Fic: It's not that we're scared (It's just that it's delicate)* (Dean/Sam)
So this is it. The story that's eaten up my writing time in the last few weeks. It's also the one that I refered to as possibly becoming the filthiest thing I've ever written. I'll let you be the judge of that, as I have lost any kind of objectiveness, and it doesn't move me in the slightest anymore, but to be honest, the research for it squicked me at first. Consider youself warned.
I'd like to thank all the people putting all kinds of stuff and seemingly useless info on the internet, by the way, so I didn't have to self-test.
* Title from Delicate by Damien Rice.
Rated NC-17.
Warnings for incest and WATERSPORTS.
No spoilers.
2091 words.
It's not that we're scared (It's just that it's delicate)
by mira
Sam has a small cut on his right index finger, a paper cut from the friggin’ library for God’s sakes. It isn’t big but it went pretty deep - Sam cursed and nearly bled all over the dusty old books before Dean snatched his hand away and wrapped a tissue around the finger.
In the last few days Dean has watched the cut go from angry pink to a thin red scab that Sam absently picks on until it bleeds again.
“Sam,” Dean says, and Sam looks up with his finger in his mouth. “Leave it,” he says, “and come here.”
Sam raises his eyebrows as he stands, then smiles as he walks slowly over. "That bored already, huh?"
Dean rolls his eyes before hauling him down on his lap and slipping one hand to the back of Sam's neck, touching their mouths together.
***
“Don’t flush,” Sam called over the noise of the running water when Dean padded into the bathroom and propped the lid of the toilet up. Behind the milky shower curtain a Sam-shaped blur was moving. Dean shrugged, pushed the curtain aside and peed in the shower.
“Dean!” Sam yelped. “You’re such an ass.” He was dripping shampoo suds, blinking to keep them out of his eyes.
Dean snorted as he shook off and pulled his boxers back up. “Oh please. I didn’t even hit you.”
“Whatever,” Sam growled.
Dean closed the curtain.
***
Sam’s lips are soft and smooth, even though he uses some cheap girly chapstick that probably only has any effects if you believe in it. Dean would rather have a round with a hellhound than admit it, but he could spend hours just kissing Sam, nibbling at his mouth, pulling Sam's lips between his teeth. He wraps his hand around Sam’s wrist and raises the cut finger in between them, sucking on it as he’s sucking on Sam’s tongue. Sam sighs and kisses him harder, licks at his own finger.
“Dean.” Sam's other hand is working on the buttons of Dean's shirt, but Dean will have none of it, pressing them closer together. He tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, pulls his head back, listens to Sam whine.
“Dean. C’mon.”
Dean bites down lightly on Sam’s exposed neck, marking him with spit and teeth. “Not yet.”
***
They’d landed in bed together a few times before, but since Sam got his acceptance letter, it seemed as if all boundaries had ripped apart right with Sam ripping open the envelope. They both knew what it meant but neither spoke about it - they just tried to make the best of what time they had left.
They fucked in their beds, in the shower, in the living room of the crappy apartment they were renting, over the kitchen table. Sam couldn’t keep his hands off of Dean, grabbing him whenever he had the chance.
One morning Dean stood over the toilet still half asleep, eyes closed, when Sam stepped up behind him, Sam’s fingers twining with Dean's own on his dick.
“Let me,” Sam breathed into his ear, running his other hand along Dean's side, and together they held him while Dean pissed, Sam squeezing gently.
***
Their legs are knotted together and Sam’s right one is moving constantly, sliding between Dean’s thighs, calf rubbing against Dean’s own. Somewhere in the tangle after they fell back on the bed they both lost all of their shirts, leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor. Sam's cock is a half-hard bulge in his pants, gently thrusting against Dean’s hip while Dean’s fighting to keep his own dick down as Sam’s hands slip down the back of his jeans. Not yet. He pulls away and slides down Sam’s body instead, Sam’s hand in his hair guiding him.
“God, Dean,” Sam says, voice scratchy like a broken old record, when Dean pops the button and draws down the zipper, spreading the denim apart. Dean licks over the cotton of Sam's underwear once, tongue flat, then peels everything away. Sam moans as Dean takes him in his mouth, hands fisting weakly in Dean's hair.
He blows Sam until Sam is squirming under him, struggling not to thrust. Dean lets his cock slip out and licks from root to tip, and Sam knocks his knee into Dean’s stomach.
Dean hisses. "Ow."
