Fic: The Light Court (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,430
Warnings: AU, PWP, flagrant abuse of Gaelic mythology, underage (ages unspecified), first time, public sex, ritualistic sex, bareback, dirty sex (is that a thing?), very mild D/s tones, mild incest kink, kilts
Notes: written for obstinatrix for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. I went for the prompt "fairies made them do it. Feel free to interpret creatively" and may have taken the 'interpret creatively' a bit far... I tried to incorporate as many of her likes as possible, albeit some of them rather loosely (I know kilts are not the same as crossdressing, but fuck it, I like kilts. I blame Jensen.) Apologies for the lateness - turns out north Texas electrical/cable systems are not prepared for white Christmases. Hope you enjoy bb and that you had a very happy holiday!
Summary - With all the heat and pressure distracting him, it's hard to pay attention to the small noises of the people gathered around. There's still movement at the edges of his vision, still the whispers of cloth on skin and feet on dirt and quiet chanting in a language he's not nearly good enough at yet to understand, but he feels a little less like he's been peeled out of his shell and left for the vultures to pick over with Dean blanketing him.
Sam's hair falls like blinders around his face as he tips his head forward. Chunks of it stick to his forehead, clinging with sweat even though it's cool enough out for his skin to have pebbled up, itching where goosebumps pull at the edges of the thick, careful swoops of chalky cobalt painting sigils onto every bare inch of him.
And that is a lot of inches because he is full freaking monty here, as if this whole thing wasn't nerve-wracking enough already.
He's trying to concentrate on his breathing, the lump of grass grinding uncomfortably under his left knee, the feel of dirt cramming under his fingernails and turning to mud with the sweat of his palms. It's not doing much to block out the sensation of all those eyes roaming over his skin, but it's something. Better when Dean puts a hand on the back of his neck and eliminates the train-wreck temptation to look up.
The slow tickle of fluid that tracks down the side of his neck could be sweat, but he's guessing blood. From where Sam had been forced to kneel beside the Queen, it hadn't looked like Dean cut very deep into the heel of his palm, but as far as he knows Seelie don't heal any faster than humans so it's probably still bleeding. Sam certainly never has, anyway, and hell knows he could have used some Wolverine mojo plenty of times. Then again, he's never had much of anything that could qualify as a 'power', but here he is. Maybe he needs to be bound to the clan for that kind of stuff. Maybe he can get Cas to show him some cool changeling tricks after… after.
Scratchy, oppressive wool-heat presses against the backs of his thighs, the curve of his ass. Sam flinches away from it skittishly, but Dean's hand tightens at the nape of his neck, thumb pressing hard into the tender spot at the base of his skull like a warning.
He hopes the kilt-wearing is just ceremonial, or something. Every time Sam’s seen him before today, Dean’s been sporting the all-American badboy look, leather jacket and all. The barbarian warrior thing is working for him too, but Sam figures that's mostly because for people who look like Dean, style is just window dressing. He kinda doubts he'd be able to pull it off himself. He's more than happy to spend the rest of his life with the clan - ecstatic actually - but he'd really prefer not to have to do it in a skirt, even a man-skirt.
Not to mention that after this is all over, he'd really just as soon keep his nudity around representatives of the Court to an absolute minimum.
"Sam." Dean's voice pressed against his ear startles him all over again. He jolts, but Dean's bigger and stronger and, by all accounts, a general sword-swinging, gun-wielding, OG-type badass, so he doesn't get far.
Somehow he'd missed the moment when Dean bent down over him, a solid zag of heat molded from Sam's shoulder blades to the hollow of his knees. There's no escaping the feeling of it now; the slick skin drag as they breathe not quite in time, the heavier, sharper knot of the necklace Dean always wears settled against his spine. The alien pressure against his ass, muted by thick cloth.
He's had the adrenaline shakes since before the ceremony started, but he can’t call this anything but trembling now.
Thick fingers press up against his lips, pushing past them already by the time Dean says, "Suck for me."
Thank freaking everything that Sam's already down on his knees, because he doesn't think he'd have made it through Dean saying that without hitting them anyway. His lungs feel seized up, thin drags of air making it in passed that ache as the inside of his mouth clenches, floods with saliva and penny-flavored blood and grit.
It's nothing, should be nothing, but with the low, smoke-softness, the 'for me' tacked on as it plays over and over in the back of his head, it can't really be nothing. Not for Sam.
He always knew he was messed up, long before Dean showed up in front of his school in a wet dream of a car and offered him everything he never knew he'd been waiting his whole life for. This is just another thing, worse and somehow more complicated than finding out his parents weren't really his parents or that he'd never meet the ones who'd given birth to him, loved him, actually wanted him; that his existence is a matched set to this freaky, quiet, bright-eyed kid who’s a real human and acts less like one than any of the Seelie Sam's met so far. More than finding out he has a brother who's unreal in ways that have less to do with him being a magical fairy-elf-whatever than it does with him being the smoothest, coolest, just-stepped-out-of-a-movie-screen hotass Sam has ever seen. Because Sam thinks his brother is hot. Not even in an ambiguous aesthetic appreciation kind of way he could wave off, either. Dean is like if Sam made up the perfect person and it came to life even better than he'd imagined. Dean is an obsession waiting to happen and he's Sam's brother.
And the thing of it is, that's not a turn-off for Sam. Actually the exact opposite.
So messed up.
