I Can't Get Enough
Title: I Can't Get Enough
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's not... this thing he has with pain, flirting with danger until he gets hurt, it's not normal.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, please don't steal the plot. Title & cut belong to Three Days Grace.
A/N: Written for a prompt in the spnkink_meme. Basically I'm just stealing plots from there because I have zero inspirations these days.
recced here at hoodie_time ♥
When Dean is fifteen, he breaks his wrist while on a hunt with his dad. It heals faster, faster than strictly normal when aided with some hoodoo magic. The bone heals nicely, he can rotate his wrist just fine but sometimes it’s sore, pain leaking from the wrist bone and up to his fingers and down his forearm. He starts to find that he doesn’t mind the soreness of it, first ignores it and then realizes that he likes it, the way that when he moves it too fast while it’s sore makes the pain sharpen and intensify. It’s then that he starts getting reckless, it’s there (during the realization that he likes the way things hurt) that he can pinpoint where his shoot first, ask questions later attitude started forming.
Between the time that he’s fifteen and twenty five, Dean breaks his bones and gets concussions and cuts and gashes and flesh wounds. Scars litter his entire body, the shape of claws in his right hand shoulder, clips from stray bullets and blades and bites on his arms and torso. He relishes every single one, presses into bruises long after they’ve gone from purple-y blue to yellow-y green. He bites his lips and the insides of his mouth raw and bloody when he needs to get stitched up, dizzy and hard from the pain and the effort of hiding how good it feels from whoever is playing nurse to him.
It’s not... this thing he has with pain, flirting with danger until he gets hurt, it’s not normal. He knows that, has known that since he’s been aware of it. Normal people - normal people like Sam don’t like pain and flinch and twitch in all the right ways when they’ve got sprained ankles and broken arms and dislocated shoulders. They hiss when getting stitched up, tears leaking out of the corners of their eyes for all the right reasons. Dean twitches because it feels good, hisses because when he hurts he can feel it right down to his core and it hits him deep in ways that things don’t on a regular basis. In this way, Dean is so, so wrong.
In the way that Sam has been thinking about getting a tattoo for a long time, Dean has always, always been against it. It’s not that he doesn’t want one, because he does, it’s the fact that he knows that tattoos hurt, a needle placing ink permanently into your skin. He knows what his reaction will be, doesn’t want anyone to find out about his relationship with pain outside of the handful of people that he’s told and who know. It’s Bobby giving them the charm amulet with the symbol against demon possession that finalises his idea and sets it in stone. “Dean,” he says. “It’s a good idea. Think about it, we’d never have to worry about it, c’mon.” He shakes his head quickly and gives a vehement no.
His brother gets his done first, after spending weeks trying to break Dean’s resolve about it. He goes as far as to make a powerpoint presentation with diagrams and a list of reasons as to why Dean should get the tattoo done, but in the end he puts the refusal down to a fear of needles. And Sam is so, so wrong. He has nothing against needles, enjoys getting vaccinations when they actually do get them in the sick, messed up way that only someone as masochistic as he is could enjoy. He even tries in the less conventional way, drags him to the edge with his lips and fingers and tongue and asks, says, “C’mon, tattoo? It’s not that bad.” Dean says no and comes at the thought of the needle piercing his skin, heart racing wildly.
Dean goes with him when he gets it done, sits next to him and lets Sam hold his hand while the tattoo artist sits on the other other side, needle poises carefully above his chest. “It doesn’t hurt that much,” he lies. He knows that he’s lying; played mother to him since forever. He knows when Sam is lying, can hear it in the way his voice strains against the pain. Sam’s face tightens and Dean laughs, just on this side of forced.
“You’re lying,” Dean informs him.
“I know,” Sam says.
The tattoo artist, a big man with sleeves up and down both of his arms give them a strange look, one eyebrow quirking up. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts and says to Sam, “Hold still.” Dean can tell that it hurts by the way that Sam doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips and grips his hand tighter. It takes less time than Dean anticipated, but by the time Sam’s tattoo is done he’s half hard in his pants from the way he gripped his hand and held on tight. His mind is made up later by when Sam hisses and slaps him away when he kisses him deep and skims his hands up his chest, brushing over the bandage covering the wounded skin.
