Fic: What I'd Do For You (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sick!Sam, kinda sorta dubcon-ish, drabble (yes, my drabbles are over 1,000 words - I have a problem)
Summary - Sam's got a fever and Dean gets a little too caught up in taking care of his brother.
When Sammy was a kid he slept in t-shirts - Dean's t-shirts - big oversized things, too worn thin to even be seen in public, and soft as skin underneath Dean’s young fingers. But not anymore. Now it's all sculpted muscle and smooth skin laid out on over-bleached motel sheets and Dean wonders what kind of God would want him to resist that. Clearly a vindictive one.
If Dean was to describe his 'type', soft breasts and full curves would be at the top of list and those aren't exactly things Sam's got the market cornered on, but then again, Sam's always been a breed of his own for Dean. Dean doesn't go for guys, but he goes for Sam, goes for him harder than he ever has for a girl; those long lean muscles making his mouth run dry faster than the best rack ever has.
But right now it's not HIS mouth that's running dry.
Dean dribbles another sip of water from the bottle over Sam’s lips. His brother mumbles something and turns his head, licking away the droplets that cling to his lips. If Sam sweats any more he's gonna shrivel up into a raisin; the sheets are already soaked through with it, even though Dean's still wearing his jacket because the damn heater in their motel room won't turn on.
He's done everything he can, medically; now the fucking elemental's venom just has to work its way out Sam's system. Objectively, Dean knows his brother will be ok, they've both survived a hell of a lot worse than a little fever, but that thing inside of him that aches whenever Sam's hurt is trying to gnaw its way out through his rib cage, getting all mixed up with the touch-hungry part of him that can't stop imagining better ways for Sam to get all hot and sweaty between the sheets.
To be honest, he hasn't got a clue which one of those it is that makes Dean scoot into bed behind the curl of his brother's body, but the second he's there, he feels better.
Sam's always put off crazy amounts of heat when he sleeps; so many nights Dean woke up slick with sweat from the heat of Sam's then-tiny body wrapped around him in the beds they so often shared. This temperature is much more intense than that though - and, in fact, he's not even sure Sam didn’t outgrow getting so hot in his sleep. This heat is too powerful, too crisp, like the warmth pouring off of a fresh sunburn. It sinks down into Dean's chest when he presses tight to Sam's back, filling him so thoroughly he has to pull back to shed his jacket, loses the shirt while he's at it because Sam won't really care.
It's almost funny how something like this can be so much the same when everything else about Sam is different. Sam's body is so much bigger now than that time he'd gotten chicken pox, more muscular than when he'd spent a week in bed with the flu, but he still molds right back into the press of Dean's body, like just the contact is going to cure him. And that's probably the most fucked up part about this - even more than the lust laying like an iron ball of shame in his gut - because even though Dean hates, HATES, to see anything hurting his Sammy, he loves the way his brother needs him right now.
Sam makes a little snuffling noise that builds into a whine of Dean's name at the end, scrubbing his face into the pillow. Dean reaches up and gently skins the sweat-soaked strands of Sam's bangs away from his forehead, pressing a 'shh' into the knobs of Sam's spine.
"I'm here baby boy, you're safe," he whispers and like those are the magic words, Sam's body goes liquid, relaxed.
Dean's hand rubs over the sharp joint of Sam's shoulder, down into the rippling dips of his torso. His fingertips find the edges of the taped-on bandage -still sticking despite the moisture - protecting the mark where that dead fucker left fang marks in Sam.
He paints a slow trail down Sam's abdomen with his fingers, enough pressure to keep the muscles from jumping ticklishly - Sammy was always ticklish - until they bump into the sweat-soggy waistband of his brother's boxers. There's more heat coming from there and the brush of cotton-covered stiffness on the back of Dean's hand tells him his brother's hard. He doesn't know if it's for him or something to do with the venom or just some fever-dream Sam's having, but he likes the first option and Sam whimpers his name again hungrily at the tiny touch. That sound firms Dean's resolve - even though a part of him knows that he probably would have done it anyway - so he lets his hand drift a little lower, palm skidding over the almost painful heat of his brother's erection.
Sam moans, hips bucking helplessly into Dean's hand and an electric shock travels up the older man's arm, jolting right down his body to ricochet dirty, white-hot patterns below his belly-button.