Dean's fingers drag slow over his tongue like a caress as they pull free of Sam's mouth, one nail catching at the tip for a quick, sharp shock. Sam rubs it away against the back of his teeth, tries to focus on that as Dean touches a cool stripe to his hip, slips back further.
This would probably work better if Dean would back up, but he only moves enough to get his hand between their bodies. Sam can't pretend to be anything but glad. With all the heat and pressure distracting him, it's hard to pay attention to the small noises of the people gathered around. There's still movement at the edges of his vision, still the whispers of cloth on skin and feet on dirt and quiet chanting in a language he's not nearly good enough at yet to understand, but he feels a little less like he's been peeled out of his shell and left for the vultures to pick over with Dean blanketing him. Even when that first fingertip presses against his hole and straight on in.
He'd done his best to prep for this like Dean told him to - and he is going to be jacking off to that particular conversation for the rest of his freaking life; Dean on his bed, handing him a dildo, telling him how to do it, why he needs to, all like it’s nothing, like every species requires lost members of its tribe to pledge their allegiance by having raw, filthy sex. He tried to get as slippery up inside as he could because, shockingly, ancient pagan sex-bonding rituals aren't big on the inclusion of Astroglide. The spit helps rewet it a little and Dean makes a kind of growly noise in his ear that Sam's going to take as a 'good job'.
Having Dean touch him like this is completely different from doing it himself. Probably just because Sam's not the one controlling it this time, but the reason doesn't really matter. Not when his dick pops up to tap against his stomach and his balls tug in close. There's this buzzy-scorching sensation buried in him somewhere like a stoked ember and his body can't decide if it's up in his rib cage or down at the base of his spine or hidden inside one of his vital organs, but it flares at the rough grate of Dean's knuckles against his hole, pressing in and slipping out, over and over.
The second finger isn't as intense, not quite so drenched in syrup-thick anticipation. It's weirder with a more concrete sensation to hold onto; moving around in there, feeling him up from the inside out. A good sort of weird, the kind that makes him feel steamy inside his skin, mouth gone dry and stomach lurching every time Dean touches in just the right place.
His arms are shaking like they're going to give out any second, but he's scared moving will upset the tentative balance they have, so he fists his hands in the scrubby greenery until his knuckles turn bloodless-white instead, grass blades coming away in his grip with tiny pops.
Easing steadily, Dean presses a third finger in and Sam's skull shrinks around his brain. The throb of blood in his temples is almost as consuming as the tricky swirl thing Dean's doing with his hand.
“I don’t need-“ he gripes, ragged like there's a ten car pile-up in his throat. Not that it matters, since all the trouble gets him is Dean’s teeth digging into the side of his neck.
“I’ll tell you what you need.” Dean’s voice is an octave lower than Sam usually hears it, and it trickles down his spine like ice water and molten honey, trailing shivers in its wake. Another nip at the stinging spot on his throat, gentler this time, and he can feel Dean smirking when he says, “Big brother knows best.”
With zero permission, Sam's body clamps down hard enough that Dean’s fingers feel like a lead weight in his gut, eating up the dead space where his stomach used to be. Dean lets out a self-satisfied hum and twists his wrist 180, tickling at all Sam’s soft bits.
It’s enough to make Sam’s toes curl and he’s trying really hard not to think about what he must look like - sweaty and groaning just from Dean’s fingers, his dick dripping precome into the dirt, desperate and eager as a promnight virgin, minus the promnight - but can’t stop himself from grinding back into it anyway.
Just like that, Dean’s gone; heat, weight, the full stretch of his fingers. Sam gasps at the sudden waft of cool air all over his skin. A reassuring hand settles on his waist, but by that point Sam’s already twisted around enough to see Dean over his shoulder, hitching the heavy wool of the kilt up his thigh. One quick flash of milk-pale skin and then Dean’s free hand disappears underneath, jostles a couple of times in a way Sam’s far too familiar with not to flush hot over.
This time his arms do give out. His elbows sting where they hit the dirt but his crossed wrists make for a good place to rest his head. He lays there and breathes in the damp smell of earth, trying to control the spastic twitch in his leg when Dean brushes his knuckles up the inside of it, smoothes one up the seam of his balls like he doesn't know just how close even that is to setting Sam off like a Fourth of July extravaganza.
The hot, blunt nudge up against his hole is exactly what he’s expecting; flesh smoother and softer than Dean’s fingers, kiss of wetness when Dean just rubs the head against him a couple of times like a tease, the grip on his side turning harder, bright snatches of sensation where nails dig in. That grip turning into a pull and the ground suddenly swooping out from under him? Didn’t really see that coming.
Seconds stutter over the mechanics of it as if the trippy, burning friction in his guts is blocking the pathway to his brain. He hangs there in the middle space for what’s got to be a decade or two, like time and gravity ran away together to get a quicky wedding in Vegas and left Sam stranded. Everything’s surreal, smoke and mirrors wrapped around a blistering, pulsing core that’s not painful and not good, that just feels so much that Sam’s wondering if he’s been using his body all wrong for years, if this is what feeling’s all about.
It’s not until Dean’s hips are flush against this ass that he works out that he’s been yanked up to sit in Dean’s lap. Mainly by opening his eyes and meeting a dozen other pairs.
Sam slams them shut again immediately, hard enough to speckle the blackness behind his eyelids blue-white and still not enough to get the image of those attentive faces out of his head. All that focus on him, like butterfly wings on his skin, just enough pressure to turn him twitchy as heat steals up his neck and burns in the tips of his ears.