Afterwards, when Sam is lying spread out on the motel bed, breathless and sated Dean props himself up on one elbow and says, “I’ll do it.” He stares at the ceiling for a while, blinking slowly while he tries to process what his brother is telling him. Sam doesn’t get it. “I’ll get the tattoo,” he finally clarifies, giving him an expectant look. His brother makes a funny noise and pulls him down on top of him, wincing when their chests connect.
“Yeah?” he says, and then, “It really isn’t that bad once you get going, the needle is nothing to worry about.”
Dean gives him a funny look and says yeah.
They go back to the parlor that Sam got his at, two days after he got his done and the artist gives them the same look as before and says, “So you’re back.” Dean is restless the whole time he’s prepping his tools, tracing the pattern onto his chest in the same place that Sam has his. He keeps shifting, anticipation curling hot in his gut. He knows exactly what Sam thinks, but he knows that Sam is wrong and that if he knew what was actually going on in his head he’d probably think that his brotherloverboyfriend was a freak and bolt in the opposite direction. Getting turned on to the point that he can’t even think while he’s getting tattooed isn’t normal. It’s not, and Sam already has to deal with enough things that aren’t normal without a crazy brother on his plate too.
In the end, no matter how much Dean tries to mentally prepare himself he’s fucked over from the first press of the needle to his skin. Sam misunderstands the whimpering noise that slips from his mouth and squeezes his hand comfortingly. Closing his eyes and counting backwards from a thousand doesn’t help either, and he barely manages to get to nine hundred and eight seven before he’s shifting uncomfortably and biting his lip and honestly and truly trying to rewire the way the connection from his brain to his dick works.
He can’t stop it, can’t stop twitching and making these tiny, involuntary noises every time the needle shoots ink into his skin. He’s thinking, God, this is so fucking worth it. God, this feels so fucking good. God, help me. He’s thinking, Fuck, this has to be over soon, God, don’t let it ever end. He wore the loosest pants he owned but he can tell he’s straining against them, and the way he’s sprawled out across the chair isn’t helping to hide matters. Dean’s eyes have been closed for the process so far, but he opens them, looks down to see how far they’ve gotten because they have to be at least half way by now.
They aren’t.
His gaze slides over to Sam and he knows in that instant that Sam knows how turned on he is and his heart sinks. The look on Sam’s face is the one that he has when he’s thinking really hard about something. He’s looking at Dean and Dean’s looking at him and then the needle presses is again, almost too hard and he yelps (a really manly yelp, for the record) and twitches so hard that the guy doing his tattoo has to sit back and sigh loudly. “Look,” he says to Sam. “I can’t do this if he doesn’t stop twitching, so can you like, get him to the bathroom and take the edge off or something so I can finish it?” He’s looking at the ceiling the whole time he says it and Dean’s face is burning, burning because he’s so turned on that he can barely think straight, burning because he’s embarrassed because he knows Sam and he knows that Sam is going to want to talk about this.
But no. Sam doesn’t even look at him when he pulls him to the back, closing the wooden door with a soft click. He pulls Dean towards him by his belt, undoing it with one hand while the other one curves around the back of his skull, tugging on his hair and kissing him, tongue dipping into his mouth to touch and taste. “You could have told me,” he whispers into his skin, tugging the zipper down and thumbing the button open. “God, you should have told me.” Dean can’t say anything, just falls against Sam and lets him hold him, panting and gasping and hoping to every single deity he can remember that this isn’t a dream. He can hear Sam breathing into his ear, a harsh noise that he can’t get enough of, and then the foil of a condom ripping. “We could’ve been having so much fun with this,” he almost coos, pulling Dean’s cock out of his tented boxers and rolling the condom slowly onto it.
Their cheeks touch and Dean whispers, “Sam,” His voice is wrecked. Sam’s hands slide up his sides, curl around his shoulders and push him back a little, enough that he can take a good look at him. He says, “Jesus, Dean. Jesus. You’re really - this is really a thing for you.”
He agrees, says, “Yes, please, Sam - please.”
