evil sam fic
Untitled - (I'm really bad at titles)
Sam/Dean, 2,738 words
NC-17, dubcon
thank you to lissa_bear for looking it over and giving me suggestions. I probably rambled a bit too much in my emails.
Dean comes back from the bar one night, two-forty in his pocket in dirty, crumpled twenties from playing pool (and he wasn’t even trying), and finds the line of salt in the doorway broken, the lights off, and a shadow in the form of Sam sitting on the far bed.
“I was wondering when you’d get back,” the figure says.
Dean knew from the moment he saw the salt, things aren’t right.
“Where’s Sam?”
The figure stays silent and tilts his head, considering. Then he scoots back until his back is pressed against the headboard.
“I’m right here,” he says. But Dean knows a stranger when he sees one, even if they are in Sam’s body, wearing Sam’s skin.
“Yeah, right. I know my own brother.” Dean says and feels a deep knot of coldness unfurl in the pit of his belly.
The figure has the balls to ask, “Do you?” And the coldness in Dean’s stomach just keeps spreading. Before he knows it, he’s grabbed for Sam’s duffel on the table next to the door and he’s digging through the pile of socks and boxers, looking for the damned holy water. He regrets not carrying his own flask tonight, but Sam’s will do just fine. Dean’s fingers connect with the cold metal and he feels sick to his stomach. This is the second time he’ll have to watch Sam’s skin burn.
He starts muttering the words to an exorcism he’s got memorized, having performed them so frequently in his line of work, and approaches whatever has trapped Sam inside himself on the bed. The demon - because what else can it be, Dean rationalizes - snickers with Sam’s voice, that little laugh that Dean knows so well, and his hand shoots out to flick on the bedside lamp.
“You’re acting weird, Dean.” He says, his eyebrows scrunching up and the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. He gives Dean a confused look, and Dean can't help it--that's Sam's body, and even though it's not Sam inside, it's still Sam's smirk. Those are still his brother's eyes, clear and glassy and so close to the light that Dean stutters and stops and can't remember his place. He starts over again, determined.
Sam looks at him and his eyes turn sad. “Dean, it’s me.” His voice cracks on the last word, sounding just like Sam would, innocent and completely trusting. Dean fumbles again and curses, irritation and rage but most of all, confusion, burning up his eyes.
“Sam,” Dean’s voice is hoarse as he stalks towards the bed, intent on punching him in the face for being so careless to let a demon in, to let it mess with him again. But it's not Sam. It's not Sam, but Dean will punch him anyway.
“What? Dean,” Sam’s hands lift to touch his chest, the t-shirt he’s wearing - Sam’s favorite undershirt, the black so faded it’s practically gray. Dean knows how the soft cotton feels underneath his fingers, how warm it would be from Sam’s skin, and a surge of anger rises high at seeing something that isn’t his brother wearing it, probably purposefully, just to goad him.
“It’s me, Sammy.”
And Dean knows for a damn fact that Sam never calls himself that, ever.
The smile on Sam’s face is sharp, it cuts Dean like a knife.
“You son-of-a-bitch. Get out of him, now.” He can barely feel his hands now, one curled so rigidly around the flask his knuckles hurt and the other balled into a tight, shaking fist.
The glint in Sam’s eye is hard and unkind. “Why don’t you come here and make me?” he asks. The quality of Sam’s voice one that Dean’s never heard before. It’s low, dark, and it scares Dean how excited it makes him feel. Like he could take on Hell and win, like every challenge he faced when he was first learning the ropes, the same thrill of the chase.
Dean crosses the distance between them in two easy steps. He crawls onto the bed and watches Sam’s face, his body language. Everything is screaming deceit.
He kneels in front of Sam, holy water in hand. But he doesn’t know why he hasn’t done anything with it yet, or why he hasn’t started the chant again. Sam’s eyes are pleased and crinkling around the edges, smiling.
