SPN fic: Feverish Lucidity
Title:Feverish Lucidity
Pairing:Sam/Dean
Warnings: NC-17 for slash
Word count:1700
Summary: Written for a prompt found at Geckoholic comment meme -which is awesome, by the way. So, the sweetmaypoles asked for Dean with a fever, then sex. Now, I know I've already written something like that, but as some of my friends have told me: there can never be too much of feverish Dean having sex. So, here we go again. PWP, basically, with a touch of H/C.
Thanks to: my partner in crime, disneymagics who did a terrific and very quick beta work on this.
Disclaimer: I don't own SPN or any of these characters. No benefits made.
Feverish lucidity
Dean wonders if fevers have always made him feel this bad, this helpless. It seems to him that as a teenager, or even when he’d been in his early 20’s, he could dig a grave or take down a monster while sporting a high-grade fever, without even blinking an eye.
Or maybe everything is just distorted right now, his memories as well as his perceptions of things. He’s not old -not even in his mid-thirties yet, but the weight of the years always seems a lot heavier when he’s sick.
He shivers so violently it actually hurts -his whole body aching, his teeth clenching hard. He’s buried under so many layers of blankets and yet he still feels chilled to the bone, and his skin feels like parchment that’s been baked in the sun, too tight and sensitive.
“Hey,Dean. Come on, time to take some Tylenol.”
It’s strange, sitting up in bed, like each of his movements is a vague and distant echo. He feels it, and his whole body thrums with the need to stay still, fight lazily against his clumsy motions.
He opens his eyes and everything is too bright, too hot. Sam’s face is there, somewhere, a hand holding out white pills, the other with a paper cup.
Water.
Dean licks his lips slowly. His mouth isn’t watering, barely even trying to, and it hurts.
“W’s wrong with me,” he rasps, and barely recognises his own voice, weak and thin like the end of a murmur.
“Just a bug, Dean. You’re probably coming down with a cold or so…”
He can’t concentrate. He wants to take the pills, but his hand hovers in front of him and he can’t control it. Then everything is black or white. He doesn’t even know. The pills are in his mouth, an acrid powdery taste melting on his tongue. He has the paper cup between his hands and Sam is there, helping him to hold it, guiding it gently to his mouth.
Dean drinks and it hurts, but it’s good, and he feels like crying. Doesn’t even know why.
There is Sam, again, and something cold and soft is sliding on the skin of his face. He leans into it. Lost, aching. Wondering.
Is he getting old?
::: :::
“How are you feeling?”
Dean answers with a wet cough, closing the bathroom door behind him. He’s just showered and brushed his teeth but feels like he’s been running for hours.
This virus, whatever it is, has turned out to be a bitch. He has to hold on to the freaking wall to get back to his bed. The sheets are clean. There’s an extra pillow. He wants to thank Sam for this, tries to smile at him, but by the way Sam’s features remain tense with worry, he must’ve failed.
“Dean?”
Yeah, right… How is he doing?
He sits tiredly and tries to catch his breath.
“M’okay,” is what comes out. Of course it is. It’s like his brain is
programmed for it.
“You look a little better than last night. Mind if I take your temperature?”
Dean shrugs. He’s learned over the years that it doesn’t do any good to try and resist - Sam will always have his way in the end.
He opens his mouth slowly. His head feels stuffed full of cotton, his nose is tickling, and he can feel the congestion building up, slowly but surely. He needs to cough again, but he manages to hold it until Sam is done.
“Still running a low grade fever,” freaking doctor Winchester informs him.
“Come on, I’ll help you lay down.”
Feeling Sam’s hand on him, Dean grabs his wrist. It’ impulsive and he’s too tired to question it.
“Lie in bed with me.”
“Okay,” Sam answers simply.
He undresses until he’s naked, just like Dean, and slides easily under the covers, lying on his back. Now that Dean’s fever has lowered, he relishes Sam’s heat and wraps himself around him, settling on his side with one leg draped over his muscular thighs.
Sam is hot, as always. Dean remembers when they were both very young and sleeping in the same bed, how Sam would generate so much heat they would end up sprawled on the bed, the covers discarded somewhere on the floor.
He’s not only getting old. He’s getting sentimental.
“You alright?” Sam asks, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders. He starts to play with the soft hair on Dean’s neck, slowly running his fingers through it. Dean sighs. Can’t help himself. Sam knows damn well what that does to him.
“Yeah,” he finally mumbles, his breath feeling hot against Sam’s skin. “M’getting old,” he adds.
And where is this coming from? Damn fever.
“Me too,” Sam answers, surprisingly. Thinking about it, maybe it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. Sam knows what Dean means. He’s the only one who gets it. They’ve lived too long already. Their souls are tired and broken.