“You should have said.” He pulls him forwards again, kisses him hard with their teeth clicking together. Dean thinks about how Sam knows now, the tattoo artist knows and that brings his list of people who know up to a number that he needs both hands to count. It almost makes this that much better that the tattoo artist is out there waiting for Sam to get him off so that he can finish his job and he moans at the thought, low and in the back of his throat. “Should have said,” Sam repeats, long fingers gripping the base and smoothing up and then back down, bringing his hand up to his mouth so he can spit into the palm to make the slide a little easier. Their foreheads press together, skin slipping and tacky with sweat.
Sam’s eyes are open and wide, watching Dean unblinkingly as he jerks him off, hand squeezing tight in a way that he doesn’t usually try. He doesn’t miss the way his breath hitches, and now he knows that it’s a good sign, now he knows that he can. There are so many things that Sam wants to try. Their mouths are close together, Dean’s bottom lip bleeding where he bit too hard and Sam ducks, catching his lips with his own. His tongue flicks out across Dean’s lip, tastes metal on his tongue and he bites down, bites hard, makes the pain jolt straight through Dean, down to his core and straight to his dick and he comes hard into the condom, shakes in Sam’s grip and tries not to pass out.
It’s hard for him not to tremble afterwards, takes him a few seconds - minuteshoursdays - to recover. “This is... okay?” he says, eyes gaurded as he looks at Sam who’s leaning against the wall and giving Dean the exact same look.
“Should it be anything but?” Sam asks, and Dean is still leaning against him, still blinking and trying to get his thoughts back in order. He tucks him back in, does his pants up and says, “C’mon, you’re just under halfway done. I’ll blow you when we get back to the motel.”
Back in the seat and the tattoo artist says, “Okay.” Dean sits down carefully, takes a deep breath and he squeezes Sam’s hand. The edge is gone, he can do this, he can. And the thing is, he totally can. The needle thrums and every time it presses ink into his skin the thrum pushes through to his blood stream, echoing all the way through his body until his skin is humming, singing with the distant pleasure. He closes his eyes, a pleased smile on his lips. “You actually like this,” the tattoo artist laughs, looking vaguely amazed.
Dean’s smile is infectious. It spreads to Sam’s face and his eyes flicker in amusement. “You have no idea.”
companion piece.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's not... this thing he has with pain, flirting with danger until he gets hurt, it's not normal.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, please don't steal the plot. Title & cut belong to Three Days Grace.
A/N: Written for a prompt in the spnkink_meme. Basically I'm just stealing plots from there because I have zero inspirations these days.
recced here at hoodie_time ♥
When Dean is fifteen, he breaks his wrist while on a hunt with his dad. It heals faster, faster than strictly normal when aided with some hoodoo magic. The bone heals nicely, he can rotate his wrist just fine but sometimes it’s sore, pain leaking from the wrist bone and up to his fingers and down his forearm. He starts to find that he doesn’t mind the soreness of it, first ignores it and then realizes that he likes it, the way that when he moves it too fast while it’s sore makes the pain sharpen and intensify. It’s then that he starts getting reckless, it’s there (during the realization that he likes the way things hurt) that he can pinpoint where his shoot first, ask questions later attitude started forming.
Between the time that he’s fifteen and twenty five, Dean breaks his bones and gets concussions and cuts and gashes and flesh wounds. Scars litter his entire body, the shape of claws in his right hand shoulder, clips from stray bullets and blades and bites on his arms and torso. He relishes every single one, presses into bruises long after they’ve gone from purple-y blue to yellow-y green. He bites his lips and the insides of his mouth raw and bloody when he needs to get stitched up, dizzy and hard from the pain and the effort of hiding how good it feels from whoever is playing nurse to him.
It’s not... this thing he has with pain, flirting with danger until he gets hurt, it’s not normal. He knows that, has known that since he’s been aware of it. Normal people - normal people like Sam don’t like pain and flinch and twitch in all the right ways when they’ve got sprained ankles and broken arms and dislocated shoulders. They hiss when getting stitched up, tears leaking out of the corners of their eyes for all the right reasons. Dean twitches because it feels good, hisses because when he hurts he can feel it right down to his core and it hits him deep in ways that things don’t on a regular basis. In this way, Dean is so, so wrong.