“See? That wasn’t so bad…” He reaches for the holy water but Dean moves his hand away.
“Uh-uh.” Dean says, one hand splaying against Sam’s chest to push him back. He doesn’t mean to touch him, it’s just reaction. His fingertips brush against the warm, smooth skin of Sam’s throat. A slow smile widens Sam’s mouth.
“Dean,” he says in that pleading voice that Dean hates so much.
Dean shakes his head once, turning away and closing his eyes. “What? What do you want?” His voice a harsh whisper, and he can’t look at him because he doesn’t want to see more of something that isn’t his brother.
A hand wraps around the one Dean’s got against Sam’s chest. Fingers squeeze once, tight.
“Come here, Dean,” Sam says, low. He draws Dean’s hand to the back of his neck before reaching out and pulling on Dean’s jacket, the two of them coming together, their heads drawing close.
Dean can’t open his eyes, though. He’s got them squeezed shut.
“Look at me,” Sam mumbles. His breath ghosts across Dean’s lips. Dean vaguely remembers the flask still in his hand and how this is a good time to use it. But he lets Sam pry it from his grip with one hand, and he doesn’t know why except that it is useless now, anyway.
“Dean, look at me.”
For a second, Dean is amused at how often Sam says his name. It’s new and reaffirming of the fact that this isn’t Sam. It feels wrong of him to but Dean might like it, hearing his name come out in such a way from Sam’s lips that’s downright seductive in its pleading tone, the same thrill slowly replacing the cold knot that had spread inside him.
“Dean!” Sam shouts, and Dean’s eyes snap open. He puts a rough hand on his face, cupping his cheek. In a softer voice, “There, I’ve got you.” His smile dampens. “You look tired, let me help.”
“No,” Dean says, shaking his head, trying to dislodge Sam’s hand. But he doesn’t kid himself, he’s only half-heartedly protesting. Even if this isn’t Sam, this is Sam’s body, his eyes and his voice and his face. Maybe even his thoughts. Thoughts that are being unwillingly brought to the surface, carefully plucked from Sam’s mind for a purpose, a goal. Sam is being strung like a puppet, and Dean can’t do anything but watch. When Sam is this close, so near, it’s hard for him to do anything else.
There’s a murmur of sound, and it takes Dean a second to realize that the noise is coming from Sam’s half parted lips. He’s saying something in Latin - Dean realizes with a shock that he’s reciting the words to the exorcism he hadn’t finished. Sam’s eyes are closed, lips barely moving with half-whispered words. Dean can only watch in fascination. When Sam finishes, he picks up the holy water and his eyes never leave Dean’s as he splashes some on his neck like nothing, like fucking cologne.
He raises his eyebrows as if to say, See? and drops the flask on the floor. Dean doesn’t know what to think.
“You’re not him,” he says darkly. His voice trembles, but he refuses to acknowledge the sudden fear that’s stealing away his confidence.
“The one and only,” Sam says back. He turns his face to the side and laughs, their foreheads suddenly touching again. “You know, I thought you’d like this me better than the old me.”
Still kneeling, Dean is feeling more and more like someone is playing a game and he has no idea what the rules are. There’s no good explanation for why he hasn’t pulled away, either.
“What are you talking about?” he asks. He’s almost afraid to say anything at all to worsen the situation. It’s pretty screwed as it is.
The jacket Dean’s wearing is new - the old one practically in shreds after a particularly nasty werewolf - and it’s still scratchy and stiff around the collar and cuffs. Sam runs his hand along the black, shiny buttons down the front, tugs the hem down like a mother straightening a stubborn child’s clothes. The collar lightly scratches Dean’s throat, makes him clear it nervously. Sam looks up at him and smiles.
“My kingdom for your thoughts,” Sam says. Dean has to fight to keep his mouth shut on a wisecrack response. He isn’t about to talk to this thing like it’s Sam.
