Arms that Chain Us
Title: Arms that Chain Us
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, dub-con (fuck-or-die), uncomfortable realizations, angst.
Summary: Trapped on the wrong side of the Veil, Sam and Dean do what they have to to get out alive.
A/N: This was originally written for spnkink_meme ; the plot (such as it is) is just a flimsy excuse for porn. And angst. Slightly edited and reposted here; do not expect great art out of this.
"Hey. Hey, Sammy. Hey. It's okay. Look at me." Dean's fingers are gentle on his face, roughened skin and blunt nails. Sam wants to pull away, but it's not like he can pretend this isn't happening if he just keeps his eyes shut. "Sammy, look at me. Don't look at them, look at me."
They're just fucking--watching. Pale inhuman faces, just watching like this is some kind of play, or something. Like it's entertainment. He can't even hate them; it would be like hating a bunch of marble statues.
The Unseelie Sidhe. This would be their idea of entertainment. And they've got him and Dean trapped on this side of the Veil, for the rest of what will probably be their very short lifespans, if the way some of the less-human creatures in the Court are licking their lips is anything to go by. Unless--
He opens his eyes. Dean is right there, all furrowed brow and concerned eyes. He's looking at Sam the way he always does when they get banged up on a hunt. Worried. Assessing.
Oh, God, this is so fucked up. "I can't do this."
"Sure you can." Dean's just touching his face and this isn't--yet--over the edge of wrong but it's getting there.
"Dean, I can't--we're--I mean, you're my--"
"Hey, you're not exactly my dream-girl either, here." Dean pats his cheek, once, and then his hand is sliding back into Sam's hair. He doesn't give Sam time to think about it, to freak out (more); he just tugs him in and kisses him on the mouth.
It's chaste, almost. They fit together easily.
It feels good.
Dean's lips are soft and his jaw is rough with stubble and (when the hell did Sam stop clenching his fists and reach out to touch, when?) when they pull apart he leans his forehead against Sam's and whispers, "Just stop thinking, okay? Just turn that freaking genius brain off and stop thinking. You can freak out later."
"I don't know how to do this," Sam whispers back.
"That's okay," Dean says. "I do," and before Sam can even begin to process that, his shirt is being efficiently unbuttoned. It's hanging loose from his shoulders before he can formulate a protest, and Dean steps back to pull his own t-shirt off without stopping to ask if it's okay. It isn't. They both know it isn't.
"Shh," Dean murmurs again, even though Sam hasn't said anything. His fingers trail down Sam's sides, over his ribs, rubbing almost carelessly over his nipples.
Sam hisses involuntarily, hands coming up to grip Dean's biceps hard. His eyes fall shut. His head is spinning. He can't watch--
"Sensitive, much?" Dean says, and he sounds so smug, so cocky and Dean-like that Sam almost opens his eyes. "Such a fucking girl, seriously--" and there's a warm, wet mouth closing over his left nipple.
Sam jerks into it, a little helpless noise escaping his mouth before he clamps his lips together. There's heat pooling in his belly and he's starting to get hard and he kind of feels like he might cry. Dean strokes up his sides again, rough palms, so fucking familiar, and then he's got one hand on Sam's hip, holding him in place, and the other sliding around to cup his dick through his jeans.
A firm press, then one hard stroke through the layers of denim and boxer shorts and Sam shudders all over. He'd love to tell himself that it's pure revulsion, but it isn't. Oh, God, it isn't. "Dean, I'm--" He stops. He wants to apologize, even though he's just standing there and Dean is the one--
--unbuttoning his jeans, one-handed. Deft. He's got a lot of practice at this, Sam thinks hysterically. Sam shifts his weight--he's not pulling away, because he can't; there's no point in that, no choice at all in any of this but he has to at least--and Dean bites him. Not hard, not really, but the sharp spike of pain is enough to distract him while Dean gets his jeans pushed down around his thighs.
The cooler air hits his bare skin like a shock, and then Dean's sliding down to his knees and Sam's eyes fly open. "What--"
Dean is holding his hips with both hands now, and when he glances up to meet Sam's eyes his expression is impossibly to read. "I said I knew what I was doing, didn't I? Look, just--close your eyes." He grins, suddenly, wry and very crooked. "Pretend I'm a hot chick."
