Supernatural: Help Your Brother's Boat
Title: Help Your Brother’s Boat
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Genre: Smut, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: NC-17 for brother!porn
Word Count: 1,544
Author’s Note: Written for tamingthemuse prompt #167 - Antapology. Beta’d by wutendeskind. This story started one way and had to be completely reworked because of the PURE UNADULTERED JOY of last night’s episode. I am not complaining! \o/ Here’s some reconciliation porn, everyone! Spoilers up to 5x04. First time writing second person! Who wants to guess who the creeper making this commentary is? :P ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Dean is still hurt, Sam is still guilty, and sex fixes everything.
You don’t just forgive what Sam did, that’s what you tell yourself. Even now, even when you’ve seen what will happen, even when you’re back together. You lie to yourself; say you won’t let it turn into what it was, because ruining that twice would hurt too much. No, Sam may be back next to you, but you won’t take that chance again.
Days pass by, they aren’t happy days. You walk next to Sam like a stranger (two words, a grunt in reply, don’t make eye contact-that’s dangerous). Sam makes his faces; you’ve finally learned how to ignore them. This doesn’t please you as much as you always thought it would. You stumble home together like always, exhausted from the hunt, but you fall into separate beds-a concept that was foreign for too brief a time. You don’t say the soothing words that bubble up and Sam doesn’t wait for you to tend his wounds. When the urge to reach out to him becomes too strong, you go back to the old parade of soon-forgotten women.
Sam is in awful condition, but you don’t know how to help-not without taking the steps you refuse to take. Of course you still care, seeing Sam upset hurts you as much as ever. But you can’t get close enough to touch him. You can’t touch him without losing control. And there’s no way to comfort Sam at arm’s length.
You should know better. Maybe deep down, you do. A wounded Sam is not a particularly clear-headed Sam and Sam knows how to break you.
He’s sitting on the end of his bed, only black boxers and so much bare skin. You try to distract yourself. It’s the one thing, after nearly a year of building barriers against him, which you still do not have down. You can’t stop looking at your brother.
“Dean,” Sam says without turning to face you.
“Yeah?”
No reply. It’s the first time Sam has addressed you without a purpose since you welcomed him back. You try to convince yourself you are annoyed, and you certainly don’t admit that you’re excited.
“What, Sam?”
“Dean, will you come here?”
You hesitate, convinced that it is a bad idea, but ultimately give in to too many years of conditioning. You sit next to your brother on the bed, hands in your lap, eyes fixed resolutely on the wall.
“What is it, man?”
Sam grabs you and tries to kiss you; it’s just as wonderful as you remembered. You jump away, a perfect imitation of disgust. Sam is not fooled. Sam is never fooled.
“Dean.” Sam reaches out in time to pull you back in. “Don’t you miss it? Me? Us?”
Obviously, you think but you don’t say so out loud. You shake your head and try to make Sam’s hand drop away.
Sam holds on tight and…if only you could fight it. He tugs you back towards the bed and pulls you down on top of him as he reclines into the pillows.
“You don’t have to trust me, or Love me, or forgive me. I’ll let you use me.” You’re frozen, hovering over your little brother in terror as Sam’s long fingers pull your jeans open and you curse your body for never learning how to control itself.
“I knew you wanted me, Dean,” Sam purrs as his eyes take in the erection. “What do you want? Do you want me to suck your cock?” You shake your head. Sam’s tongue swipes his lips as he prepares to make his next offer. “Do you want to fuck me?” Sam’s hands rest on your hips and he’s looking up into your face. “I want you to fuck me.”
You whimper something like “no” and Sam ignores it, pushing his boxers off. His hands reach to the nightstand and pull out a little bottle.
Planned, you realize as Sam lubricates his fingers. He planned this.
Still unable to move despite the warnings your mind is shouting, you take in the sight of your brother sliding his fingers gently into himself, trying to prepare his body for what you both want and never want to give him. Sam pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets.