His Adam’s apple grates against Dean’s palm on a gasp as Dean drags his hand up Sam’s neck, cradles it under his jaw and tips his head back until it’s resting against Dean’s shoulder. The relief is momentary, the promise of fresh air to a drowning man, and then Dean’s pushing up with his hips like there’s any deeper in Sam for him to get, pulling back faster than Sam can follow and pushing in again.
Shocky-thrill stings in his veins, hands skidding over his own thighs, Dean’s arms, flailing through empty air when he can’t figure out what to do with them, can’t get a freaking grip. After a couple rounds, Sam’s body kicks into gear and works out where to still, when to dip. That makes it better, and also worse, because once he’s over the strange, all of that bizarre intensity starts to feel good, which, in turn, makes him shudder and groan and generally feel like he’s stuck in some sideshow amalgam of running suicides in PE and getting off sweeter-deeper-harder than he ever has in his life. In front of a crowd of strangers. At the hands of his brother.
Sam’s dick is wagging unsteadily with every little move and thrust, bumping against his thighs randomly. He’s hard enough that it hurts, and at the same time feels weirdly good. His fingers are itching to touch it and it takes him way too long to realize that he can.
From there the concept of breathing at regular intervals goes out the window. There’s too much to feel; that heavy, silken slide against his insides, the slippery skid of skin moving against his rim, the drier, tighter rasp of his hand around his dick. It’s the opposite of coming, or coming from the opposite direction - pleasure starting under his skin and burrowing deep instead of building up to explode out.
And that’s important because he has to- the ritual-
Sam’s brain starts sputtering when Dean shifts somehow, legs spreading out, forcing his knees farther apart until he can feel the stretchy burn through the inside of his thighs. That immersive heat sparks into something fiery and aggressive up close to the surface and his skin flashes hot-cold with it over and over.
There’s an urgency to Dean’s voice this time when he says Sam’s name, repeats it in the middle of tugging Sam’s hand away from his cock and pinning it to his chest. “Look at me.”
Like a reflex, Sam feels his eyelids flutter, color peeping through before he remembers why he closed them in the first place and squeezes them shut again. Dean growls on the other side of the blackness, stills his hips and skids line up Sam’s body with his fingers. Sam wonders for a second if it’s blood that Dean just polka-dotted him with, if there’s magic in it that accounts for how it tingle-fizzle-bites at his skin, then loses the idea entirely when Dean yanks at his hair.
“Wasn’t a request,” Dean breathes, thick and sharp as the smoke off of green wood.
Reluctantly, Sam lets his eyes crawl open. All he can register for a minute is Dean, nudged in close enough that they’re pushing the same sticky, used air back and forth between their mouths. The sky behind him is gold, bleeding violet-pink beyond the spires of pine tree tops like a jagged wound. It’s doing absolute wonders for Dean, which is just all kinds of unfair; morphing him into this creature of jade and charcoal and honey-gilt highlights. Or maybe that’s the fact that he’s glowing.
Glowing? Sam tries to shake his head just in case he’s seeing things but just ends up pulling his own hair instead, since Dean hasn’t let go of it yet.
No, yeah, glowing. And it’s getting more pronounced by the second. The sun-brushed-green is most obvious in his eyes, but it’s picking up elsewhere, shimmers that turn into slivers that turn into slices. One cuts a path across the curve of his left cheekbone, another over his opposite eyebrow that drags down to lick at the crinkles that form at the corner of his eye when his lips turn up. Sam’s not really in an ideal position to survey for more, but he gets the feeling from the steadily increasing ambient light that there’s plenty of them winding their way across Dean’s body like tattoos. Like the marks painted onto Sam’s own skin.
His brain stammers back into gear over the thought, and Dean must have gotten what he was after because his grip on Sam’s hair eases when Sam jerks his head down to look at himself.
What ought to strike Sam is the lines, how the grainy pigment has turned luminescent against the shadows of grass-stains and dirt on his skin; sleek curves and thorny branches twining together in a deeper sea-green than the shade lighting up Dean. How the brightness of them seems to ebb and surge with the sudden spike of Sam’s heartbeat.
What he gets stuck on instead is how obscene he looks sprawled across Dean like this, legs spread wide enough that it’s starting to ache, dick bobbing rock hard between them.
There’s a fine thread of light curlicuing up the length of his hard-on, just strong enough to make the bead of precome stringing down from the tip shine like glass. It snaps when his cock leaps, sticking to the inside of his thigh only to be replaced a moment later by another glossy pulse of fluid.
Oh god, it’s really hot. And kind of mind-numbingly embarrassing, because it’s so obvious that he’s getting off on it, and everybody can see. All of them, with their jeweled eyes and their predator smiles. The whole Seelie Court knows that he’s not just enduring getting speared on his long-lost big brother’s dick to earn back his birthright citizenship, that he likes it, wants it, that he- That he’d grind back onto Dean to feel that friction against his untouched places and moan for it, because that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Dean’s not offering anything but encouragement, though, hot panting breaths and filthy half-sentences that melt like butter over Sam’s skin, so maybe that’s okay.
“That’s it, give it up,” Dean hisses, gutted but no less like a command. He leaves a cool racing stripe of sweat down Sam’s spine as he leans back on his hands, giving Sam room. “Show them where you belong.”
Sam fumbles with his arms, trying to brace them on his own legs, then Dean’s hips, nowhere really comfortable or natural to put them and too distracted to honestly care. His legs are burning with the effort of lifting himself again and again, skin singing with every brush of air where that unearthly light touches him. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he knows he should be freaking out about, like, every single part of what’s happening here, but the sensation of Dean’s cock keeps rubbing it away like his brain’s a dry erase board.