Sam's going to say something back, but then there's a mouth--his mouth, Dean's mouth--sliding down his cock and the air leaves his lungs like he's been punched. He looks down once, sees the sharp curve of Dean's cheekbone and his square hand holding onto Sam's hip, his eyes closed and his mouth soft and pink and stretched tight around--
Sam slams his eyes shut, hands grasping at thin air, searching fruitlessly for purchase, for something to brace himself against. Dean makes a low noise that Sam feels down to the bottom of his toes, then lets go of Sam's hip to grab his hand, thumb stroking a slow circle on the sensitive inside of his wrist. His tongue mirrors the motion around the head of Sam's dick, and Sam finds himself holding onto the warm curve of Dean's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. Rational thought is suddenly a thousand miles away. His world is contracted to slick heat and suction and the rasp of his own breathing, the small wet noises that Dean can't seem to stop making.
He's squeezing his eyes shut tight enough that he can see colorful shapes behind his lids, and when his orgasm hits it's like the whole world turns to light.
It takes a while--he doesn't know how long--for his brain to start functioning again. His cock is going soft, and his skin is uncomfortably cool where the air hits. Dean isn't touching him anymore; their only point of contact is Sam's hand on his shoulder.
Dean.
He opens his eyes again, blinking hard to clear the spots from his vision. He still feels hazy and stunned, and maybe that's a mercy, because this is only halfway over and he doesn't know if he can--
Dean makes a small, strangled noise, and Sam looks down involuntarily.
Dean is still on his knees, legs spread against the dewy grass. His fly is unbuttoned and he's jerking himself off hard and fast, muscles tense and flexing under Sam's hand. His face is averted, but Sam can see the shudder roll up from the base of his spine to his shoulders, the way he fucks into his own hand, hips jerking in an increasingly erratic rhythm.
Sam's hand is still on his shoulder and he feels frozen, afraid to move in case he jars Dean from whatever fantasy he's using to get himself through this. When Dean throws his head back, though, face flushed, lower lip caught between his teeth, Sam can't keep his fingers from tightening convulsively.
Dean's eyes fly open, and Sam is trapped in his gaze while he arches up, gasps, "Fuck, Sammy," and comes.
His whole body is a taut arc, shuddering, sweat beading on his skin. It's captivating in a way that Sam really doesn't want to examine, and then all of the tension suddenly drains out of him. He collapses inward, his cheek dropping against Sam's bare thigh. His breath is warm, and for several seconds, he doesn't move.
Sam lets go of his shoulder, head spinning. His fingers feel numb and cramped from how hard he was holding on, and there are livid red marks pressed into Dean's skin. They're almost definitely going to bruise.
It's easier to think like this, small drops and dabs of observation that can fall around the edges of what just happened. Then Dean shifts against him, stubble scratching his skin for an instant before he pulls away. He scrubs a hand over his face, gropes around him for his discarded t-shirt without looking up at Sam. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and unfamiliar. "Sorry."
"It's okay," Sam murmurs automatically.
Dean snorts, but still doesn't look up. He cleans himself roughly with his faded Zeppelin t-shirt, looks at it for a moment, then tosses it aside and stands, yanking his jeans up as he does. Belatedly, Sam follows suit. He feels clumsy, too big for his skin
"Okay?" Dean says, and Sam's about to answer when he realizes that Dean isn't talking to him. He's looking at the ring of expressionless fae who have been watching them this whole time and who Sam has somehow managed to completely forget about. They're silent, and for a moment that spins out impossibly long, Sam thinks that all this--still--was for nothing.
"Aye," says the tallest of them at last, stepping forward. She looks like a woman, tall and pale and inhumanly perfect. There's cruelty written into the lines of her face, around the edges of the smile she directs at Dean. Sam's seen too many creatures to count look at his brother that way; something about him seems to attract it. "We hold your side of the deal fulfilled, child of man. You may go."
"Thanks a lot," Dean says roughly and turns toward the shimmering, shifting veil of light that separates them from the rest of the world. He still hasn't looked Sam in the face, and Sam's reaching out before he even really thinks about it.
"Dean."
"Save it, Sam."
"Dean." He doesn't even know why he's--he just needs Dean to look him in the face.
Dean sighs. His shoulders slump, and he lifts a hand like he's about to run his fingers through his hair, then drops it to his side. When he turns to face Sam, he looks like he's bracing for a blow, and his eyes are wet. "What the hell do you want me to say?"
You sucked my dick, Sam thinks. You got off on it.
That's significant, and it makes the pit of Sam's stomach squirm like it's full of something hot and twisting, but it's nothing he's willing to put into words. For both their sakes.
"I'm sorry," he says instead, reaching out. His fingers just graze Dean's skin before Dean shudders violently and pulls away.
"Yeah, me too," he says, spinning on his heel and starting toward the Veil.
After a moment, Sam follows him.
