginess was gone. “Is that the doll?”
Dean glanced down, suddenly remembering he still held the thing. “Uh…yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Sam frowned. “Did you just… ? Did you do this?” He gestured down the front of him.
Dean swallowed hard and prepared to grovel. “Yeah, man. That was me.”
Sam eyebrows launched skyward. “Why? How?”
Dean shrugged. “I don't...it was the voodoo actually.”
Sam thought about that for a minute, then stretched out his hand. “Come here.”
Dean wrinkled his brow. He couldn’t read Sam’s expression. Was he supposed to apologize? “Sam?”
“Dean, you may be willing to do this kind of thing long distance,” Sam said, scooting to the end of the bed and shucking off his ruined boxers. Dean could only stare. “But I actually like to be within arm’s length of the person bringing me off.”
“You do?” Dean asked, feeling like an idiot, but unable to come up with anything more cogent. Not just then.
“I do,” Sam said, clearly trying to hide a smile. “I also prefer being awake, so much as it pains me to say it-your technique is lacking on two fronts.”
“You got a problem with my technique?” Dean said, ever so slowly getting with the program. He laid the doll carefully on what had been his bed and moved even closer to one where Sam sat. He came to stand between Sam’s legs. Sam bracketed Dean’s hips with his hands.
“Seems like maybe I do,” Sam said, the smile no longer under wraps. “But then…maybe you can prove me wrong.”
“Maybe you can show me a little technique yourself there, hotshot,” Dean said, stroking his hand over Sam’s hair, just like he’d wanted to for the longest time. Sam closed his eyes and leaned into it.
“Maybe I can,” Sam murmured. “But you know what? There's a pretty good chance I won’t match up at all, because Dean, I've gotta tell you-you’ve got the magic touch.”
Magic Man
By Ancasta
It was a doll no bigger than his hand, crudely made of burlap, with buttons for eyes and a lock of shiny brown hair gathered together and sewn to the top of its head. It looked like an arts and crafts project gone terribly wrong, something a kid might make at summer camp, then throw away when they packed their bags for home. Yet it was connected to his brother through an ancient and powerful magic, and Dean Winchester didn’t know how to get rid of it, not without hurting Sam more than he’d already been hurt.
So they were on their way to New Orleans and the voodoo mambo Bobby knew from way back. She claimed she could safely separate Sam from the doll. Safe wasn’t a word Dean associated with the thing. The man who’d created it, Brother Lucien, might have been a conman and a murderer, but all his talk of descending from a long line of mighty hougans seemed like it might have been more than empty boasts. Dean didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of his brother writhing on the floor in agony, while Lucien tortured Sam’s effigy with a straight pin.
Lips pressed flat, Dean glanced over to his right. Exhausted after his ordeal, Sam was dead to the world, sprawled atop the sheets, dressed only in his boxers, his skin thankfully whole. They would have to choose the one motel on the interstate having trouble with its AC. If Dean had learned nothing else that day it was that Florida in July was like a steam room with palmetto trees. At Sam’s urgings, they’d pulled off the road outside Tallahassee.
“It’s either crash for the night or crash on the road, Dean. We’ve gotten next to no sleep the last two nights and, I don’t know about you, but it’s beginning to catch up with me. It’s almost fourteen hours from Miami to New Orleans. Let’s stop here and get some shut-eye. We’ve got the doll and Lucien is dead. What danger there was has passed.”
That made sense. Dean knew it did. But that doll. That freakin’ doll…
It made Dean uneasy.
Sliding quietly from bed so as not to wake Sam, Dean padded barefoot to his duffel. Reaching inside, he pulled out the little troublemaker. He’d wrapped it in a t-shirt to cushion it for the journey. He wasn’t sure why he’d felt that was necessary. The stupid thing was stuffed full of something soft and had potato sack skin. It wasn’t exactly breakable. Yet with its link to Sam, he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Looking after Sam was so ingrained in Dean, it didn’t feel all that odd to protect this version of his brother as well.
Dean unwrapped the doll carefully and set the t-shirt aside. Holding the figure balanced on the palm of his hand, he looked at it again, comparing its blank, unmarked face to that of Sam.