In the way that Sam has been thinking about getting a tattoo for a long time, Dean has always, always been against it. It’s not that he doesn’t want one, because he does, it’s the fact that he knows that tattoos hurt, a needle placing ink permanently into your skin. He knows what his reaction will be, doesn’t want anyone to find out about his relationship with pain outside of the handful of people that he’s told and who know. It’s Bobby giving them the charm amulet with the symbol against demon possession that finalises his idea and sets it in stone. “Dean,” he says. “It’s a good idea. Think about it, we’d never have to worry about it, c’mon.” He shakes his head quickly and gives a vehement no.
His brother gets his done first, after spending weeks trying to break Dean’s resolve about it. He goes as far as to make a powerpoint presentation with diagrams and a list of reasons as to why Dean should get the tattoo done, but in the end he puts the refusal down to a fear of needles. And Sam is so, so wrong. He has nothing against needles, enjoys getting vaccinations when they actually do get them in the sick, messed up way that only someone as masochistic as he is could enjoy. He even tries in the less conventional way, drags him to the edge with his lips and fingers and tongue and asks, says, “C’mon, tattoo? It’s not that bad.” Dean says no and comes at the thought of the needle piercing his skin, heart racing wildly.
Dean goes with him when he gets it done, sits next to him and lets Sam hold his hand while the tattoo artist sits on the other other side, needle poises carefully above his chest. “It doesn’t hurt that much,” he lies. He knows that he’s lying; played mother to him since forever. He knows when Sam is lying, can hear it in the way his voice strains against the pain. Sam’s face tightens and Dean laughs, just on this side of forced.
“You’re lying,” Dean informs him.
“I know,” Sam says.
The tattoo artist, a big man with sleeves up and down both of his arms give them a strange look, one eyebrow quirking up. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts and says to Sam, “Hold still.” Dean can tell that it hurts by the way that Sam doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips and grips his hand tighter. It takes less time than Dean anticipated, but by the time Sam’s tattoo is done he’s half hard in his pants from the way he gripped his hand and held on tight. His mind is made up later by when Sam hisses and slaps him away when he kisses him deep and skims his hands up his chest, brushing over the bandage covering the wounded skin.
Afterwards, when Sam is lying spread out on the motel bed, breathless and sated Dean props himself up on one elbow and says, “I’ll do it.” He stares at the ceiling for a while, blinking slowly while he tries to process what his brother is telling him. Sam doesn’t get it. “I’ll get the tattoo,” he finally clarifies, giving him an expectant look. His brother makes a funny noise and pulls him down on top of him, wincing when their chests connect.
“Yeah?” he says, and then, “It really isn’t that bad once you get going, the needle is nothing to worry about.”
Dean gives him a funny look and says yeah.
They go back to the parlor that Sam got his at, two days after he got his done and the artist gives them the same look as before and says, “So you’re back.” Dean is restless the whole time he’s prepping his tools, tracing the pattern onto his chest in the same place that Sam has his. He keeps shifting, anticipation curling hot in his gut. He knows exactly what Sam thinks, but he knows that Sam is wrong and that if he knew what was actually going on in his head he’d probably think that his brotherloverboyfriend was a freak and bolt in the opposite direction. Getting turned on to the point that he can’t even think while he’s getting tattooed isn’t normal. It’s not, and Sam already has to deal with enough things that aren’t normal without a crazy brother on his plate too.
In the end, no matter how much Dean tries to mentally prepare himself he’s fucked over from the first press of the needle to his skin. Sam misunderstands the whimpering noise that slips from his mouth and squeezes his hand comfortingly. Closing his eyes and counting backwards from a thousand doesn’t help either, and he barely manages to get to nine hundred and eight seven before he’s shifting uncomfortably and biting his lip and honestly and truly trying to rewire the way the connection from his brain to his dick works.
He can’t stop it, can’t stop twitching and making these tiny, involuntary noises every time the needle shoots ink into his skin. He’s thinking, God, this is so fucking worth it. God, this feels so fucking good. God, help me. He’s thinking, Fuck, this has to be over soon, God, don’t let it ever end. He wore the loosest pants he owned but he can tell he’s straining against them, and the way he’s sprawled out across the chair isn’t helping to hide matters. Dean’s eyes have been closed for the process so far, but he opens them, looks down to see how far they’ve gotten because they have to be at least half way by now.