Now with a sequel: on sacred ground
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, dub-con (fuck-or-die), uncomfortable realizations, angst.
Summary: Trapped on the wrong side of the Veil, Sam and Dean do what they have to to get out alive.
A/N: This was originally written for spnkink_meme ; the plot (such as it is) is just a flimsy excuse for porn. And angst. Slightly edited and reposted here; do not expect great art out of this.
"Hey. Hey, Sammy. Hey. It's okay. Look at me." Dean's fingers are gentle on his face, roughened skin and blunt nails. Sam wants to pull away, but it's not like he can pretend this isn't happening if he just keeps his eyes shut. "Sammy, look at me. Don't look at them, look at me."
They're just fucking--watching. Pale inhuman faces, just watching like this is some kind of play, or something. Like it's entertainment. He can't even hate them; it would be like hating a bunch of marble statues.
The Unseelie Sidhe. This would be their idea of entertainment. And they've got him and Dean trapped on this side of the Veil, for the rest of what will probably be their very short lifespans, if the way some of the less-human creatures in the Court are licking their lips is anything to go by. Unless--
He opens his eyes. Dean is right there, all furrowed brow and concerned eyes. He's looking at Sam the way he always does when they get banged up on a hunt. Worried. Assessing.
Oh, God, this is so fucked up. "I can't do this."
"Sure you can." Dean's just touching his face and this isn't--yet--over the edge of wrong but it's getting there.
"Dean, I can't--we're--I mean, you're my--"
"Hey, you're not exactly my dream-girl either, here." Dean pats his cheek, once, and then his hand is sliding back into Sam's hair. He doesn't give Sam time to think about it, to freak out (more); he just tugs him in and kisses him on the mouth.
It's chaste, almost. They fit together easily.
It feels good.
Dean's lips are soft and his jaw is rough with stubble and (when the hell did Sam stop clenching his fists and reach out to touch, when?) when they pull apart he leans his forehead against Sam's and whispers, "Just stop thinking, okay? Just turn that freaking genius brain off and stop thinking. You can freak out later."
"I don't know how to do this," Sam whispers back.
"That's okay," Dean says. "I do," and before Sam can even begin to process that, his shirt is being efficiently unbuttoned. It's hanging loose from his shoulders before he can formulate a protest, and Dean steps back to pull his own t-shirt off without stopping to ask if it's okay. It isn't. They both know it isn't.
"Shh," Dean murmurs again, even though Sam hasn't said anything. His fingers trail down Sam's sides, over his ribs, rubbing almost carelessly over his nipples.
Sam hisses involuntarily, hands coming up to grip Dean's biceps hard. His eyes fall shut. His head is spinning. He can't watch--
"Sensitive, much?" Dean says, and he sounds so smug, so cocky and Dean-like that Sam almost opens his eyes. "Such a fucking girl, seriously--" and there's a warm, wet mouth closing over his left nipple.
Sam jerks into it, a little helpless noise escaping his mouth before he clamps his lips together. There's heat pooling in his belly and he's starting to get hard and he kind of feels like he might cry. Dean strokes up his sides again, rough palms, so fucking familiar, and then he's got one hand on Sam's hip, holding him in place, and the other sliding around to cup his dick through his jeans.
A firm press, then one hard stroke through the layers of denim and boxer shorts and Sam shudders all over. He'd love to tell himself that it's pure revulsion, but it isn't. Oh, God, it isn't. "Dean, I'm--" He stops. He wants to apologize, even though he's just standing there and Dean is the one--
--unbuttoning his jeans, one-handed. Deft. He's got a lot of practice at this, Sam thinks hysterically. Sam shifts his weight--he's not pulling away, because he can't; there's no point in that, no choice at all in any of this but he has to at least--and Dean bites him. Not hard, not really, but the sharp spike of pain is enough to distract him while Dean gets his jeans pushed down around his thighs.
The cooler air hits his bare skin like a shock, and then Dean's sliding down to his knees and Sam's eyes fly open. "What--"
Dean is holding his hips with both hands now, and when he glances up to meet Sam's eyes his expression is impossibly to read. "I said I knew what I was doing, didn't I? Look, just--close your eyes." He grins, suddenly, wry and very crooked. "Pretend I'm a hot chick."