The doll didn’t have a livid bruise high on its cheek like the person it was modeled after, and while Sam’s lip was split, the doll didn’t even have a mouth. So not much matched there.
But the hair. The hair was all Sam, stolen from him while he lay unconscious on the floor of Lucien’s storefront church. Dean ran his finger over the strands, stroking softly along their silky length.
Lying on his side, Sam rolled his head on the pillow and sighed.
Surprised, Dean looked over at him. That was weird.
Watching Sam this time instead of his own fingers, Dean repeated the touch. Instantly, Sam lifted his cheek as if following the caress. Dean smiled.
When they were kids, the surest way to soothe his little brother had been for Dean to pet Sam’s hair. Nightmares, thunderstorms, and the occasional fever had all been borne much more bravely on the younger Winchester’s part if Dean was able to smooth his hand over Sam’s head, calming him. As they’d gotten older, that kind of physical affection had become too telling, and the habit had died. Dean missed it sometimes. He thought Sam might miss it too. Otherwise why the hell did Sam wear his hair so damned long, almost as if he were hoping for more such attention from his big brother.
Dean had to admit-it was nice hair, even if he did sometimes threaten to buy Sam barrettes if Sam didn’t sit his butt down in a barber chair every once and awhile. Soft and sleek. Dean stroked over the little doll’s head again, and watched as Sam seemed to relax and quiet even more. It appeared not much had changed. They both still got enjoyment from so simple a thing.
Gaze intent on the bed opposite him, Dean decided to expand on his little experiment. He gently slid his fingertips along the doll’s forehead and down its cheek, taking care to avoid where Sam had been injured. He rubbed his thumb high on its face, where the doll’s temple would be, then over between its button eyes. He wanted to erase the crease lining that same space on his brother’s brow, the wrinkle a result of what Sam had suffered at Lucien’s hand.
After a moment or two, it vanished. Mission accomplished. Apparently Dean had the knack.
His breathing even and slow, Sam rolled over onto his back, his arms wide at his sides as if surrendering his body to Dean’s ministrations.
Running his fingers softly over the doll’s limbs, Dean considered his brother, and for half a second questioned what he was doing. Sam was unaware, deeply asleep and utterly vulnerable. Dean was taking advantage; he knew he was.
But he wasn’t hurting Sam. He would never willingly hurt Sam. They’d both done enough of that already to last a lifetime or more. Dean just wanted to take care of Sam, to be good to him and help him feel better. And yet…
He’d wanted to touch Sam like this so many times before. With tenderness and with need. And Sam had given Dean signs he’d welcome such attention. But they’d both danced around any attraction, for years it seemed. They were so important to each other already, it was almost as if each feared doing something that might destroy what they had. Dean knew that fear well. Sam’s trust was too precious to risk.
For two pretty brave guys, they could both be fucking cowards when they put their minds to it.
This wasn’t an especially courageous moment, Dean mused as he lightly traced along the doll’s neck with his index finger. Sam bared his throat, his chin pointing upward, as if to allow Dean the very best access. Dean recognized what he was doing might be objectionable. But it was a start. He wouldn’t take anything for himself. He’d give pleasure to Sammy. This was for him, not for Dean.
Dean could live with that. He would have to.
Slowly, he dragged his fingers down the front of the doll, stopping at what would be the figure’s waist. On the bed, Sam hummed and shifted. He seemed to approve of the touch. Eyes now on Sam, Dean zeroed in where he guessed one of Sam’s nipples might be and began circling his thumb, slow and tight. He watched with a kind of amazement as Sam’s nipple began to tighten in response and peak, half a room away. Dean paid equal attention to the other side, and smiled when Sam began to shift restlessly against the sheets, almost as if seeking the one responsible.
Here was where things could get tricky. The doll wasn’t exactly anatomically correct, so Dean wasn’t entirely certain how much further he could go. But he was willing to give it a try.
Taking his thumb, he rubbed it firmly yet gently in the vee created by the doll’s legs. It took a moment, but Sam’s legs fell open on the bed, and he moaned. It wasn’t long before Dean spied a noticeable bulge tenting Sam’s boxers.