Still. This, right there, the both of them naked under the covers, it’s good. It’s nice.
Dean settles more closely next to Sam when shivers start wracking his body. He inhales the scent of his younger brother deeply, even if his nose tickles and he can’t smell too much.
Sam’s hand rubs his back for a moment, then slowly follows the trail to the curve of Dean’s ass. And maybe it’s the fever, who the hell cares, really, but it feels so good that Dean’s shaft starts swelling where it’s trapped at the dip of Sam’s hip.
“Mmm…”
“Yeah?” Sam asks in a low voice, using his other hand to get a good grip at Dean’s ass cheeks.
“Hell yeah,” Dean agrees and gives a small jerk of his hips so that his cock rubs against Sam’s skin.
For a long moment that’s all that happens. Sam caresses Dean’s ass and Dean rubs himself against him. And it’s enough. A low, almost constant humming sound is escaping Dean’s throat and he doesn’t even try to stop it. All the energy he can gather, he’s using it to feel, just feel the pleasure. Sam’s fingers digging in his muscles, massaging forcefully, is enough to have Dean’s hole twitch almost constantly. His cock is hard, so hard, so hot because of the fever and the need.
Dean’s light headed. So tired. Doesn’t want it to end and he knows he’s going to fall asleep soon.
“Sammy, make me come, please,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, baby.”
Sam’s hands leave his ass. He hears this wet, slurping noise and figures that Sam is wetting his fingers. He moans in anticipation. He wants this, so much, wants to ride his brother and mark him and kiss him and jerk himself until he comes all over Sam’s lean stomach.
But he’s too weak. Just thinking about moving hurts.
All he can do is to wait for Sam to take the lead. He feels heavy and too light, and his heart is beating hard in his chest, his cock is pulsing from the need, so full of blood. “Sam,” He repeats just as two wet fingers slide between his ass cheeks, making him shiver despite the saliva being warm.
With his other hand, Sam parts them and rubs the tip of his fingers over Dean’s hole which is twitching in anticipation. “Huh…yeah…” Dean can’t help but moan. Sam knows how sensitive he is down there. Dean can come from just having his hole rubbed and played with, with a nice jerking of his cock near the end.
He loves it. Doesn’t think about what this makes him because right now, right here… it’s him and Sam. Dean has learned how useless it is to pretend in front of his brother. He’s fooling no one.
The fingers work his muscle and it’s good. Dean lets go of everything, not even trying to participate in any way, both of his arms lying still and limp because they’re too heavy to move.
He doesn’t want to try.
He’s sweating and it cools him down, but the fire is still burning inside his stomach, rising from lower where his cock leaks and his balls are drawing up. Sam pushes on his hips to slide a hand between their bodies. He wraps it slowly around Dean’s oversensitive skin, then presses, hard.
Dean keens. At least he thinks he does. Sam kisses the top of his head like he’s some fragile and delicate lover.
Dean won’t ever admit it -most of the time, he can’t even admit it to himself, but he kind of likes it.
The fingers rub at his hole, insistent, and Sam is jacking his cock so good, rubbing the head with his thumb, shifting from slow, strong movements to quick, almost too light ones.
Dean gets lost. “Sammy,” He pants.
“I got you, Dean.”
“Sam. Sammy.” It’s like he can’t shut up, like the fever is multiplying every sensation going through his body. He pants, mouth half open, pants and moans and keens, murmuring Sam’s name over and over again.
“Come on, Dean, let go.”
“So c-close,” Dean stutters, giving small, sharp, jerks of his hips. Sam’s fingers haven’t even penetrated his anus but he feels like they’re deep inside him, connecting the delicious electric jolts of his muscle spasms to his swollen cock, twitching strongly, almost constantly under Sam’s ministrations.
He’s close. Wants the release. Wants it to never end. He starts tensing and it hurts, his aching body suddenly reminding him of the sickness and the fever plaguing him.
“Ah!” he lets out, not sure if it’s from pleasure or from pain, all he knows is that he needs to come, needs the pleasure to burst out of his body, and he’s shaking, and tensing, and someone cries, “oh, oh, oh,” and it must be him.
And suddenly, the ever tensing ball of want and need in his belly just bursts. He rasps. “C-coming… god, Sam,” and lets the wave swallow him, his cock spurting all over Sam’s hand, his hole clenching tight and good. He cries again when a last aftershock runs through him. A brief moment that seems like an eternity packed into a few second so intense time doesn’t mean anything anymore.
It takes him a long time, coming down from it, like he’s just had some freaky extracorporeal buzz and is having trouble sliding back into his body.
So tired. Exhausted.
Old. Spent.
Kind of happy, too.
Satisfied.
Sam is cleaning him up. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, just hums in contentment because it’s them, just the two of them, and this, no one else gets to have.