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam says. “Are you -“
***
They didn’t talk for nearly a week after they had to put down a werewolf in Minnesota. Sam believes that everybody can be saved, but the werewolf had killed three people during the last two full moons, and he’d known it and hadn’t even blinked an eye when they’d talked to him about it. It was a monster in Dean’s book, so he put a silver bullet into his chest.
On the sixth day Dean woke up with Sam curled up behind him, one arm slung around, rubbing Dean’s belly in circles. It was cold outside and not much warmer inside - Dean could see the ice crystallizing at the corners of the window - but Sam was hot where he pressed against Dean.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mouthed into the back of Dean’s neck. “I know you had no choice.” Sam’s fingers inched lower, playing with the hair there. “I’m gonna get you a soda, yeah?”
***
“Shit, Dean, are you hurt?”
Dean shakes his head, sitting up, Sam's hand slipping from his head to cover his ear, long fingers spanning Dean's neck. Sam's face is flushed, dark pink covering his cheeks, spreading down to his neck. “’s your fault, dude," Dean says, "keeping me on a water diet. I drank an entire bottle already this morning.”
He watches Sam’s eyes go dark, feels his breath hitch where he’s keeping his palm on Sam’s chest. Sam’s strokes over Dean’s cheek till his fingers come to rest on Dean’s mouth. Sam knows that Dean expects an answer - they talked about it often enough - and he gives it with his whole body, arching his back. “Yeah. Yes. Come on already.”
Dean opens his mouth, nips at the fingertips. “Yeah, c’mon.” He takes Sam’s hand.
***
He lost Sam in Arkansas when they split up for a hunt, agreeing to meet back at the motel room in two hours - whether they found the sucker or not. Sam just never returned. Dean found him two days later in a hospital fifty miles away.
Sam was pale even compared to the crisp white sheets, except for where he was all scratched up, stitches in his forehead, his hair hanging limply in greasy strands. He'd just woken up this morning, the nurse said.
"Hey," Dean said and pulled up a chair beside the bed, folding his shaking hands in his lap.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't -" Sam said, looking at him with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut. "I was careful."
"You were stupid, is what you were. Just wait until you come home."
Sam smiled faintly. "Why, you gonna make me sorry?"
"You bet your ass I am." Dean swallowed. "Shit, Sam -" He reached for Sam's hand after all, holding it tightly.
"You know," Sam mused, eyes following the tube snaking away from his hand, "I really have to go to the bathroom right now."
***
Dean pushes Sam into the bathtub, then makes him kneel on one of the olive motel towels while he shucks his pants. Sam is looking down when Dean climbs in after him, but Dean puts his hand under Sam’s chin, tips his head up.
“In your mouth, all right?” he whispers and watches a whole series of emotions flicker over Sam’s face - fear, lust, anticipation, dread. They've never done it like this before. “You don’t have to swallow,” he adds, stroking Sam’s cheek with his thumb until Sam closes his eyes, nods slowly.
“Open your mouth,” Dean says, “and put out your tongue a little.”
He lays his cockhead flat on Sam’s tongue, sliding in about half an inch. Sam’s eyelids flutter, his whole body tense, hands balled into fists on his thighs, so Dean wraps a reassuring hand in Sam’s hair, tilts his head back further.
“Relax,” he says and lets it go.
***
Sam was already in bed when Dean came out of the bathroom, huddled under the covers drawn up to his nose. His hair was still wet, spread out on the pillow behind him. Dean puttered around the room for a while, cleaning away Sam's crossbow, closing books and sorting papers. Eventually he rooted through his bag for some clean underwear. He wanted to crawl into bed with Sam and wrap around him with nothing between them, but he wasn't sure if that was a good idea right now.
"You okay, Sammy?" he asked while he pulled on a pair of boxers. His balls were still tingling from the force of his orgasm when Sam had sucked him off.
Sam's head moved on the pillow, one corner of the blanket lifting. "C'mere."
When they finally settled, Sam had his head tucked under Dean's chin and his arm around Dean's waist. For once, Dean let him.
Dean stretched to click off the light. "It's okay if you like it," he said.
Sam nodded. "I know."
***
Dean watches himself in Sam’s mouth, watches it trickle from the corners, running over Sam’s chin, feels his bladder relieving. Sam holds his head still, but further down his hand is moving, jerking his cock furiously, and the sight of it popping through Sam’s fist makes the back of Dean’s neck prickle. He loves how Sam gets off on it, how he's just taking it, as much for Dean as for himself. He loves watching Sam open his mouth for it, even though it makes it difficult to concentrate on not getting hard, on keeping it even.