“Ready, Dean, I’m all ready for you. All you have to do is fuck me.”
You close your eyes tightly and descend on Sam like a predator attacking a carcass. You can’t fight that instinct, not any more.
Sam’s sharp cry of pain makes you pause immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“Just fuck me,” Sam growls.
You do, but you can’t pretend you don’t see something dull and terrifying in the back of Sam’s eyes.
“Harder.” It’s all he says, repeating it as if it will make everything right. You didn’t do this to Sam very often, but when you did you were gentle, comforting. That’s the way you always wanted to be, and the way Sam had wanted it, too.
“Harder,” he demands and you realize it doesn’t feel right. You were too consumed to notice: the friction’s too much and Sam is swallowing little gasps of pain with every thrust. He didn’t prepare himself, not really, and he didn’t give you a chance to slick yourself up-probably didn’t use enough lube when he was opening himself, either. He was doing it to bait you, and you fell for it.
“I’m hurting you.”
“I want you to. Just keep going, okay? Fuck me, Dean. Punish me, please.”
“No.” You begin to pull away and Sam shoots forward frantically, trying to pull you back in, trying to slam his body into yours with too much force.
You push him down and he gives up the struggle. He turns his face away from yours, into the pillow, and you can hear him begin to cry. You grab the bottle off the night stand and squeeze a generous amount onto your hand. You cover yourself entirely and use what’s left of it on Sam; with your other hand you turn his face so that it’s looking into yours.
“Sammy,” you whisper with the tender fascination you haven’t used to address your brother for much too long. He only cries harder and you wonder how you let it get this bad, let him drift away from you for months. Sam looks completely new to you, or rather, looks the way he looked to you before everything fell apart. The once-familiar rush of warmth towards him settles back inside of you as if it never left and, once again, fixing Sam is the only thing that exists to you.
“Shh, baby, shh.” You press back inside of him, gentler, slower, cradling him as if a gust of wind could shatter him. You lean in and press your mouth to his tears, more tongue than lips, more concerned with getting rid of them than actually lingering to kiss them away.
Sam moans, finally satisfaction instead of discomfort, and you can feel him tensing underneath you as if he doesn’t welcome it.
“Please don’t be good to me, Dean. Not now, not after…you can’t still be good to me.”
You kiss him. That’s it, that’s all you’ve wanted to do since you were much younger than you’d like to admit, and it doesn’t seem like something that simple should be able to go so wrong. It doesn’t matter now, you rationalize. It’s going to be beautiful again. Forever.
“Dean,” he says, breaking the kiss reluctantly. “I don’t dese-“
You almost want to grab him and shake him, but the crush of your lips against his shuts him up. He cries out into your mouth, you swallow it because nothing could ever taste better.
Your hand wraps around him, faster strokes than the ones you’re allowing yourself, he’s pushing his body in every direction as if he can’t decide what he wants more.
“Love you, Sammy. Want to make you feel good, I want to give you everything.”
“Dean, oh God. Oh, God. So good, Dean, it’s so good.”
“Let go, Sam, just let go.” Sam nods, his eyes wide and moist, though you take pride in the fact that there are no more tears falling. His head falls back into the pillow, and it doesn’t matter that you were giving him more pressure than you were giving yourself, you know you will come the moment he says your name.
Completely wasted, you fall at his side and take him into your arms. He curls into you for comfort, a position that had once been shelter to him from storms and dark nights. Nearly twice the size he was then, he fits just as well into your embrace and that, you think, is enough to make up for a lot.
“Dean, I’m sorry,” he finally begins after a long time tracing absent patterns on your chest. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t, Sammy. Don’t you ever apologize for it again.”
“But-“
“It wasn’t your fault. Not any of it.” You say this not because you believe it, but because you desperately want Sam to.
“Maybe,” he says softly, as if he’s trying the thought out on his tongue and not finding himself opposed to it. “Maybe it wasn’t all my fault.”