He’s trying to think of ways to get Sam to the chair to tie him up and paint a devil’s trap, perform a proper exorcism, when suddenly Sam has one fist in his shirt and he’s flipping them around, pressing Dean down against the mattress. Dean forgets how strong Sam can be and the sudden twist and shove forces the air out of his lungs.
“Get off me.” Dean’s legs are trapped under Sam’s longer ones, Sam stretching out on top of him with a smirk. Both of his hands push down on Dean’s shoulders, holding him in place, and the rough slide-scratch of denim on denim chafes against Dean’s hip. A part of him, the part that Dean happily shoves to the back of his mind in the dark corners where he almost never looks, wants Sam pressed against him, wants to know what that tanned bicep tastes like under his tongue. Salty, strong, soft and smooth. The bigger part of him, though, wants to shove Sam off and scrub his brains out. It’s wrong and dirty and completely, utterly impossible.
Only now, Sam, or the thing possessing Sam - despite the holy water, Dean still is not one-hundred percent convinced - is making it seem like a possibility. He’s more than a little afraid of what will happen in the next few seconds.
Sam doesn’t budge and Dean doesn’t struggle. Dean’s breath is coming out in harsh puffs, but Sam doesn’t seem phased in the least. He shifts his hips and pushes Dean’s legs apart, settling himself in between them. Dean bites his bottom lip with his teeth almost hard enough to draw blood. Sam smiles and leans in, and before he can turn away, Sam’s flicking his tongue out and running it along the fading indentions on his lower lip.
Dean’s words come out rushed and desperate, “I can’t - fuck this is so fucked up - ” He thumps his head back against the mattress and wishes he never went to the bar.
“Who’s going to judge us?” Sam asks with his forehead pressed under Dean’s chin like a mewling cat. Dean’s tries to turn his head away but Sam gives his shirt a hard tug and he stays still.
“Don’t do this,” he says, even as Sam’s mouth stretches out in a sweet smile, his hands pushing Dean’s jacket off his shoulders. Dean raises up and lets him push it off, lets Sam’s broad hands pull his shirt off over his head. Whatever’s got Sam, it must be affecting him too. There’s no other explanation.
“You know you want to,” Sam says.
Dean can’t find the words to deny it.
It happens too fast, Sam’s hands quick but light, grabbing Dean’s jeans and pulling them off, then his socks, one by one, grinning at him like he really wants this too. And that’s when it hits him - what he’s doing to Sam, if it isn’t really him.
“Wait,” Dean says, the first firm action he’s taken in a while. “Stop. Get off me. Get the fuck off me.” He starts pushing Sam away, his voice steadily rising, “Get the fuck off me now, you nasty sonofa-”
“Dean, Dean.” Sam says and stills Dean’s hands with his own. “I want this too.” He looks him straight in the eyes and doesn’t blink.
Dean doesn’t know which way is up anymore. He feels hysterical and completely cut-off from rational thinking.
“Why are you doing this?” The unsteadiness of his voice isn’t something that can be helped.
Sam gives him an exasperated glare that looks almost like the patented Sam eye roll.
“Because it's the only way to make you see that this is me,” his tone earnest.
“What makes you think I’ll trust you after?” Dean stalls.
“Because once you have me,” Sam pushes him back down, starts taking off his own shirt, “once you get a taste,” unbuttoning and shucking his jeans and boxers in one smooth motion off the bed, “you’ll have no choice but to stay. And learn to trust me.”
Then Sam’s rubbing his groin, slow, against Dean’s boxers, coarse pubic hair itching all along the inside of Dean’s thighs, and Dean can’t think in whole words anymore. All it takes is one kiss for him to open up. Sam smiles against his mouth.
When they fuck, it’s soft and slow at first, finding their rhythm. Sam is big but not freakishly so, like Dean thought he would be. Still painful, but when Sam finds the right angle, he hits that one spot that sends little explosions off behind Dean’s closed eyelids. His back is sweaty against Sam’s chest, slipping along together like two well-oiled parts fitting a whole. So many ways Dean can go to hell, but this way, at least he can claim he was only partially responsible.