Sam coughs when he pulls away too fast, the last weak stream hitting his mouth unexpectedly, and Dean’s on his knees beside him in an instant, wrapping his arms around Sam. Sam's head falls down on Dean’s shoulder as if it's the most natural place for it to be.
“Do it, Sammy,” Dean says softly. “Come for me.”
Sam pulls at his cock a few more times, then shudders and spills over his fist and Dean’s thigh, muffling his cry in Dean’s neck.
***
It wasn't planned, the first time he pissed on his brother - it just happened. They'd stumbled back to the motel after a hunt and Dean propped his arm against the wall while standing in the shower, leaned his forehead against it, closed his eyes and just let his bladder empty. He was too tired to try to stop when Sam slipped in in front of him.
Afterwards, Sam jerked him off nice and slow, Dean's come dripping down to be washed away with the water.
The second time Sam bought him three cans of Dr. Pepper from the vending machine just outside the room. He sat next to Dean on his bed while Dean drank them all, rubbing his knuckles along the inseam of Dean's jeans.
Sam kissed him when Dean set the third empty can down on the bedside table, his tongue soft and hesitant. Half an hour later he pulled Dean into the bathroom by his open belt and stripped them both.
***
When Sam’s stopped trembling, Dean helps him stand up, wincing in sympathy as Sam’s knees pop. Sam leans against the shower wall and slings his arm around Dean, tugs him close.
Sam’s lips are still wet when Dean kisses them and taste faintly salty, but mostly just of Sam. Sam’s hands sweep over Dean's back while they're kissing, his ass, brushing in between the cheeks before reaching around. Dean circles Sam's wrist, holds him away. “Dean -“ Sam opens his eyes, frowning.
“Let’s just clean up, okay?" He turns Sam around and pulls him back against his chest, running the bar of soap over Sam's neck and shoulders, the water turned on low. He gently steers them under the spray, watching Sam's hair go slick and dark, puts his mouth close to Sam's ear. "And then I want you to take me back into the bedroom and fuck me.” He pauses. “If you can get it up again.”
Sam reaches back and smacks him on the side of his head, but his laugh bounces off the tiles. “Jerk.” He tips his head back on Dean's shoulder, and Dean nuzzles his face into Sam's neck, finishes washing them.
He fumbles blindly for the controls to turn the shower off.
End.
I'd like to thank all the people putting all kinds of stuff and seemingly useless info on the internet, by the way, so I didn't have to self-test.
* Title from Delicate by Damien Rice.
Rated NC-17.
Warnings for incest and WATERSPORTS.
No spoilers.
2091 words.
It's not that we're scared (It's just that it's delicate)
by mira
Sam has a small cut on his right index finger, a paper cut from the friggin’ library for God’s sakes. It isn’t big but it went pretty deep - Sam cursed and nearly bled all over the dusty old books before Dean snatched his hand away and wrapped a tissue around the finger.
In the last few days Dean has watched the cut go from angry pink to a thin red scab that Sam absently picks on until it bleeds again.
“Sam,” Dean says, and Sam looks up with his finger in his mouth. “Leave it,” he says, “and come here.”
Sam raises his eyebrows as he stands, then smiles as he walks slowly over. "That bored already, huh?"
Dean rolls his eyes before hauling him down on his lap and slipping one hand to the back of Sam's neck, touching their mouths together.
***
“Don’t flush,” Sam called over the noise of the running water when Dean padded into the bathroom and propped the lid of the toilet up. Behind the milky shower curtain a Sam-shaped blur was moving. Dean shrugged, pushed the curtain aside and peed in the shower.
“Dean!” Sam yelped. “You’re such an ass.” He was dripping shampoo suds, blinking to keep them out of his eyes.
Dean snorted as he shook off and pulled his boxers back up. “Oh please. I didn’t even hit you.”
“Whatever,” Sam growled.
Dean closed the curtain.
***
Sam’s lips are soft and smooth, even though he uses some cheap girly chapstick that probably only has any effects if you believe in it. Dean would rather have a round with a hellhound than admit it, but he could spend hours just kissing Sam, nibbling at his mouth, pulling Sam's lips between his teeth. He wraps his hand around Sam’s wrist and raises the cut finger in between them, sucking on it as he’s sucking on Sam’s tongue. Sam sighs and kisses him harder, licks at his own finger.