[4]
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Genre: Smut, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: NC-17 for brother!porn
Word Count: 1,544
Author’s Note: Written for tamingthemuse prompt #167 - Antapology. Beta’d by wutendeskind. This story started one way and had to be completely reworked because of the PURE UNADULTERED JOY of last night’s episode. I am not complaining! \o/ Here’s some reconciliation porn, everyone! Spoilers up to 5x04. First time writing second person! Who wants to guess who the creeper making this commentary is? :P ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Dean is still hurt, Sam is still guilty, and sex fixes everything.
You don’t just forgive what Sam did, that’s what you tell yourself. Even now, even when you’ve seen what will happen, even when you’re back together. You lie to yourself; say you won’t let it turn into what it was, because ruining that twice would hurt too much. No, Sam may be back next to you, but you won’t take that chance again.
Days pass by, they aren’t happy days. You walk next to Sam like a stranger (two words, a grunt in reply, don’t make eye contact-that’s dangerous). Sam makes his faces; you’ve finally learned how to ignore them. This doesn’t please you as much as you always thought it would. You stumble home together like always, exhausted from the hunt, but you fall into separate beds-a concept that was foreign for too brief a time. You don’t say the soothing words that bubble up and Sam doesn’t wait for you to tend his wounds. When the urge to reach out to him becomes too strong, you go back to the old parade of soon-forgotten women.
Sam is in awful condition, but you don’t know how to help-not without taking the steps you refuse to take. Of course you still care, seeing Sam upset hurts you as much as ever. But you can’t get close enough to touch him. You can’t touch him without losing control. And there’s no way to comfort Sam at arm’s length.
You should know better. Maybe deep down, you do. A wounded Sam is not a particularly clear-headed Sam and Sam knows how to break you.
He’s sitting on the end of his bed, only black boxers and so much bare skin. You try to distract yourself. It’s the one thing, after nearly a year of building barriers against him, which you still do not have down. You can’t stop looking at your brother.
“Dean,” Sam says without turning to face you.
“Yeah?”
No reply. It’s the first time Sam has addressed you without a purpose since you welcomed him back. You try to convince yourself you are annoyed, and you certainly don’t admit that you’re excited.
“What, Sam?”
“Dean, will you come here?”
You hesitate, convinced that it is a bad idea, but ultimately give in to too many years of conditioning. You sit next to your brother on the bed, hands in your lap, eyes fixed resolutely on the wall.
“What is it, man?”
Sam grabs you and tries to kiss you; it’s just as wonderful as you remembered. You jump away, a perfect imitation of disgust. Sam is not fooled. Sam is never fooled.
“Dean.” Sam reaches out in time to pull you back in. “Don’t you miss it? Me? Us?”
Obviously, you think but you don’t say so out loud. You shake your head and try to make Sam’s hand drop away.
Sam holds on tight and…if only you could fight it. He tugs you back towards the bed and pulls you down on top of him as he reclines into the pillows.
“You don’t have to trust me, or Love me, or forgive me. I’ll let you use me.” You’re frozen, hovering over your little brother in terror as Sam’s long fingers pull your jeans open and you curse your body for never learning how to control itself.
“I knew you wanted me, Dean,” Sam purrs as his eyes take in the erection. “What do you want? Do you want me to suck your cock?” You shake your head. Sam’s tongue swipes his lips as he prepares to make his next offer. “Do you want to fuck me?” Sam’s hands rest on your hips and he’s looking up into your face. “I want you to fuck me.”
You whimper something like “no” and Sam ignores it, pushing his boxers off. His hands reach to the nightstand and pull out a little bottle.
Planned, you realize as Sam lubricates his fingers. He planned this.
Still unable to move despite the warnings your mind is shouting, you take in the sight of your brother sliding his fingers gently into himself, trying to prepare his body for what you both want and never want to give him. Sam pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets.