Dean’s hand settles on his hip, so hot he’s actually surprised he can’t hear the flesh sizzle, and white bliss flares through his body like a closed circuit. He presses back into it automatically, but it doesn’t really make a difference at this point. He’s feeling Dean everywhere now, like a drug or a poison, twisting along his nerves and prickling in his blood. It’s scary and fantastic and too much. He never wants it to end.
The chanting is getting louder, loud enough that Sam can make it out over the war-drum beat of his heart and the wheeze of his breath. There’s too much to focus on to pay attention to those voices, but they’re there, driving him on, cranking the glass-smooth rush inside of him until it’s nearly unbearable. He doesn’t realize he’s matched the urgent fuck of his hips to it until Dean leans up and starts husking out words against the nape of his neck.
Sam’s been working at it, but most of the Seelie words he knows are kaleidoscope fragments of nouns and verbs that don’t fit together in any particular order. There are bits he catches, the important parts, gone sandpaper rough in Dean’s voice; family, acceptance, belong. Brother.
The razor-and-ecstasy tension balled up at the base of Sam’s spine loops outward, coils out like a barbed wire snare. Sam comes like the world is ending and that’s exactly what it feels like; ears ringing and spots dancing behind his eyes as he doubles over. The dirt leaves a cool kiss on his forehead as he slumps forward into it, point-counterpoint to the hot spatter of come hitting his chest.
Dean follows, wrapping his hands around Sam’s shoulders from underneath and shoving in deep, pulling out almost all the way and then doing it again dragging Sam back into every thrust. He loses track of how many there are, only that they keep going, reigniting tiny explosions under his skin every time he thinks he’s coming down.
Dazedly, he opens his eyes to watch his own fingers web with electricity as Dean’s thread between them, a miniature thunderstorm snapping between their hands. It’s beautiful and strange and nothing compared to the hard twitch he feels just before Dean groans and fucks into him like he’s planning to take up residence in Sam’s body.
The sparks flash and stretch, hopscotching along his body with sudden pinpricks of sensation that burrow down into his marrow and keep going until there’s no part of him that doesn’t feel lit up with it.
The next thing Sam is aware of is grunting softly through the struggle to catch his breath. Dean is still hunched over him, subduing the clutching, empty feeling where he was buried to the hilt a minute ago by soothing his hand up and down Sam’s side.
When Sam manages to actually open his eyes and look, they’re alone in the clearing. The sky above is steely blue, lit only by the moon just beginning to climb over the treeline. Their bodies look normal; no glow, no paint, just a lot more skin than he’d really like to expose to the elements, covered in a variety of bodily fluids and his big brother.
This is really not how he expected to lose his virginity. In about ten minutes when he’s capable of processing coherent thought again he’s going to have a nice long internal touchdown dance about that.
Choking twice on his dry throat, Sam manages to croak out a sluggish, “Did it work?”
Dean’s laugh shakes through Sam, barely anything and still enough to smack him upside the head with the need to lie down. And at this point, he’s pretty well beyond the concept of shame, so he does.
A wave of night-cool air fills the space against his back as Dean rolls off of him. He’s obnoxiously artfully disheveled spread out there in the starlight, all sweaty and flushed with his kilt hiked up over the soft, wet hang of his dick.
Considering what just went down, Sam should probably have some kind of psychological trauma about this that will further complicate his personal and sexual development. Probably should not feel his stomach clench with a flood of want like a fist in his gut and his cock jerk, sticky and almost painful, through the dirt. On the other hand, those things might be one and the same. He finds he doesn’t mind all that much.
“Did it work?” he repeats, pointlessly, really, when he can feel something he can’t put words to thrumming at the back of his head. Something new and yet familiar, like a wall in him just got torn down and he can finally get a feel for what was on the other side all this time.
Dean smirks and ruffles a hand through Sam’s hair, spreading more grime around, he’s sure. At this point it’s not like a little more is going to make a difference.
In one terrifying second it pings in Sam’s head how bad this could go. He can see it all playing out in front of his eyes, Dean slapping him on the back and telling him he did good and never ever touching Sam with anything more than brotherly intent ever again. Because the sex wasn’t a big deal, just something they had to do because Seelie laws are screwy and so old-school it’s scary, but it wasn’t like Dean really wanted to fuck him, never said what would come of it after, and Sam had been trying so hard not to think about it. Dean was just doing his job as leader of the clan, sealing the bond with his blood and his body and if it had to be his own little brother, then whatever, while Sam was there gagging for it, eager and obvious and not even having the decency to care that he was giving all his own secrets away. Dean probably has people falling all over themselves all the time trying to get him into bed. Why would he want skinny, awkward Sam who never fits in and never feels the way he’s supposed to and-
God, Dean’s mouth is hot. Wet, slick heat and suction and enough tongue to make Sam forget how to breathe when it rubs at the underside of his own.
“Welcome to the family, kiddo,” Dean murmurs, lips dragging damp against Sam’s. Everything dragging against Sam’s, because then Dean’s rolling him over onto his back and stretching out over him, tacky skin and gritty soil and the shuddery, too-much friction of wool on his spent-but-getting-hard-anyway dick.
Sam’s not really sure what to make of that, but with Dean sucking little bites into his neck and running the rough pad of his thumb over Sam’s nipple in these endless, teasing circles, he’s not sure it matters.
He’ll ask later.