“Dean.” Sam's other hand is working on the buttons of Dean's shirt, but Dean will have none of it, pressing them closer together. He tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, pulls his head back, listens to Sam whine.
“Dean. C’mon.”
Dean bites down lightly on Sam’s exposed neck, marking him with spit and teeth. “Not yet.”
***
They’d landed in bed together a few times before, but since Sam got his acceptance letter, it seemed as if all boundaries had ripped apart right with Sam ripping open the envelope. They both knew what it meant but neither spoke about it - they just tried to make the best of what time they had left.
They fucked in their beds, in the shower, in the living room of the crappy apartment they were renting, over the kitchen table. Sam couldn’t keep his hands off of Dean, grabbing him whenever he had the chance.
One morning Dean stood over the toilet still half asleep, eyes closed, when Sam stepped up behind him, Sam’s fingers twining with Dean's own on his dick.
“Let me,” Sam breathed into his ear, running his other hand along Dean's side, and together they held him while Dean pissed, Sam squeezing gently.
***
Their legs are knotted together and Sam’s right one is moving constantly, sliding between Dean’s thighs, calf rubbing against Dean’s own. Somewhere in the tangle after they fell back on the bed they both lost all of their shirts, leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor. Sam's cock is a half-hard bulge in his pants, gently thrusting against Dean’s hip while Dean’s fighting to keep his own dick down as Sam’s hands slip down the back of his jeans. Not yet. He pulls away and slides down Sam’s body instead, Sam’s hand in his hair guiding him.
“God, Dean,” Sam says, voice scratchy like a broken old record, when Dean pops the button and draws down the zipper, spreading the denim apart. Dean licks over the cotton of Sam's underwear once, tongue flat, then peels everything away. Sam moans as Dean takes him in his mouth, hands fisting weakly in Dean's hair.
He blows Sam until Sam is squirming under him, struggling not to thrust. Dean lets his cock slip out and licks from root to tip, and Sam knocks his knee into Dean’s stomach.
Dean hisses. "Ow."
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam says. “Are you -“
***
They didn’t talk for nearly a week after they had to put down a werewolf in Minnesota. Sam believes that everybody can be saved, but the werewolf had killed three people during the last two full moons, and he’d known it and hadn’t even blinked an eye when they’d talked to him about it. It was a monster in Dean’s book, so he put a silver bullet into his chest.
On the sixth day Dean woke up with Sam curled up behind him, one arm slung around, rubbing Dean’s belly in circles. It was cold outside and not much warmer inside - Dean could see the ice crystallizing at the corners of the window - but Sam was hot where he pressed against Dean.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mouthed into the back of Dean’s neck. “I know you had no choice.” Sam’s fingers inched lower, playing with the hair there. “I’m gonna get you a soda, yeah?”
***
“Shit, Dean, are you hurt?”
Dean shakes his head, sitting up, Sam's hand slipping from his head to cover his ear, long fingers spanning Dean's neck. Sam's face is flushed, dark pink covering his cheeks, spreading down to his neck. “’s your fault, dude," Dean says, "keeping me on a water diet. I drank an entire bottle already this morning.”
He watches Sam’s eyes go dark, feels his breath hitch where he’s keeping his palm on Sam’s chest. Sam’s strokes over Dean’s cheek till his fingers come to rest on Dean’s mouth. Sam knows that Dean expects an answer - they talked about it often enough - and he gives it with his whole body, arching his back. “Yeah. Yes. Come on already.”
Dean opens his mouth, nips at the fingertips. “Yeah, c’mon.” He takes Sam’s hand.
***
He lost Sam in Arkansas when they split up for a hunt, agreeing to meet back at the motel room in two hours - whether they found the sucker or not. Sam just never returned. Dean found him two days later in a hospital fifty miles away.
Sam was pale even compared to the crisp white sheets, except for where he was all scratched up, stitches in his forehead, his hair hanging limply in greasy strands. He'd just woken up this morning, the nurse said.
"Hey," Dean said and pulled up a chair beside the bed, folding his shaking hands in his lap.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't -" Sam said, looking at him with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut. "I was careful."
"You were stupid, is what you were. Just wait until you come home."
Sam smiled faintly. "Why, you gonna make me sorry?"
"You bet your ass I am." Dean swallowed. "Shit, Sam -" He reached for Sam's hand after all, holding it tightly.
"You know," Sam mused, eyes following the tube snaking away from his hand, "I really have to go to the bathroom right now."