“Oh god,” Dean pants, leaning heavily on his forearms with every push in Sam makes, rocking them forward. “Ah fuck, christ -!”
Sam’s quiet groans are about the dirtiest things Dean’s ever heard. Long and low and so utterly graceful. He wraps one hand around Dean’s cock, encircling the girth with his fingers and pulling hard down the entire length, again and again, the other hand still braced against Dean’s waist, blunt nails holding onto the skin just above his hip bone.
When Sam lets go of his cock and speeds up, pushing in balls deep, Dean bites his tongue to keep from screaming. It feels like his world has shrunk down to one little spot inside him, pain and pleasure in every hard stroke that slams into him. He feels so dirty, so turned-on and so wrong, but Sam’s voice is right behind his ear panting, breathless and uneven, his breath hitching with every hard thrust - “likethis-likethis-likethis” - as if everything he’s ever wanted is right here, like this.
Dean lets go of the pain and reaches behind him, hand grabbing and fisting in Sam’s hair. He holds on and doesn’t let go until Sam is finished, slamming into him hard and hard and harder. Sam comes inside him with a long, broken whine. A warm wetness spills into him and trickles down his thighs. Dean’s body feels like it’s been ripped to shreds, his muscles completely liquid and useless. His cock is hard and the head rubs against the sheets until it’s too much and Dean comes all over his stomach, pressed into the mattress by Sam’s weight.
“You motherfucker,” Dean manages in between heavy pants. His face is mashed into the pillow, ass in the air. Sam wraps arms around his waist from behind and they both slide down until they’re flat on the bed, boneless.
“Bitch,” Sam says. Dean can feel the smile pressing against the back of his neck.
He’s finding it hard to remember that it’s not Sam who fucked him into the mattress.
“I’ve got you,” Sam says, mouthing the back of Dean’s neck now with warm, wet lips, kissing at the bruising bite he’d put there. Dean can’t help it - he wants to believe.
Sam’s skin, his kisses, soft and hard. Dean can imagine this night happening again, his world exploding and collapsing in on itself, over and over. He can imagine everything down to the second, the moment.
He was so close to being happy, and now that Sam is different - changed - not the Sam he grew up with and played pranks on and bitched at to no end, Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever be that close again.
But he’s going to damn well try, even if his heart is falling out of his chest.
end.
Thoughts/comments greatly appreciated. My first fic in SPN. Kinda not too sure about it, but I just had an image and ran with it. Plus, evil!Sam is always sexy.
Also, I must know - what kind of shoes does/would Jared wear? It's for fic purposes, I'm a stickler for these sorts of details.
And uh, here's a
Snippet from the J2 thing, You don't fall madly in love, you slowly come into it
Ever since Danneel, he hasn’t really thought of dating again. Not seriously, anyway. Life sort of picked up after the break-up, or maybe he was just throwing himself into more things, work to take up his time and keep himself busy. Outside of Supernatural, he sought out side projects - small roles on indie films, some voice-over stuff. He even tried his hand at directing on set, which was actually better than he thought it’d be, and Kim didn’t even breathe down his neck the whole time. Jared thought it was great that Jensen was constantly booked for something or other, but he pulled him aside one day and told him, “Look, man, it’s great that you’re out there, doing things. Just don’t stretch yourself too thin, ok? We still need you here.” He’d grinned, kind of shyly, and Jensen thought that maybe Jared was jealous of all the attention he was getting.
He thinks about it now, sitting down on his barely broken-in leather sofa, cream colored and buttery soft. They had stopped hanging out as much when Jensen had begun to throw himself headfirst into projects, and they’d never really gotten back in touch in that way, staying at each other’s place and drinking beer and watching bad martial arts movies, shooting the shit. They no longer do that sort of thing.