“Ready, Dean, I’m all ready for you. All you have to do is fuck me.”
You close your eyes tightly and descend on Sam like a predator attacking a carcass. You can’t fight that instinct, not any more.
Sam’s sharp cry of pain makes you pause immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“Just fuck me,” Sam growls.
You do, but you can’t pretend you don’t see something dull and terrifying in the back of Sam’s eyes.
“Harder.” It’s all he says, repeating it as if it will make everything right. You didn’t do this to Sam very often, but when you did you were gentle, comforting. That’s the way you always wanted to be, and the way Sam had wanted it, too.
“Harder,” he demands and you realize it doesn’t feel right. You were too consumed to notice: the friction’s too much and Sam is swallowing little gasps of pain with every thrust. He didn’t prepare himself, not really, and he didn’t give you a chance to slick yourself up-probably didn’t use enough lube when he was opening himself, either. He was doing it to bait you, and you fell for it.
“I’m hurting you.”
“I want you to. Just keep going, okay? Fuck me, Dean. Punish me, please.”
“No.” You begin to pull away and Sam shoots forward frantically, trying to pull you back in, trying to slam his body into yours with too much force.
You push him down and he gives up the struggle. He turns his face away from yours, into the pillow, and you can hear him begin to cry. You grab the bottle off the night stand and squeeze a generous amount onto your hand. You cover yourself entirely and use what’s left of it on Sam; with your other hand you turn his face so that it’s looking into yours.
“Sammy,” you whisper with the tender fascination you haven’t used to address your brother for much too long. He only cries harder and you wonder how you let it get this bad, let him drift away from you for months. Sam looks completely new to you, or rather, looks the way he looked to you before everything fell apart. The once-familiar rush of warmth towards him settles back inside of you as if it never left and, once again, fixing Sam is the only thing that exists to you.
“Shh, baby, shh.” You press back inside of him, gentler, slower, cradling him as if a gust of wind could shatter him. You lean in and press your mouth to his tears, more tongue than lips, more concerned with getting rid of them than actually lingering to kiss them away.
Sam moans, finally satisfaction instead of discomfort, and you can feel him tensing underneath you as if he doesn’t welcome it.
“Please don’t be good to me, Dean. Not now, not after…you can’t still be good to me.”
You kiss him. That’s it, that’s all you’ve wanted to do since you were much younger than you’d like to admit, and it doesn’t seem like something that simple should be able to go so wrong. It doesn’t matter now, you rationalize. It’s going to be beautiful again. Forever.
“Dean,” he says, breaking the kiss reluctantly. “I don’t dese-“
You almost want to grab him and shake him, but the crush of your lips against his shuts him up. He cries out into your mouth, you swallow it because nothing could ever taste better.
Your hand wraps around him, faster strokes than the ones you’re allowing yourself, he’s pushing his body in every direction as if he can’t decide what he wants more.
“Love you, Sammy. Want to make you feel good, I want to give you everything.”
“Dean, oh God. Oh, God. So good, Dean, it’s so good.”
“Let go, Sam, just let go.” Sam nods, his eyes wide and moist, though you take pride in the fact that there are no more tears falling. His head falls back into the pillow, and it doesn’t matter that you were giving him more pressure than you were giving yourself, you know you will come the moment he says your name.
Completely wasted, you fall at his side and take him into your arms. He curls into you for comfort, a position that had once been shelter to him from storms and dark nights. Nearly twice the size he was then, he fits just as well into your embrace and that, you think, is enough to make up for a lot.
“Dean, I’m sorry,” he finally begins after a long time tracing absent patterns on your chest. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t, Sammy. Don’t you ever apologize for it again.”
“But-“
“It wasn’t your fault. Not any of it.” You say this not because you believe it, but because you desperately want Sam to.
“Maybe,” he says softly, as if he’s trying the thought out on his tongue and not finding himself opposed to it. “Maybe it wasn’t all my fault.”
[4]