***
Dean pushes Sam into the bathtub, then makes him kneel on one of the olive motel towels while he shucks his pants. Sam is looking down when Dean climbs in after him, but Dean puts his hand under Sam’s chin, tips his head up.
“In your mouth, all right?” he whispers and watches a whole series of emotions flicker over Sam’s face - fear, lust, anticipation, dread. They've never done it like this before. “You don’t have to swallow,” he adds, stroking Sam’s cheek with his thumb until Sam closes his eyes, nods slowly.
“Open your mouth,” Dean says, “and put out your tongue a little.”
He lays his cockhead flat on Sam’s tongue, sliding in about half an inch. Sam’s eyelids flutter, his whole body tense, hands balled into fists on his thighs, so Dean wraps a reassuring hand in Sam’s hair, tilts his head back further.
“Relax,” he says and lets it go.
***
Sam was already in bed when Dean came out of the bathroom, huddled under the covers drawn up to his nose. His hair was still wet, spread out on the pillow behind him. Dean puttered around the room for a while, cleaning away Sam's crossbow, closing books and sorting papers. Eventually he rooted through his bag for some clean underwear. He wanted to crawl into bed with Sam and wrap around him with nothing between them, but he wasn't sure if that was a good idea right now.
"You okay, Sammy?" he asked while he pulled on a pair of boxers. His balls were still tingling from the force of his orgasm when Sam had sucked him off.
Sam's head moved on the pillow, one corner of the blanket lifting. "C'mere."
When they finally settled, Sam had his head tucked under Dean's chin and his arm around Dean's waist. For once, Dean let him.
Dean stretched to click off the light. "It's okay if you like it," he said.
Sam nodded. "I know."
***
Dean watches himself in Sam’s mouth, watches it trickle from the corners, running over Sam’s chin, feels his bladder relieving. Sam holds his head still, but further down his hand is moving, jerking his cock furiously, and the sight of it popping through Sam’s fist makes the back of Dean’s neck prickle. He loves how Sam gets off on it, how he's just taking it, as much for Dean as for himself. He loves watching Sam open his mouth for it, even though it makes it difficult to concentrate on not getting hard, on keeping it even.
Sam coughs when he pulls away too fast, the last weak stream hitting his mouth unexpectedly, and Dean’s on his knees beside him in an instant, wrapping his arms around Sam. Sam's head falls down on Dean’s shoulder as if it's the most natural place for it to be.
“Do it, Sammy,” Dean says softly. “Come for me.”
Sam pulls at his cock a few more times, then shudders and spills over his fist and Dean’s thigh, muffling his cry in Dean’s neck.
***
It wasn't planned, the first time he pissed on his brother - it just happened. They'd stumbled back to the motel after a hunt and Dean propped his arm against the wall while standing in the shower, leaned his forehead against it, closed his eyes and just let his bladder empty. He was too tired to try to stop when Sam slipped in in front of him.
Afterwards, Sam jerked him off nice and slow, Dean's come dripping down to be washed away with the water.
The second time Sam bought him three cans of Dr. Pepper from the vending machine just outside the room. He sat next to Dean on his bed while Dean drank them all, rubbing his knuckles along the inseam of Dean's jeans.
Sam kissed him when Dean set the third empty can down on the bedside table, his tongue soft and hesitant. Half an hour later he pulled Dean into the bathroom by his open belt and stripped them both.
***
When Sam’s stopped trembling, Dean helps him stand up, wincing in sympathy as Sam’s knees pop. Sam leans against the shower wall and slings his arm around Dean, tugs him close.
Sam’s lips are still wet when Dean kisses them and taste faintly salty, but mostly just of Sam. Sam’s hands sweep over Dean's back while they're kissing, his ass, brushing in between the cheeks before reaching around. Dean circles Sam's wrist, holds him away. “Dean -“ Sam opens his eyes, frowning.
“Let’s just clean up, okay?" He turns Sam around and pulls him back against his chest, running the bar of soap over Sam's neck and shoulders, the water turned on low. He gently steers them under the spray, watching Sam's hair go slick and dark, puts his mouth close to Sam's ear. "And then I want you to take me back into the bedroom and fuck me.” He pauses. “If you can get it up again.”
Sam reaches back and smacks him on the side of his head, but his laugh bounces off the tiles. “Jerk.” He tips his head back on Dean's shoulder, and Dean nuzzles his face into Sam's neck, finishes washing them.
He fumbles blindly for the controls to turn the shower off.
End.