Sam/Dean, 2,738 words
NC-17, dubcon
thank you to lissa_bear for looking it over and giving me suggestions. I probably rambled a bit too much in my emails.
Dean comes back from the bar one night, two-forty in his pocket in dirty, crumpled twenties from playing pool (and he wasn’t even trying), and finds the line of salt in the doorway broken, the lights off, and a shadow in the form of Sam sitting on the far bed.
“I was wondering when you’d get back,” the figure says.
Dean knew from the moment he saw the salt, things aren’t right.
“Where’s Sam?”
The figure stays silent and tilts his head, considering. Then he scoots back until his back is pressed against the headboard.
“I’m right here,” he says. But Dean knows a stranger when he sees one, even if they are in Sam’s body, wearing Sam’s skin.
“Yeah, right. I know my own brother.” Dean says and feels a deep knot of coldness unfurl in the pit of his belly.
The figure has the balls to ask, “Do you?” And the coldness in Dean’s stomach just keeps spreading. Before he knows it, he’s grabbed for Sam’s duffel on the table next to the door and he’s digging through the pile of socks and boxers, looking for the damned holy water. He regrets not carrying his own flask tonight, but Sam’s will do just fine. Dean’s fingers connect with the cold metal and he feels sick to his stomach. This is the second time he’ll have to watch Sam’s skin burn.
He starts muttering the words to an exorcism he’s got memorized, having performed them so frequently in his line of work, and approaches whatever has trapped Sam inside himself on the bed. The demon - because what else can it be, Dean rationalizes - snickers with Sam’s voice, that little laugh that Dean knows so well, and his hand shoots out to flick on the bedside lamp.
“You’re acting weird, Dean.” He says, his eyebrows scrunching up and the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. He gives Dean a confused look, and Dean can't help it--that's Sam's body, and even though it's not Sam inside, it's still Sam's smirk. Those are still his brother's eyes, clear and glassy and so close to the light that Dean stutters and stops and can't remember his place. He starts over again, determined.
Sam looks at him and his eyes turn sad. “Dean, it’s me.” His voice cracks on the last word, sounding just like Sam would, innocent and completely trusting. Dean fumbles again and curses, irritation and rage but most of all, confusion, burning up his eyes.
“Sam,” Dean’s voice is hoarse as he stalks towards the bed, intent on punching him in the face for being so careless to let a demon in, to let it mess with him again. But it's not Sam. It's not Sam, but Dean will punch him anyway.
“What? Dean,” Sam’s hands lift to touch his chest, the t-shirt he’s wearing - Sam’s favorite undershirt, the black so faded it’s practically gray. Dean knows how the soft cotton feels underneath his fingers, how warm it would be from Sam’s skin, and a surge of anger rises high at seeing something that isn’t his brother wearing it, probably purposefully, just to goad him.
“It’s me, Sammy.”
And Dean knows for a damn fact that Sam never calls himself that, ever.
The smile on Sam’s face is sharp, it cuts Dean like a knife.
“You son-of-a-bitch. Get out of him, now.” He can barely feel his hands now, one curled so rigidly around the flask his knuckles hurt and the other balled into a tight, shaking fist.
The glint in Sam’s eye is hard and unkind. “Why don’t you come here and make me?” he asks. The quality of Sam’s voice one that Dean’s never heard before. It’s low, dark, and it scares Dean how excited it makes him feel. Like he could take on Hell and win, like every challenge he faced when he was first learning the ropes, the same thrill of the chase.
Dean crosses the distance between them in two easy steps. He crawls onto the bed and watches Sam’s face, his body language. Everything is screaming deceit.
He kneels in front of Sam, holy water in hand. But he doesn’t know why he hasn’t done anything with it yet, or why he hasn’t started the chant again. Sam’s eyes are pleased and crinkling around the edges, smiling.