They aren’t.
His gaze slides over to Sam and he knows in that instant that Sam knows how turned on he is and his heart sinks. The look on Sam’s face is the one that he has when he’s thinking really hard about something. He’s looking at Dean and Dean’s looking at him and then the needle presses is again, almost too hard and he yelps (a really manly yelp, for the record) and twitches so hard that the guy doing his tattoo has to sit back and sigh loudly. “Look,” he says to Sam. “I can’t do this if he doesn’t stop twitching, so can you like, get him to the bathroom and take the edge off or something so I can finish it?” He’s looking at the ceiling the whole time he says it and Dean’s face is burning, burning because he’s so turned on that he can barely think straight, burning because he’s embarrassed because he knows Sam and he knows that Sam is going to want to talk about this.
But no. Sam doesn’t even look at him when he pulls him to the back, closing the wooden door with a soft click. He pulls Dean towards him by his belt, undoing it with one hand while the other one curves around the back of his skull, tugging on his hair and kissing him, tongue dipping into his mouth to touch and taste. “You could have told me,” he whispers into his skin, tugging the zipper down and thumbing the button open. “God, you should have told me.” Dean can’t say anything, just falls against Sam and lets him hold him, panting and gasping and hoping to every single deity he can remember that this isn’t a dream. He can hear Sam breathing into his ear, a harsh noise that he can’t get enough of, and then the foil of a condom ripping. “We could’ve been having so much fun with this,” he almost coos, pulling Dean’s cock out of his tented boxers and rolling the condom slowly onto it.
Their cheeks touch and Dean whispers, “Sam,” His voice is wrecked. Sam’s hands slide up his sides, curl around his shoulders and push him back a little, enough that he can take a good look at him. He says, “Jesus, Dean. Jesus. You’re really - this is really a thing for you.”
He agrees, says, “Yes, please, Sam - please.”
“You should have said.” He pulls him forwards again, kisses him hard with their teeth clicking together. Dean thinks about how Sam knows now, the tattoo artist knows and that brings his list of people who know up to a number that he needs both hands to count. It almost makes this that much better that the tattoo artist is out there waiting for Sam to get him off so that he can finish his job and he moans at the thought, low and in the back of his throat. “Should have said,” Sam repeats, long fingers gripping the base and smoothing up and then back down, bringing his hand up to his mouth so he can spit into the palm to make the slide a little easier. Their foreheads press together, skin slipping and tacky with sweat.
Sam’s eyes are open and wide, watching Dean unblinkingly as he jerks him off, hand squeezing tight in a way that he doesn’t usually try. He doesn’t miss the way his breath hitches, and now he knows that it’s a good sign, now he knows that he can. There are so many things that Sam wants to try. Their mouths are close together, Dean’s bottom lip bleeding where he bit too hard and Sam ducks, catching his lips with his own. His tongue flicks out across Dean’s lip, tastes metal on his tongue and he bites down, bites hard, makes the pain jolt straight through Dean, down to his core and straight to his dick and he comes hard into the condom, shakes in Sam’s grip and tries not to pass out.
It’s hard for him not to tremble afterwards, takes him a few seconds - minuteshoursdays - to recover. “This is... okay?” he says, eyes gaurded as he looks at Sam who’s leaning against the wall and giving Dean the exact same look.
“Should it be anything but?” Sam asks, and Dean is still leaning against him, still blinking and trying to get his thoughts back in order. He tucks him back in, does his pants up and says, “C’mon, you’re just under halfway done. I’ll blow you when we get back to the motel.”
Back in the seat and the tattoo artist says, “Okay.” Dean sits down carefully, takes a deep breath and he squeezes Sam’s hand. The edge is gone, he can do this, he can. And the thing is, he totally can. The needle thrums and every time it presses ink into his skin the thrum pushes through to his blood stream, echoing all the way through his body until his skin is humming, singing with the distant pleasure. He closes his eyes, a pleased smile on his lips. “You actually like this,” the tattoo artist laughs, looking vaguely amazed.
Dean’s smile is infectious. It spreads to Sam’s face and his eyes flicker in amusement. “You have no idea.”
companion piece.