Much later.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,430
Warnings: AU, PWP, flagrant abuse of Gaelic mythology, underage (ages unspecified), first time, public sex, ritualistic sex, bareback, dirty sex (is that a thing?), very mild D/s tones, mild incest kink, kilts
Notes: written for obstinatrix for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. I went for the prompt "fairies made them do it. Feel free to interpret creatively" and may have taken the 'interpret creatively' a bit far... I tried to incorporate as many of her likes as possible, albeit some of them rather loosely (I know kilts are not the same as crossdressing, but fuck it, I like kilts. I blame Jensen.) Apologies for the lateness - turns out north Texas electrical/cable systems are not prepared for white Christmases. Hope you enjoy bb and that you had a very happy holiday!
Summary - With all the heat and pressure distracting him, it's hard to pay attention to the small noises of the people gathered around. There's still movement at the edges of his vision, still the whispers of cloth on skin and feet on dirt and quiet chanting in a language he's not nearly good enough at yet to understand, but he feels a little less like he's been peeled out of his shell and left for the vultures to pick over with Dean blanketing him.
Sam's hair falls like blinders around his face as he tips his head forward. Chunks of it stick to his forehead, clinging with sweat even though it's cool enough out for his skin to have pebbled up, itching where goosebumps pull at the edges of the thick, careful swoops of chalky cobalt painting sigils onto every bare inch of him.
And that is a lot of inches because he is full freaking monty here, as if this whole thing wasn't nerve-wracking enough already.
He's trying to concentrate on his breathing, the lump of grass grinding uncomfortably under his left knee, the feel of dirt cramming under his fingernails and turning to mud with the sweat of his palms. It's not doing much to block out the sensation of all those eyes roaming over his skin, but it's something. Better when Dean puts a hand on the back of his neck and eliminates the train-wreck temptation to look up.
The slow tickle of fluid that tracks down the side of his neck could be sweat, but he's guessing blood. From where Sam had been forced to kneel beside the Queen, it hadn't looked like Dean cut very deep into the heel of his palm, but as far as he knows Seelie don't heal any faster than humans so it's probably still bleeding. Sam certainly never has, anyway, and hell knows he could have used some Wolverine mojo plenty of times. Then again, he's never had much of anything that could qualify as a 'power', but here he is. Maybe he needs to be bound to the clan for that kind of stuff. Maybe he can get Cas to show him some cool changeling tricks after… after.
Scratchy, oppressive wool-heat presses against the backs of his thighs, the curve of his ass. Sam flinches away from it skittishly, but Dean's hand tightens at the nape of his neck, thumb pressing hard into the tender spot at the base of his skull like a warning.
He hopes the kilt-wearing is just ceremonial, or something. Every time Sam’s seen him before today, Dean’s been sporting the all-American badboy look, leather jacket and all. The barbarian warrior thing is working for him too, but Sam figures that's mostly because for people who look like Dean, style is just window dressing. He kinda doubts he'd be able to pull it off himself. He's more than happy to spend the rest of his life with the clan - ecstatic actually - but he'd really prefer not to have to do it in a skirt, even a man-skirt.
Not to mention that after this is all over, he'd really just as soon keep his nudity around representatives of the Court to an absolute minimum.
"Sam." Dean's voice pressed against his ear startles him all over again. He jolts, but Dean's bigger and stronger and, by all accounts, a general sword-swinging, gun-wielding, OG-type badass, so he doesn't get far.
Somehow he'd missed the moment when Dean bent down over him, a solid zag of heat molded from Sam's shoulder blades to the hollow of his knees. There's no escaping the feeling of it now; the slick skin drag as they breathe not quite in time, the heavier, sharper knot of the necklace Dean always wears settled against his spine. The alien pressure against his ass, muted by thick cloth.
He's had the adrenaline shakes since before the ceremony started, but he can’t call this anything but trembling now.
Thick fingers press up against his lips, pushing past them already by the time Dean says, "Suck for me."
Thank freaking everything that Sam's already down on his knees, because he doesn't think he'd have made it through Dean saying that without hitting them anyway. His lungs feel seized up, thin drags of air making it in passed that ache as the inside of his mouth clenches, floods with saliva and penny-flavored blood and grit.
It's nothing, should be nothing, but with the low, smoke-softness, the 'for me' tacked on as it plays over and over in the back of his head, it can't really be nothing. Not for Sam.
He always knew he was messed up, long before Dean showed up in front of his school in a wet dream of a car and offered him everything he never knew he'd been waiting his whole life for. This is just another thing, worse and somehow more complicated than finding out his parents weren't really his parents or that he'd never meet the ones who'd given birth to him, loved him, actually wanted him; that his existence is a matched set to this freaky, quiet, bright-eyed kid who’s a real human and acts less like one than any of the Seelie Sam's met so far. More than finding out he has a brother who's unreal in ways that have less to do with him being a magical fairy-elf-whatever than it does with him being the smoothest, coolest, just-stepped-out-of-a-movie-screen hotass Sam has ever seen. Because Sam thinks his brother is hot. Not even in an ambiguous aesthetic appreciation kind of way he could wave off, either. Dean is like if Sam made up the perfect person and it came to life even better than he'd imagined. Dean is an obsession waiting to happen and he's Sam's brother.
And the thing of it is, that's not a turn-off for Sam. Actually the exact opposite.
So messed up.
Dean's fingers drag slow over his tongue like a caress as they pull free of Sam's mouth, one nail catching at the tip for a quick, sharp shock. Sam rubs it away against the back of his teeth, tries to focus on that as Dean touches a cool stripe to his hip, slips back further.