“See? That wasn’t so bad…” He reaches for the holy water but Dean moves his hand away.
“Uh-uh.” Dean says, one hand splaying against Sam’s chest to push him back. He doesn’t mean to touch him, it’s just reaction. His fingertips brush against the warm, smooth skin of Sam’s throat. A slow smile widens Sam’s mouth.
“Dean,” he says in that pleading voice that Dean hates so much.
Dean shakes his head once, turning away and closing his eyes. “What? What do you want?” His voice a harsh whisper, and he can’t look at him because he doesn’t want to see more of something that isn’t his brother.
A hand wraps around the one Dean’s got against Sam’s chest. Fingers squeeze once, tight.
“Come here, Dean,” Sam says, low. He draws Dean’s hand to the back of his neck before reaching out and pulling on Dean’s jacket, the two of them coming together, their heads drawing close.
Dean can’t open his eyes, though. He’s got them squeezed shut.
“Look at me,” Sam mumbles. His breath ghosts across Dean’s lips. Dean vaguely remembers the flask still in his hand and how this is a good time to use it. But he lets Sam pry it from his grip with one hand, and he doesn’t know why except that it is useless now, anyway.
“Dean, look at me.”
For a second, Dean is amused at how often Sam says his name. It’s new and reaffirming of the fact that this isn’t Sam. It feels wrong of him to but Dean might like it, hearing his name come out in such a way from Sam’s lips that’s downright seductive in its pleading tone, the same thrill slowly replacing the cold knot that had spread inside him.
“Dean!” Sam shouts, and Dean’s eyes snap open. He puts a rough hand on his face, cupping his cheek. In a softer voice, “There, I’ve got you.” His smile dampens. “You look tired, let me help.”
“No,” Dean says, shaking his head, trying to dislodge Sam’s hand. But he doesn’t kid himself, he’s only half-heartedly protesting. Even if this isn’t Sam, this is Sam’s body, his eyes and his voice and his face. Maybe even his thoughts. Thoughts that are being unwillingly brought to the surface, carefully plucked from Sam’s mind for a purpose, a goal. Sam is being strung like a puppet, and Dean can’t do anything but watch. When Sam is this close, so near, it’s hard for him to do anything else.
There’s a murmur of sound, and it takes Dean a second to realize that the noise is coming from Sam’s half parted lips. He’s saying something in Latin - Dean realizes with a shock that he’s reciting the words to the exorcism he hadn’t finished. Sam’s eyes are closed, lips barely moving with half-whispered words. Dean can only watch in fascination. When Sam finishes, he picks up the holy water and his eyes never leave Dean’s as he splashes some on his neck like nothing, like fucking cologne.
He raises his eyebrows as if to say, See? and drops the flask on the floor. Dean doesn’t know what to think.
“You’re not him,” he says darkly. His voice trembles, but he refuses to acknowledge the sudden fear that’s stealing away his confidence.
“The one and only,” Sam says back. He turns his face to the side and laughs, their foreheads suddenly touching again. “You know, I thought you’d like this me better than the old me.”
Still kneeling, Dean is feeling more and more like someone is playing a game and he has no idea what the rules are. There’s no good explanation for why he hasn’t pulled away, either.
“What are you talking about?” he asks. He’s almost afraid to say anything at all to worsen the situation. It’s pretty screwed as it is.
The jacket Dean’s wearing is new - the old one practically in shreds after a particularly nasty werewolf - and it’s still scratchy and stiff around the collar and cuffs. Sam runs his hand along the black, shiny buttons down the front, tugs the hem down like a mother straightening a stubborn child’s clothes. The collar lightly scratches Dean’s throat, makes him clear it nervously. Sam looks up at him and smiles.
“My kingdom for your thoughts,” Sam says. Dean has to fight to keep his mouth shut on a wisecrack response. He isn’t about to talk to this thing like it’s Sam.