“Thatta boy,” Dean murmured, as he varied his stroke.
Back and forth, and up and down, every so often he changed things up by swirling his fingertip near the top of the range. Sam seemed to like that. His skin was flushed, and he was making low, wordless sounds.
It was wild for Dean to see Sam like this. For as well as Dean knew his brother and as much time as they spent together, he hadn't known this--the way Sam would move, what he'd look like, the noises he would make.
It was better than Dean had imagined. He wondered how long he could make this last, how high he could make Sam fly.
He took a step closer towards the bed, wanting to be near, to get the very best view. Gently, so very gently, he pressed his thumb nail right about where he imagined the tip of Sam’s cock must be.
Sam’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t make a sound. His back arched.
Oh yeah. That’s the stuff.
Sam needed more. Dean knew he needed more, but Dean wasn’t exactly sure how to give it to him. He took his thumb and index finger and placed them low on the doll’s belly. Pressing down slightly, he drew them together in a very careful pinch.
Sam groaned. Sweat shone at the base of his throat and at his hairline. Dean didn’t think the Florida heat was solely to blame.
Dean could feel his own dick thickening, could feel his blood hum and his temperature rise. God, he wished he was on that bed with Sam; wished he was touching skin, not cloth; wished Sam could touch him back.
But that wasn’t who they were, wasn’t what Sam wanted to be. Dean was stealing this, this intimacy, this oh so important trust. And all at once he didn’t want to experiment or drag things out, didn’t want to think about what might happen when this strange interlude was finished.
So he lifted the doll to his mouth, a distant part of him realizing how truly bizarre the situation was, and right where the legs touched and were attached to the torso, he closed his lips tightly around the cloth and sucked. Hard.
Sam thrashed on the bed; yelled, short and low; and came, his body shuddering its release. When it was over, wetness stained the front of his boxers and he lay, collapsed against the mattress, every bit of tension gone.
A little stunned by what had just happened, Dean stood there transfixed. He didn’t realize Sam’s eyes were open until Sam spoke.
“Dean.”
Oh, shit.
“Sammy…” he said, not meeting his brother’s gaze.
“What just…? Are you…?" Slowly Sam sat up and pushed his hand through his hair. He didn’t seem entirely awake. Then their eyes met, and any fogginess was gone. “Is that the doll?”
Dean glanced down, suddenly remembering he still held the thing. “Uh…yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Sam frowned. “Did you just… ? Did you do this?” He gestured down the front of him.
Dean swallowed hard and prepared to grovel. “Yeah, man. That was me.”
Sam eyebrows launched skyward. “Why? How?”
Dean shrugged. “I don't...it was the voodoo actually.”
Sam thought about that for a minute, then stretched out his hand. “Come here.”
Dean wrinkled his brow. He couldn’t read Sam’s expression. Was he supposed to apologize? “Sam?”
“Dean, you may be willing to do this kind of thing long distance,” Sam said, scooting to the end of the bed and shucking off his ruined boxers. Dean could only stare. “But I actually like to be within arm’s length of the person bringing me off.”
“You do?” Dean asked, feeling like an idiot, but unable to come up with anything more cogent. Not just then.
“I do,” Sam said, clearly trying to hide a smile. “I also prefer being awake, so much as it pains me to say it-your technique is lacking on two fronts.”
“You got a problem with my technique?” Dean said, ever so slowly getting with the program. He laid the doll carefully on what had been his bed and moved even closer to one where Sam sat. He came to stand between Sam’s legs. Sam bracketed Dean’s hips with his hands.
“Seems like maybe I do,” Sam said, the smile no longer under wraps. “But then…maybe you can prove me wrong.”
“Maybe you can show me a little technique yourself there, hotshot,” Dean said, stroking his hand over Sam’s hair, just like he’d wanted to for the longest time. Sam closed his eyes and leaned into it.
“Maybe I can,” Sam murmured. “But you know what? There's a pretty good chance I won’t match up at all, because Dean, I've gotta tell you-you’ve got the magic touch.”