This would probably work better if Dean would back up, but he only moves enough to get his hand between their bodies. Sam can't pretend to be anything but glad. With all the heat and pressure distracting him, it's hard to pay attention to the small noises of the people gathered around. There's still movement at the edges of his vision, still the whispers of cloth on skin and feet on dirt and quiet chanting in a language he's not nearly good enough at yet to understand, but he feels a little less like he's been peeled out of his shell and left for the vultures to pick over with Dean blanketing him. Even when that first fingertip presses against his hole and straight on in.
He'd done his best to prep for this like Dean told him to - and he is going to be jacking off to that particular conversation for the rest of his freaking life; Dean on his bed, handing him a dildo, telling him how to do it, why he needs to, all like it’s nothing, like every species requires lost members of its tribe to pledge their allegiance by having raw, filthy sex. He tried to get as slippery up inside as he could because, shockingly, ancient pagan sex-bonding rituals aren't big on the inclusion of Astroglide. The spit helps rewet it a little and Dean makes a kind of growly noise in his ear that Sam's going to take as a 'good job'.
Having Dean touch him like this is completely different from doing it himself. Probably just because Sam's not the one controlling it this time, but the reason doesn't really matter. Not when his dick pops up to tap against his stomach and his balls tug in close. There's this buzzy-scorching sensation buried in him somewhere like a stoked ember and his body can't decide if it's up in his rib cage or down at the base of his spine or hidden inside one of his vital organs, but it flares at the rough grate of Dean's knuckles against his hole, pressing in and slipping out, over and over.
The second finger isn't as intense, not quite so drenched in syrup-thick anticipation. It's weirder with a more concrete sensation to hold onto; moving around in there, feeling him up from the inside out. A good sort of weird, the kind that makes him feel steamy inside his skin, mouth gone dry and stomach lurching every time Dean touches in just the right place.
His arms are shaking like they're going to give out any second, but he's scared moving will upset the tentative balance they have, so he fists his hands in the scrubby greenery until his knuckles turn bloodless-white instead, grass blades coming away in his grip with tiny pops.
Easing steadily, Dean presses a third finger in and Sam's skull shrinks around his brain. The throb of blood in his temples is almost as consuming as the tricky swirl thing Dean's doing with his hand.
“I don’t need-“ he gripes, ragged like there's a ten car pile-up in his throat. Not that it matters, since all the trouble gets him is Dean’s teeth digging into the side of his neck.
“I’ll tell you what you need.” Dean’s voice is an octave lower than Sam usually hears it, and it trickles down his spine like ice water and molten honey, trailing shivers in its wake. Another nip at the stinging spot on his throat, gentler this time, and he can feel Dean smirking when he says, “Big brother knows best.”
With zero permission, Sam's body clamps down hard enough that Dean’s fingers feel like a lead weight in his gut, eating up the dead space where his stomach used to be. Dean lets out a self-satisfied hum and twists his wrist 180, tickling at all Sam’s soft bits.
It’s enough to make Sam’s toes curl and he’s trying really hard not to think about what he must look like - sweaty and groaning just from Dean’s fingers, his dick dripping precome into the dirt, desperate and eager as a promnight virgin, minus the promnight - but can’t stop himself from grinding back into it anyway.
Just like that, Dean’s gone; heat, weight, the full stretch of his fingers. Sam gasps at the sudden waft of cool air all over his skin. A reassuring hand settles on his waist, but by that point Sam’s already twisted around enough to see Dean over his shoulder, hitching the heavy wool of the kilt up his thigh. One quick flash of milk-pale skin and then Dean’s free hand disappears underneath, jostles a couple of times in a way Sam’s far too familiar with not to flush hot over.
This time his arms do give out. His elbows sting where they hit the dirt but his crossed wrists make for a good place to rest his head. He lays there and breathes in the damp smell of earth, trying to control the spastic twitch in his leg when Dean brushes his knuckles up the inside of it, smoothes one up the seam of his balls like he doesn't know just how close even that is to setting Sam off like a Fourth of July extravaganza.
The hot, blunt nudge up against his hole is exactly what he’s expecting; flesh smoother and softer than Dean’s fingers, kiss of wetness when Dean just rubs the head against him a couple of times like a tease, the grip on his side turning harder, bright snatches of sensation where nails dig in. That grip turning into a pull and the ground suddenly swooping out from under him? Didn’t really see that coming.
Seconds stutter over the mechanics of it as if the trippy, burning friction in his guts is blocking the pathway to his brain. He hangs there in the middle space for what’s got to be a decade or two, like time and gravity ran away together to get a quicky wedding in Vegas and left Sam stranded. Everything’s surreal, smoke and mirrors wrapped around a blistering, pulsing core that’s not painful and not good, that just feels so much that Sam’s wondering if he’s been using his body all wrong for years, if this is what feeling’s all about.
It’s not until Dean’s hips are flush against this ass that he works out that he’s been yanked up to sit in Dean’s lap. Mainly by opening his eyes and meeting a dozen other pairs.
Sam slams them shut again immediately, hard enough to speckle the blackness behind his eyelids blue-white and still not enough to get the image of those attentive faces out of his head. All that focus on him, like butterfly wings on his skin, just enough pressure to turn him twitchy as heat steals up his neck and burns in the tips of his ears.
