Supernatural fic (Dean/Sam, NC-17)
Title: The Truth about the Tooth Fairy
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17 for explicit incestuous, sexual content.
Notes: For fatale, on her birthday. Well, you got your Wincest at last, bitch! You are totally awesomecakes in so many different ways **wink wink**, and I hope you're getting good and plastered right now. This is for you, my kind of gay life-partner.
They sit side by side on stiff motel sheets, knees brushing together. The carcass of their fast food dinner is spread behind them and the touch of denim-covered legs is the only warmth in the cheap, ugly room. They don’t talk of Dad, but his memory peers from between every word and story, a constant third in their travels. There are shadows beneath Dean’s eyes that testify to the miles they’ve crossed in the past few days, but Sam knows that it goes beyond that. Dean doesn’t sleep much; every time Sam jerks awake, sweaty and shaking, Dean is there watching him. It catches Sam every time in a wordless sort of way, his thoughts still tangled with sleep. It’s all he can do to meet Dean’s eyes, his nightmares of Jessica fading in a rush of trust in his brother.
They never talk about that, or about why Dean sits up late at night sometimes to watch Sam sleep. It’s there between their words nonetheless, like Dad, and it’s only late at night under thin covers that are never long enough that Sam even considers all of the things that they never say. Every day has that shade of unreality, that nagging suspicion that they’re only living out some urban legend and someday children will tell stories about them with flashlights under their chin, stories that will never mention the way that Dean holds him by the shoulders when he fucks Sam, hard enough that he can feel the pressure of them for hours afterwards.
When you spend your life chasing phantoms and boogymen, sucking your brother’s cock seems less fucked up than it probably should be.
Dean sighs when he closes his eyes and leans over, his breath hot on Sam’s throat, and for a long moment they are still, counting the breaths until the moment that Sam will gasp and stop thinking. He shifts his knee against his brother’s, eyebrows furrowed and lashes lowered as Dean’s tongue rasps across the stubble on the underside of his jaw. It is never long until Sam gives and pushes Dean down onto stiff motel sheets, hands snaking out to undo Dean’s belt, slipping off the bed and pressing his mouth to the soft skin of Dean’s hipbone.
It is only after Dean has turned Sam’s face to kiss him, hand braced across his brother’s throat, that Sam does so, going hard onto one knee and scraping his skin on the carpet. He looks up at Dean with wide, embarassed eyes and Dean only smiles. His response is meaninglessly teasing, brotherly. He could have said the same thing when Sam was seven years old and took a tumble off of his new two-wheeler and Sam loves him for it.
He turns his head but doesn’t take his eyes away from Dean’s, and bites down hard into the muslce of Dean’s thigh, lapping at the marks once they’re good and red, undeniable. He never bit Jessica, never marked her. He loved her but he had never needed her, never felt that ugly desire to punish and bruise and claim. He thinks of her as he takes his brother’s cock deep into his throat, her breasts and soft hips vivid behind his eyes. They come without words or guilt or the suspicion that if he had needed her, he would have saved her. He brushes his thumb over the round little circle of teeth marks with the hand not busy jacking Dean’s cock, before shoving his own jeans down his thighs and climbing clumsily back onto the bed, hampered by his jeans and the stretch of Dean’s belly as he reachs for his jacket.
“Hang on --” he says, and Sam has never laughed at this but always wants to, every time. There’s no reason to think that Dean wanting a rubber to fuck his own brother would be funny but somehow it is, even though Sam has no words to describe the irony. He leans back, bracing his weight on the ball of his hand, watching as Dean fumbles latex over his dick. Sam still has his shirt on and he pulls it off absentmindedly, only realizing that Dean is staring at him when he has the tshirt up and over his head. He freezes that way, cotton stretched between his forearms and Dean reaches for him. The pads of his fingers are rough on Sam’s skin, nicked with countless scars of childhood and their job, their mission, whatever it is that they carry on in their father’s name. Dean licks his lips and doesn’t glance up when Sam laughs, hands skating over the back of Sam’s biceps and down into his armpits and then Sam is really laughing, helplessly, even as Dean shifts underneath him and gets to his knees, lowering Sam onto his belly. His chin hangs nearly off the edge of the bed and Dean gets his jeans off the rest of the way and shucks his own shirt to the side.