Sam's going to say something back, but then there's a mouth--his mouth, Dean's mouth--sliding down his cock and the air leaves his lungs like he's been punched. He looks down once, sees the sharp curve of Dean's cheekbone and his square hand holding onto Sam's hip, his eyes closed and his mouth soft and pink and stretched tight around--
Sam slams his eyes shut, hands grasping at thin air, searching fruitlessly for purchase, for something to brace himself against. Dean makes a low noise that Sam feels down to the bottom of his toes, then lets go of Sam's hip to grab his hand, thumb stroking a slow circle on the sensitive inside of his wrist. His tongue mirrors the motion around the head of Sam's dick, and Sam finds himself holding onto the warm curve of Dean's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. Rational thought is suddenly a thousand miles away. His world is contracted to slick heat and suction and the rasp of his own breathing, the small wet noises that Dean can't seem to stop making.
He's squeezing his eyes shut tight enough that he can see colorful shapes behind his lids, and when his orgasm hits it's like the whole world turns to light.
It takes a while--he doesn't know how long--for his brain to start functioning again. His cock is going soft, and his skin is uncomfortably cool where the air hits. Dean isn't touching him anymore; their only point of contact is Sam's hand on his shoulder.
Dean.
He opens his eyes again, blinking hard to clear the spots from his vision. He still feels hazy and stunned, and maybe that's a mercy, because this is only halfway over and he doesn't know if he can--
Dean makes a small, strangled noise, and Sam looks down involuntarily.
Dean is still on his knees, legs spread against the dewy grass. His fly is unbuttoned and he's jerking himself off hard and fast, muscles tense and flexing under Sam's hand. His face is averted, but Sam can see the shudder roll up from the base of his spine to his shoulders, the way he fucks into his own hand, hips jerking in an increasingly erratic rhythm.
Sam's hand is still on his shoulder and he feels frozen, afraid to move in case he jars Dean from whatever fantasy he's using to get himself through this. When Dean throws his head back, though, face flushed, lower lip caught between his teeth, Sam can't keep his fingers from tightening convulsively.
Dean's eyes fly open, and Sam is trapped in his gaze while he arches up, gasps, "Fuck, Sammy," and comes.
His whole body is a taut arc, shuddering, sweat beading on his skin. It's captivating in a way that Sam really doesn't want to examine, and then all of the tension suddenly drains out of him. He collapses inward, his cheek dropping against Sam's bare thigh. His breath is warm, and for several seconds, he doesn't move.
Sam lets go of his shoulder, head spinning. His fingers feel numb and cramped from how hard he was holding on, and there are livid red marks pressed into Dean's skin. They're almost definitely going to bruise.
It's easier to think like this, small drops and dabs of observation that can fall around the edges of what just happened. Then Dean shifts against him, stubble scratching his skin for an instant before he pulls away. He scrubs a hand over his face, gropes around him for his discarded t-shirt without looking up at Sam. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and unfamiliar. "Sorry."
"It's okay," Sam murmurs automatically.
Dean snorts, but still doesn't look up. He cleans himself roughly with his faded Zeppelin t-shirt, looks at it for a moment, then tosses it aside and stands, yanking his jeans up as he does. Belatedly, Sam follows suit. He feels clumsy, too big for his skin
"Okay?" Dean says, and Sam's about to answer when he realizes that Dean isn't talking to him. He's looking at the ring of expressionless fae who have been watching them this whole time and who Sam has somehow managed to completely forget about. They're silent, and for a moment that spins out impossibly long, Sam thinks that all this--still--was for nothing.
"Aye," says the tallest of them at last, stepping forward. She looks like a woman, tall and pale and inhumanly perfect. There's cruelty written into the lines of her face, around the edges of the smile she directs at Dean. Sam's seen too many creatures to count look at his brother that way; something about him seems to attract it. "We hold your side of the deal fulfilled, child of man. You may go."
"Thanks a lot," Dean says roughly and turns toward the shimmering, shifting veil of light that separates them from the rest of the world. He still hasn't looked Sam in the face, and Sam's reaching out before he even really thinks about it.
"Dean."
"Save it, Sam."
"Dean." He doesn't even know why he's--he just needs Dean to look him in the face.
Dean sighs. His shoulders slump, and he lifts a hand like he's about to run his fingers through his hair, then drops it to his side. When he turns to face Sam, he looks like he's bracing for a blow, and his eyes are wet. "What the hell do you want me to say?"
You sucked my dick, Sam thinks. You got off on it.
That's significant, and it makes the pit of Sam's stomach squirm like it's full of something hot and twisting, but it's nothing he's willing to put into words. For both their sakes.
"I'm sorry," he says instead, reaching out. His fingers just graze Dean's skin before Dean shudders violently and pulls away.
"Yeah, me too," he says, spinning on his heel and starting toward the Veil.
After a moment, Sam follows him.
Now with a sequel: on sacred ground