His Adam’s apple grates against Dean’s palm on a gasp as Dean drags his hand up Sam’s neck, cradles it under his jaw and tips his head back until it’s resting against Dean’s shoulder. The relief is momentary, the promise of fresh air to a drowning man, and then Dean’s pushing up with his hips like there’s any deeper in Sam for him to get, pulling back faster than Sam can follow and pushing in again.
Shocky-thrill stings in his veins, hands skidding over his own thighs, Dean’s arms, flailing through empty air when he can’t figure out what to do with them, can’t get a freaking grip. After a couple rounds, Sam’s body kicks into gear and works out where to still, when to dip. That makes it better, and also worse, because once he’s over the strange, all of that bizarre intensity starts to feel good, which, in turn, makes him shudder and groan and generally feel like he’s stuck in some sideshow amalgam of running suicides in PE and getting off sweeter-deeper-harder than he ever has in his life. In front of a crowd of strangers. At the hands of his brother.
Sam’s dick is wagging unsteadily with every little move and thrust, bumping against his thighs randomly. He’s hard enough that it hurts, and at the same time feels weirdly good. His fingers are itching to touch it and it takes him way too long to realize that he can.
From there the concept of breathing at regular intervals goes out the window. There’s too much to feel; that heavy, silken slide against his insides, the slippery skid of skin moving against his rim, the drier, tighter rasp of his hand around his dick. It’s the opposite of coming, or coming from the opposite direction - pleasure starting under his skin and burrowing deep instead of building up to explode out.
And that’s important because he has to- the ritual-
Sam’s brain starts sputtering when Dean shifts somehow, legs spreading out, forcing his knees farther apart until he can feel the stretchy burn through the inside of his thighs. That immersive heat sparks into something fiery and aggressive up close to the surface and his skin flashes hot-cold with it over and over.
There’s an urgency to Dean’s voice this time when he says Sam’s name, repeats it in the middle of tugging Sam’s hand away from his cock and pinning it to his chest. “Look at me.”
Like a reflex, Sam feels his eyelids flutter, color peeping through before he remembers why he closed them in the first place and squeezes them shut again. Dean growls on the other side of the blackness, stills his hips and skids line up Sam’s body with his fingers. Sam wonders for a second if it’s blood that Dean just polka-dotted him with, if there’s magic in it that accounts for how it tingle-fizzle-bites at his skin, then loses the idea entirely when Dean yanks at his hair.
“Wasn’t a request,” Dean breathes, thick and sharp as the smoke off of green wood.
Reluctantly, Sam lets his eyes crawl open. All he can register for a minute is Dean, nudged in close enough that they’re pushing the same sticky, used air back and forth between their mouths. The sky behind him is gold, bleeding violet-pink beyond the spires of pine tree tops like a jagged wound. It’s doing absolute wonders for Dean, which is just all kinds of unfair; morphing him into this creature of jade and charcoal and honey-gilt highlights. Or maybe that’s the fact that he’s glowing.
Glowing? Sam tries to shake his head just in case he’s seeing things but just ends up pulling his own hair instead, since Dean hasn’t let go of it yet.
No, yeah, glowing. And it’s getting more pronounced by the second. The sun-brushed-green is most obvious in his eyes, but it’s picking up elsewhere, shimmers that turn into slivers that turn into slices. One cuts a path across the curve of his left cheekbone, another over his opposite eyebrow that drags down to lick at the crinkles that form at the corner of his eye when his lips turn up. Sam’s not really in an ideal position to survey for more, but he gets the feeling from the steadily increasing ambient light that there’s plenty of them winding their way across Dean’s body like tattoos. Like the marks painted onto Sam’s own skin.
His brain stammers back into gear over the thought, and Dean must have gotten what he was after because his grip on Sam’s hair eases when Sam jerks his head down to look at himself.
What ought to strike Sam is the lines, how the grainy pigment has turned luminescent against the shadows of grass-stains and dirt on his skin; sleek curves and thorny branches twining together in a deeper sea-green than the shade lighting up Dean. How the brightness of them seems to ebb and surge with the sudden spike of Sam’s heartbeat.
What he gets stuck on instead is how obscene he looks sprawled across Dean like this, legs spread wide enough that it’s starting to ache, dick bobbing rock hard between them.
There’s a fine thread of light curlicuing up the length of his hard-on, just strong enough to make the bead of precome stringing down from the tip shine like glass. It snaps when his cock leaps, sticking to the inside of his thigh only to be replaced a moment later by another glossy pulse of fluid.
Oh god, it’s really hot. And kind of mind-numbingly embarrassing, because it’s so obvious that he’s getting off on it, and everybody can see. All of them, with their jeweled eyes and their predator smiles. The whole Seelie Court knows that he’s not just enduring getting speared on his long-lost big brother’s dick to earn back his birthright citizenship, that he likes it, wants it, that he- That he’d grind back onto Dean to feel that friction against his untouched places and moan for it, because that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Dean’s not offering anything but encouragement, though, hot panting breaths and filthy half-sentences that melt like butter over Sam’s skin, so maybe that’s okay.
“That’s it, give it up,” Dean hisses, gutted but no less like a command. He leaves a cool racing stripe of sweat down Sam’s spine as he leans back on his hands, giving Sam room. “Show them where you belong.”
Sam fumbles with his arms, trying to brace them on his own legs, then Dean’s hips, nowhere really comfortable or natural to put them and too distracted to honestly care. His legs are burning with the effort of lifting himself again and again, skin singing with every brush of air where that unearthly light touches him. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he knows he should be freaking out about, like, every single part of what’s happening here, but the sensation of Dean’s cock keeps rubbing it away like his brain’s a dry erase board.