He’s trying to think of ways to get Sam to the chair to tie him up and paint a devil’s trap, perform a proper exorcism, when suddenly Sam has one fist in his shirt and he’s flipping them around, pressing Dean down against the mattress. Dean forgets how strong Sam can be and the sudden twist and shove forces the air out of his lungs.
“Get off me.” Dean’s legs are trapped under Sam’s longer ones, Sam stretching out on top of him with a smirk. Both of his hands push down on Dean’s shoulders, holding him in place, and the rough slide-scratch of denim on denim chafes against Dean’s hip. A part of him, the part that Dean happily shoves to the back of his mind in the dark corners where he almost never looks, wants Sam pressed against him, wants to know what that tanned bicep tastes like under his tongue. Salty, strong, soft and smooth. The bigger part of him, though, wants to shove Sam off and scrub his brains out. It’s wrong and dirty and completely, utterly impossible.
Only now, Sam, or the thing possessing Sam - despite the holy water, Dean still is not one-hundred percent convinced - is making it seem like a possibility. He’s more than a little afraid of what will happen in the next few seconds.
Sam doesn’t budge and Dean doesn’t struggle. Dean’s breath is coming out in harsh puffs, but Sam doesn’t seem phased in the least. He shifts his hips and pushes Dean’s legs apart, settling himself in between them. Dean bites his bottom lip with his teeth almost hard enough to draw blood. Sam smiles and leans in, and before he can turn away, Sam’s flicking his tongue out and running it along the fading indentions on his lower lip.
Dean’s words come out rushed and desperate, “I can’t - fuck this is so fucked up - ” He thumps his head back against the mattress and wishes he never went to the bar.
“Who’s going to judge us?” Sam asks with his forehead pressed under Dean’s chin like a mewling cat. Dean’s tries to turn his head away but Sam gives his shirt a hard tug and he stays still.
“Don’t do this,” he says, even as Sam’s mouth stretches out in a sweet smile, his hands pushing Dean’s jacket off his shoulders. Dean raises up and lets him push it off, lets Sam’s broad hands pull his shirt off over his head. Whatever’s got Sam, it must be affecting him too. There’s no other explanation.
“You know you want to,” Sam says.
Dean can’t find the words to deny it.
It happens too fast, Sam’s hands quick but light, grabbing Dean’s jeans and pulling them off, then his socks, one by one, grinning at him like he really wants this too. And that’s when it hits him - what he’s doing to Sam, if it isn’t really him.
“Wait,” Dean says, the first firm action he’s taken in a while. “Stop. Get off me. Get the fuck off me.” He starts pushing Sam away, his voice steadily rising, “Get the fuck off me now, you nasty sonofa-”
“Dean, Dean.” Sam says and stills Dean’s hands with his own. “I want this too.” He looks him straight in the eyes and doesn’t blink.
Dean doesn’t know which way is up anymore. He feels hysterical and completely cut-off from rational thinking.
“Why are you doing this?” The unsteadiness of his voice isn’t something that can be helped.
Sam gives him an exasperated glare that looks almost like the patented Sam eye roll.
“Because it's the only way to make you see that this is me,” his tone earnest.
“What makes you think I’ll trust you after?” Dean stalls.
“Because once you have me,” Sam pushes him back down, starts taking off his own shirt, “once you get a taste,” unbuttoning and shucking his jeans and boxers in one smooth motion off the bed, “you’ll have no choice but to stay. And learn to trust me.”
Then Sam’s rubbing his groin, slow, against Dean’s boxers, coarse pubic hair itching all along the inside of Dean’s thighs, and Dean can’t think in whole words anymore. All it takes is one kiss for him to open up. Sam smiles against his mouth.
When they fuck, it’s soft and slow at first, finding their rhythm. Sam is big but not freakishly so, like Dean thought he would be. Still painful, but when Sam finds the right angle, he hits that one spot that sends little explosions off behind Dean’s closed eyelids. His back is sweaty against Sam’s chest, slipping along together like two well-oiled parts fitting a whole. So many ways Dean can go to hell, but this way, at least he can claim he was only partially responsible.