Fin
Pairing:Sam/Dean
Warnings: NC-17 for slash
Word count:1700
Summary: Written for a prompt found at Geckoholic comment meme -which is awesome, by the way. So, the sweetmaypoles asked for Dean with a fever, then sex. Now, I know I've already written something like that, but as some of my friends have told me: there can never be too much of feverish Dean having sex. So, here we go again. PWP, basically, with a touch of H/C.
Thanks to: my partner in crime, disneymagics who did a terrific and very quick beta work on this.
Disclaimer: I don't own SPN or any of these characters. No benefits made.
Feverish lucidity
Dean wonders if fevers have always made him feel this bad, this helpless. It seems to him that as a teenager, or even when he’d been in his early 20’s, he could dig a grave or take down a monster while sporting a high-grade fever, without even blinking an eye.
Or maybe everything is just distorted right now, his memories as well as his perceptions of things. He’s not old -not even in his mid-thirties yet, but the weight of the years always seems a lot heavier when he’s sick.
He shivers so violently it actually hurts -his whole body aching, his teeth clenching hard. He’s buried under so many layers of blankets and yet he still feels chilled to the bone, and his skin feels like parchment that’s been baked in the sun, too tight and sensitive.
“Hey,Dean. Come on, time to take some Tylenol.”
It’s strange, sitting up in bed, like each of his movements is a vague and distant echo. He feels it, and his whole body thrums with the need to stay still, fight lazily against his clumsy motions.
He opens his eyes and everything is too bright, too hot. Sam’s face is there, somewhere, a hand holding out white pills, the other with a paper cup.
Water.
Dean licks his lips slowly. His mouth isn’t watering, barely even trying to, and it hurts.
“W’s wrong with me,” he rasps, and barely recognises his own voice, weak and thin like the end of a murmur.
“Just a bug, Dean. You’re probably coming down with a cold or so…”
He can’t concentrate. He wants to take the pills, but his hand hovers in front of him and he can’t control it. Then everything is black or white. He doesn’t even know. The pills are in his mouth, an acrid powdery taste melting on his tongue. He has the paper cup between his hands and Sam is there, helping him to hold it, guiding it gently to his mouth.
Dean drinks and it hurts, but it’s good, and he feels like crying. Doesn’t even know why.
There is Sam, again, and something cold and soft is sliding on the skin of his face. He leans into it. Lost, aching. Wondering.
Is he getting old?
::: :::
“How are you feeling?”
Dean answers with a wet cough, closing the bathroom door behind him. He’s just showered and brushed his teeth but feels like he’s been running for hours.
This virus, whatever it is, has turned out to be a bitch. He has to hold on to the freaking wall to get back to his bed. The sheets are clean. There’s an extra pillow. He wants to thank Sam for this, tries to smile at him, but by the way Sam’s features remain tense with worry, he must’ve failed.
“Dean?”
Yeah, right… How is he doing?
He sits tiredly and tries to catch his breath.
“M’okay,” is what comes out. Of course it is. It’s like his brain is
programmed for it.
“You look a little better than last night. Mind if I take your temperature?”
Dean shrugs. He’s learned over the years that it doesn’t do any good to try and resist - Sam will always have his way in the end.
He opens his mouth slowly. His head feels stuffed full of cotton, his nose is tickling, and he can feel the congestion building up, slowly but surely. He needs to cough again, but he manages to hold it until Sam is done.
“Still running a low grade fever,” freaking doctor Winchester informs him.
“Come on, I’ll help you lay down.”
Feeling Sam’s hand on him, Dean grabs his wrist. It’ impulsive and he’s too tired to question it.
“Lie in bed with me.”
“Okay,” Sam answers simply.
He undresses until he’s naked, just like Dean, and slides easily under the covers, lying on his back. Now that Dean’s fever has lowered, he relishes Sam’s heat and wraps himself around him, settling on his side with one leg draped over his muscular thighs.
Sam is hot, as always. Dean remembers when they were both very young and sleeping in the same bed, how Sam would generate so much heat they would end up sprawled on the bed, the covers discarded somewhere on the floor.
He’s not only getting old. He’s getting sentimental.
“You alright?” Sam asks, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders. He starts to play with the soft hair on Dean’s neck, slowly running his fingers through it. Dean sighs. Can’t help himself. Sam knows damn well what that does to him.
“Yeah,” he finally mumbles, his breath feeling hot against Sam’s skin. “M’getting old,” he adds.
And where is this coming from? Damn fever.
“Me too,” Sam answers, surprisingly. Thinking about it, maybe it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. Sam knows what Dean means. He’s the only one who gets it. They’ve lived too long already. Their souls are tired and broken.
Still. This, right there, the both of them naked under the covers, it’s good. It’s nice.