Dean’s hand settles on his hip, so hot he’s actually surprised he can’t hear the flesh sizzle, and white bliss flares through his body like a closed circuit. He presses back into it automatically, but it doesn’t really make a difference at this point. He’s feeling Dean everywhere now, like a drug or a poison, twisting along his nerves and prickling in his blood. It’s scary and fantastic and too much. He never wants it to end.
The chanting is getting louder, loud enough that Sam can make it out over the war-drum beat of his heart and the wheeze of his breath. There’s too much to focus on to pay attention to those voices, but they’re there, driving him on, cranking the glass-smooth rush inside of him until it’s nearly unbearable. He doesn’t realize he’s matched the urgent fuck of his hips to it until Dean leans up and starts husking out words against the nape of his neck.
Sam’s been working at it, but most of the Seelie words he knows are kaleidoscope fragments of nouns and verbs that don’t fit together in any particular order. There are bits he catches, the important parts, gone sandpaper rough in Dean’s voice; family, acceptance, belong. Brother.
The razor-and-ecstasy tension balled up at the base of Sam’s spine loops outward, coils out like a barbed wire snare. Sam comes like the world is ending and that’s exactly what it feels like; ears ringing and spots dancing behind his eyes as he doubles over. The dirt leaves a cool kiss on his forehead as he slumps forward into it, point-counterpoint to the hot spatter of come hitting his chest.
Dean follows, wrapping his hands around Sam’s shoulders from underneath and shoving in deep, pulling out almost all the way and then doing it again dragging Sam back into every thrust. He loses track of how many there are, only that they keep going, reigniting tiny explosions under his skin every time he thinks he’s coming down.
Dazedly, he opens his eyes to watch his own fingers web with electricity as Dean’s thread between them, a miniature thunderstorm snapping between their hands. It’s beautiful and strange and nothing compared to the hard twitch he feels just before Dean groans and fucks into him like he’s planning to take up residence in Sam’s body.
The sparks flash and stretch, hopscotching along his body with sudden pinpricks of sensation that burrow down into his marrow and keep going until there’s no part of him that doesn’t feel lit up with it.
The next thing Sam is aware of is grunting softly through the struggle to catch his breath. Dean is still hunched over him, subduing the clutching, empty feeling where he was buried to the hilt a minute ago by soothing his hand up and down Sam’s side.
When Sam manages to actually open his eyes and look, they’re alone in the clearing. The sky above is steely blue, lit only by the moon just beginning to climb over the treeline. Their bodies look normal; no glow, no paint, just a lot more skin than he’d really like to expose to the elements, covered in a variety of bodily fluids and his big brother.
This is really not how he expected to lose his virginity. In about ten minutes when he’s capable of processing coherent thought again he’s going to have a nice long internal touchdown dance about that.
Choking twice on his dry throat, Sam manages to croak out a sluggish, “Did it work?”
Dean’s laugh shakes through Sam, barely anything and still enough to smack him upside the head with the need to lie down. And at this point, he’s pretty well beyond the concept of shame, so he does.
A wave of night-cool air fills the space against his back as Dean rolls off of him. He’s obnoxiously artfully disheveled spread out there in the starlight, all sweaty and flushed with his kilt hiked up over the soft, wet hang of his dick.
Considering what just went down, Sam should probably have some kind of psychological trauma about this that will further complicate his personal and sexual development. Probably should not feel his stomach clench with a flood of want like a fist in his gut and his cock jerk, sticky and almost painful, through the dirt. On the other hand, those things might be one and the same. He finds he doesn’t mind all that much.
“Did it work?” he repeats, pointlessly, really, when he can feel something he can’t put words to thrumming at the back of his head. Something new and yet familiar, like a wall in him just got torn down and he can finally get a feel for what was on the other side all this time.
Dean smirks and ruffles a hand through Sam’s hair, spreading more grime around, he’s sure. At this point it’s not like a little more is going to make a difference.
In one terrifying second it pings in Sam’s head how bad this could go. He can see it all playing out in front of his eyes, Dean slapping him on the back and telling him he did good and never ever touching Sam with anything more than brotherly intent ever again. Because the sex wasn’t a big deal, just something they had to do because Seelie laws are screwy and so old-school it’s scary, but it wasn’t like Dean really wanted to fuck him, never said what would come of it after, and Sam had been trying so hard not to think about it. Dean was just doing his job as leader of the clan, sealing the bond with his blood and his body and if it had to be his own little brother, then whatever, while Sam was there gagging for it, eager and obvious and not even having the decency to care that he was giving all his own secrets away. Dean probably has people falling all over themselves all the time trying to get him into bed. Why would he want skinny, awkward Sam who never fits in and never feels the way he’s supposed to and-
God, Dean’s mouth is hot. Wet, slick heat and suction and enough tongue to make Sam forget how to breathe when it rubs at the underside of his own.
“Welcome to the family, kiddo,” Dean murmurs, lips dragging damp against Sam’s. Everything dragging against Sam’s, because then Dean’s rolling him over onto his back and stretching out over him, tacky skin and gritty soil and the shuddery, too-much friction of wool on his spent-but-getting-hard-anyway dick.
Sam’s not really sure what to make of that, but with Dean sucking little bites into his neck and running the rough pad of his thumb over Sam’s nipple in these endless, teasing circles, he’s not sure it matters.
He’ll ask later.
Much later.