He is gentle with Sam. He always has been, an older brother even in this, Sam’s caretaker when their dad left them in motel rooms just like this one, chasing another figment of legend. Gentleness isn’t what Sam wants, even as he sucks Dean’s fingers into his mouth, bites down when Dean pushes inside too fast, strangling on his own moans, bracing for purchase with his feet. Dean’s hand is wrapped around the line of his jaw and his arms are still tangled in his shirt, and Sam pushes back hard. He gasps (pain bright and agonizing, feeling like Dean sheathed all the way up to his lungs) and Dean hesitates. Sam does it again.
“Sammy --” Low and choked, pained, and Dean’s fingers jerk out of his mouth and wrap around his shoulder, hips snapping forward so hard that Sam’s chin slides off the bed, bumping his cheek into the mattress. And then there is nothing but the slide of Dean’s cock pulling his insides out, the burn of his own rubbing against the stiff sheets. Silence in his own mind, away from the chase of monsters, nightmares, the fact that this is wrong, they’re brothers and it was Dean who told him about the Tooth Fairy, and Dean who told him that the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real.
After, Sam gets up and clears away the remains of their dinner, some of it ground into the mattress. He’s so exhausted that a grease spot or two isn’t going to bother him. He tidies their room mechanically, moving from one mess to the other, most of his brain occupied with the rough sound of Dean’s breathing, slipping towards sleep. He doesn’t slip into Dean’s arms when he finally crawls back into bed, wincing; he settles across from his brother and after a moment, Dean shifts over onto his side to meet Sam’s eyes. Their feet brush together under the mattress. Dean reaches up to pat Sam on the cheek, a careless, brotherly gesture that sparks something warm in Sam’s chest.
In the morning, Dean will already be awake when Sam opens his eyes, staring at his little brother with an unreadable expression on his face. He won’t say anything but he will smile, and Sam’s nightmares will vanish once again in the hazy morning light.
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17 for explicit incestuous, sexual content.
Notes: For fatale, on her birthday. Well, you got your Wincest at last, bitch! You are totally awesomecakes in so many different ways **wink wink**, and I hope you're getting good and plastered right now. This is for you, my kind of gay life-partner.
They sit side by side on stiff motel sheets, knees brushing together. The carcass of their fast food dinner is spread behind them and the touch of denim-covered legs is the only warmth in the cheap, ugly room. They don’t talk of Dad, but his memory peers from between every word and story, a constant third in their travels. There are shadows beneath Dean’s eyes that testify to the miles they’ve crossed in the past few days, but Sam knows that it goes beyond that. Dean doesn’t sleep much; every time Sam jerks awake, sweaty and shaking, Dean is there watching him. It catches Sam every time in a wordless sort of way, his thoughts still tangled with sleep. It’s all he can do to meet Dean’s eyes, his nightmares of Jessica fading in a rush of trust in his brother.
They never talk about that, or about why Dean sits up late at night sometimes to watch Sam sleep. It’s there between their words nonetheless, like Dad, and it’s only late at night under thin covers that are never long enough that Sam even considers all of the things that they never say. Every day has that shade of unreality, that nagging suspicion that they’re only living out some urban legend and someday children will tell stories about them with flashlights under their chin, stories that will never mention the way that Dean holds him by the shoulders when he fucks Sam, hard enough that he can feel the pressure of them for hours afterwards.
When you spend your life chasing phantoms and boogymen, sucking your brother’s cock seems less fucked up than it probably should be.
Dean sighs when he closes his eyes and leans over, his breath hot on Sam’s throat, and for a long moment they are still, counting the breaths until the moment that Sam will gasp and stop thinking. He shifts his knee against his brother’s, eyebrows furrowed and lashes lowered as Dean’s tongue rasps across the stubble on the underside of his jaw. It is never long until Sam gives and pushes Dean down onto stiff motel sheets, hands snaking out to undo Dean’s belt, slipping off the bed and pressing his mouth to the soft skin of Dean’s hipbone.