Dean settles more closely next to Sam when shivers start wracking his body. He inhales the scent of his younger brother deeply, even if his nose tickles and he can’t smell too much.
Sam’s hand rubs his back for a moment, then slowly follows the trail to the curve of Dean’s ass. And maybe it’s the fever, who the hell cares, really, but it feels so good that Dean’s shaft starts swelling where it’s trapped at the dip of Sam’s hip.
“Mmm…”
“Yeah?” Sam asks in a low voice, using his other hand to get a good grip at Dean’s ass cheeks.
“Hell yeah,” Dean agrees and gives a small jerk of his hips so that his cock rubs against Sam’s skin.
For a long moment that’s all that happens. Sam caresses Dean’s ass and Dean rubs himself against him. And it’s enough. A low, almost constant humming sound is escaping Dean’s throat and he doesn’t even try to stop it. All the energy he can gather, he’s using it to feel, just feel the pleasure. Sam’s fingers digging in his muscles, massaging forcefully, is enough to have Dean’s hole twitch almost constantly. His cock is hard, so hard, so hot because of the fever and the need.
Dean’s light headed. So tired. Doesn’t want it to end and he knows he’s going to fall asleep soon.
“Sammy, make me come, please,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, baby.”
Sam’s hands leave his ass. He hears this wet, slurping noise and figures that Sam is wetting his fingers. He moans in anticipation. He wants this, so much, wants to ride his brother and mark him and kiss him and jerk himself until he comes all over Sam’s lean stomach.
But he’s too weak. Just thinking about moving hurts.
All he can do is to wait for Sam to take the lead. He feels heavy and too light, and his heart is beating hard in his chest, his cock is pulsing from the need, so full of blood. “Sam,” He repeats just as two wet fingers slide between his ass cheeks, making him shiver despite the saliva being warm.
With his other hand, Sam parts them and rubs the tip of his fingers over Dean’s hole which is twitching in anticipation. “Huh…yeah…” Dean can’t help but moan. Sam knows how sensitive he is down there. Dean can come from just having his hole rubbed and played with, with a nice jerking of his cock near the end.
He loves it. Doesn’t think about what this makes him because right now, right here… it’s him and Sam. Dean has learned how useless it is to pretend in front of his brother. He’s fooling no one.
The fingers work his muscle and it’s good. Dean lets go of everything, not even trying to participate in any way, both of his arms lying still and limp because they’re too heavy to move.
He doesn’t want to try.
He’s sweating and it cools him down, but the fire is still burning inside his stomach, rising from lower where his cock leaks and his balls are drawing up. Sam pushes on his hips to slide a hand between their bodies. He wraps it slowly around Dean’s oversensitive skin, then presses, hard.
Dean keens. At least he thinks he does. Sam kisses the top of his head like he’s some fragile and delicate lover.
Dean won’t ever admit it -most of the time, he can’t even admit it to himself, but he kind of likes it.
The fingers rub at his hole, insistent, and Sam is jacking his cock so good, rubbing the head with his thumb, shifting from slow, strong movements to quick, almost too light ones.
Dean gets lost. “Sammy,” He pants.
“I got you, Dean.”
“Sam. Sammy.” It’s like he can’t shut up, like the fever is multiplying every sensation going through his body. He pants, mouth half open, pants and moans and keens, murmuring Sam’s name over and over again.
“Come on, Dean, let go.”
“So c-close,” Dean stutters, giving small, sharp, jerks of his hips. Sam’s fingers haven’t even penetrated his anus but he feels like they’re deep inside him, connecting the delicious electric jolts of his muscle spasms to his swollen cock, twitching strongly, almost constantly under Sam’s ministrations.
He’s close. Wants the release. Wants it to never end. He starts tensing and it hurts, his aching body suddenly reminding him of the sickness and the fever plaguing him.
“Ah!” he lets out, not sure if it’s from pleasure or from pain, all he knows is that he needs to come, needs the pleasure to burst out of his body, and he’s shaking, and tensing, and someone cries, “oh, oh, oh,” and it must be him.
And suddenly, the ever tensing ball of want and need in his belly just bursts. He rasps. “C-coming… god, Sam,” and lets the wave swallow him, his cock spurting all over Sam’s hand, his hole clenching tight and good. He cries again when a last aftershock runs through him. A brief moment that seems like an eternity packed into a few second so intense time doesn’t mean anything anymore.
It takes him a long time, coming down from it, like he’s just had some freaky extracorporeal buzz and is having trouble sliding back into his body.
So tired. Exhausted.
Old. Spent.
Kind of happy, too.
Satisfied.
Sam is cleaning him up. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, just hums in contentment because it’s them, just the two of them, and this, no one else gets to have.
Fin