“Oh god,” Dean pants, leaning heavily on his forearms with every push in Sam makes, rocking them forward. “Ah fuck, christ -!”
Sam’s quiet groans are about the dirtiest things Dean’s ever heard. Long and low and so utterly graceful. He wraps one hand around Dean’s cock, encircling the girth with his fingers and pulling hard down the entire length, again and again, the other hand still braced against Dean’s waist, blunt nails holding onto the skin just above his hip bone.
When Sam lets go of his cock and speeds up, pushing in balls deep, Dean bites his tongue to keep from screaming. It feels like his world has shrunk down to one little spot inside him, pain and pleasure in every hard stroke that slams into him. He feels so dirty, so turned-on and so wrong, but Sam’s voice is right behind his ear panting, breathless and uneven, his breath hitching with every hard thrust - “likethis-likethis-likethis” - as if everything he’s ever wanted is right here, like this.
Dean lets go of the pain and reaches behind him, hand grabbing and fisting in Sam’s hair. He holds on and doesn’t let go until Sam is finished, slamming into him hard and hard and harder. Sam comes inside him with a long, broken whine. A warm wetness spills into him and trickles down his thighs. Dean’s body feels like it’s been ripped to shreds, his muscles completely liquid and useless. His cock is hard and the head rubs against the sheets until it’s too much and Dean comes all over his stomach, pressed into the mattress by Sam’s weight.
“You motherfucker,” Dean manages in between heavy pants. His face is mashed into the pillow, ass in the air. Sam wraps arms around his waist from behind and they both slide down until they’re flat on the bed, boneless.
“Bitch,” Sam says. Dean can feel the smile pressing against the back of his neck.
He’s finding it hard to remember that it’s not Sam who fucked him into the mattress.
“I’ve got you,” Sam says, mouthing the back of Dean’s neck now with warm, wet lips, kissing at the bruising bite he’d put there. Dean can’t help it - he wants to believe.
Sam’s skin, his kisses, soft and hard. Dean can imagine this night happening again, his world exploding and collapsing in on itself, over and over. He can imagine everything down to the second, the moment.
He was so close to being happy, and now that Sam is different - changed - not the Sam he grew up with and played pranks on and bitched at to no end, Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever be that close again.
But he’s going to damn well try, even if his heart is falling out of his chest.
end.
Thoughts/comments greatly appreciated. My first fic in SPN. Kinda not too sure about it, but I just had an image and ran with it. Plus, evil!Sam is always sexy.
Also, I must know - what kind of shoes does/would Jared wear? It's for fic purposes, I'm a stickler for these sorts of details.
And uh, here's a
Snippet from the J2 thing, You don't fall madly in love, you slowly come into it
Ever since Danneel, he hasn’t really thought of dating again. Not seriously, anyway. Life sort of picked up after the break-up, or maybe he was just throwing himself into more things, work to take up his time and keep himself busy. Outside of Supernatural, he sought out side projects - small roles on indie films, some voice-over stuff. He even tried his hand at directing on set, which was actually better than he thought it’d be, and Kim didn’t even breathe down his neck the whole time. Jared thought it was great that Jensen was constantly booked for something or other, but he pulled him aside one day and told him, “Look, man, it’s great that you’re out there, doing things. Just don’t stretch yourself too thin, ok? We still need you here.” He’d grinned, kind of shyly, and Jensen thought that maybe Jared was jealous of all the attention he was getting.
He thinks about it now, sitting down on his barely broken-in leather sofa, cream colored and buttery soft. They had stopped hanging out as much when Jensen had begun to throw himself headfirst into projects, and they’d never really gotten back in touch in that way, staying at each other’s place and drinking beer and watching bad martial arts movies, shooting the shit. They no longer do that sort of thing.