It is only after Dean has turned Sam’s face to kiss him, hand braced across his brother’s throat, that Sam does so, going hard onto one knee and scraping his skin on the carpet. He looks up at Dean with wide, embarassed eyes and Dean only smiles. His response is meaninglessly teasing, brotherly. He could have said the same thing when Sam was seven years old and took a tumble off of his new two-wheeler and Sam loves him for it.
He turns his head but doesn’t take his eyes away from Dean’s, and bites down hard into the muslce of Dean’s thigh, lapping at the marks once they’re good and red, undeniable. He never bit Jessica, never marked her. He loved her but he had never needed her, never felt that ugly desire to punish and bruise and claim. He thinks of her as he takes his brother’s cock deep into his throat, her breasts and soft hips vivid behind his eyes. They come without words or guilt or the suspicion that if he had needed her, he would have saved her. He brushes his thumb over the round little circle of teeth marks with the hand not busy jacking Dean’s cock, before shoving his own jeans down his thighs and climbing clumsily back onto the bed, hampered by his jeans and the stretch of Dean’s belly as he reachs for his jacket.
“Hang on --” he says, and Sam has never laughed at this but always wants to, every time. There’s no reason to think that Dean wanting a rubber to fuck his own brother would be funny but somehow it is, even though Sam has no words to describe the irony. He leans back, bracing his weight on the ball of his hand, watching as Dean fumbles latex over his dick. Sam still has his shirt on and he pulls it off absentmindedly, only realizing that Dean is staring at him when he has the tshirt up and over his head. He freezes that way, cotton stretched between his forearms and Dean reaches for him. The pads of his fingers are rough on Sam’s skin, nicked with countless scars of childhood and their job, their mission, whatever it is that they carry on in their father’s name. Dean licks his lips and doesn’t glance up when Sam laughs, hands skating over the back of Sam’s biceps and down into his armpits and then Sam is really laughing, helplessly, even as Dean shifts underneath him and gets to his knees, lowering Sam onto his belly. His chin hangs nearly off the edge of the bed and Dean gets his jeans off the rest of the way and shucks his own shirt to the side.
He is gentle with Sam. He always has been, an older brother even in this, Sam’s caretaker when their dad left them in motel rooms just like this one, chasing another figment of legend. Gentleness isn’t what Sam wants, even as he sucks Dean’s fingers into his mouth, bites down when Dean pushes inside too fast, strangling on his own moans, bracing for purchase with his feet. Dean’s hand is wrapped around the line of his jaw and his arms are still tangled in his shirt, and Sam pushes back hard. He gasps (pain bright and agonizing, feeling like Dean sheathed all the way up to his lungs) and Dean hesitates. Sam does it again.
“Sammy --” Low and choked, pained, and Dean’s fingers jerk out of his mouth and wrap around his shoulder, hips snapping forward so hard that Sam’s chin slides off the bed, bumping his cheek into the mattress. And then there is nothing but the slide of Dean’s cock pulling his insides out, the burn of his own rubbing against the stiff sheets. Silence in his own mind, away from the chase of monsters, nightmares, the fact that this is wrong, they’re brothers and it was Dean who told him about the Tooth Fairy, and Dean who told him that the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real.
After, Sam gets up and clears away the remains of their dinner, some of it ground into the mattress. He’s so exhausted that a grease spot or two isn’t going to bother him. He tidies their room mechanically, moving from one mess to the other, most of his brain occupied with the rough sound of Dean’s breathing, slipping towards sleep. He doesn’t slip into Dean’s arms when he finally crawls back into bed, wincing; he settles across from his brother and after a moment, Dean shifts over onto his side to meet Sam’s eyes. Their feet brush together under the mattress. Dean reaches up to pat Sam on the cheek, a careless, brotherly gesture that sparks something warm in Sam’s chest.
In the morning, Dean will already be awake when Sam opens his eyes, staring at his little brother with an unreadable expression on his face. He won’t say anything but he will smile, and Sam’s nightmares will vanish once again in the hazy morning light.