"I know baby," Dean promises breathlessly, "I know what you need." His fingers worm into the slit of Sam's boxers, let stiff flesh pop free before smoothing lower, splaying out over the weight of Sam's sac. He groans in time with Sam as he gives the heavy flesh a gentle squeeze.
"So full, Sammy. Bet you haven't gotten off in days," Sam probably too out of it to hear him, definitely can't understand him, but Dean's always had a big mouth when he's turned on - gotten him tossed out on his ass more than once, but it's also gotten him some of the best lays of his life. "Been waiting for me baby boy? Wanna shoot a big load for me?" Dean licks at the wet curls that have formed behind Sam's ear, salt heavy on his tongue with the rich taste of his brother at the back of his palate. Sam moans again, head arching back into Dean's mouth, hips fucking in a frantic, instinctual drive as Dean curls his fingers around Sam's throbbing length.
"That's it Sammy, fuck my fist. Make you feel so much better," is whispered with his lips against the shell of Sam's ear. Sam's overheated flesh pebbles up with goosebumps and Dean wishes he could get his other hand around to tweak his brother's nipples. When this plays out in his head, Sam always likes that.
Sam's hips are pumping into the corkscrew grip of Dean's hand like it's his one goal in life and the friction as Sam presses back, bumping into Dean's own achingly hard dick has him gasping right along with his little brother.
"Yeah, just like that," Dean pants, rocking his hips forward into the slide of Sam's, his stiff length finding the sweltering cleft of Sam's ass through fabric on each stroke, one teasing hint at what could be. He hadn't really meant to get himself off like this, had only meant to take care of his Sammy, but he can feel the tightness in his own chest as Sam's shaft hardens that tiny bit further, his balls drawing up.
"Gonna come for me, Sammy, come so hard. Want you so bad, baby. Love you. Come for me."
Sam's eyes flutter open when he shoots it, pupils wide and dark and wild; Sam at his most base and primal and it's a close contest for whether or not it's more beautiful than the jerking flex of Sam's reddened dick in Dean's hand, the streams of milky fluid pumping out onto the sheets and the floor and Dean's fist. The combination pushes Dean over the edge too, thrusting forward against the rigid clench of Sam's ass, each roll of his hips matching a pulse of come painting the inside of his jeans sticky.
He comes down with his own breath being shunted back onto his face by the nape of Sam's neck, so he spends a little while kissing the sweat-saltiness from the skin there, body still pressed in a tight line to his baby brother. He can tell from the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest that he's broken out of the toss and turn of fever sleep into real, deep rest.
Dean leans up as best he can without losing too much contact with Sam and wipes them both clean with the corner of the sheet. Once he feels Sam's temperature go down, he'll move them to the other bed, but for now this is fine, so he spoons himself against Sam's back and lays a line of soft kisses down his sweaty temple.
Sam's eyelids flutter again, but don't open, and when he follows the gentle caress of his brother's lips, he whispers "Dean".
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sick!Sam, kinda sorta dubcon-ish, drabble (yes, my drabbles are over 1,000 words - I have a problem)
Summary - Sam's got a fever and Dean gets a little too caught up in taking care of his brother.
When Sammy was a kid he slept in t-shirts - Dean's t-shirts - big oversized things, too worn thin to even be seen in public, and soft as skin underneath Dean’s young fingers. But not anymore. Now it's all sculpted muscle and smooth skin laid out on over-bleached motel sheets and Dean wonders what kind of God would want him to resist that. Clearly a vindictive one.
If Dean was to describe his 'type', soft breasts and full curves would be at the top of list and those aren't exactly things Sam's got the market cornered on, but then again, Sam's always been a breed of his own for Dean. Dean doesn't go for guys, but he goes for Sam, goes for him harder than he ever has for a girl; those long lean muscles making his mouth run dry faster than the best rack ever has.
But right now it's not HIS mouth that's running dry.
Dean dribbles another sip of water from the bottle over Sam’s lips. His brother mumbles something and turns his head, licking away the droplets that cling to his lips. If Sam sweats any more he's gonna shrivel up into a raisin; the sheets are already soaked through with it, even though Dean's still wearing his jacket because the damn heater in their motel room won't turn on.
He's done everything he can, medically; now the fucking elemental's venom just has to work its way out Sam's system. Objectively, Dean knows his brother will be ok, they've both survived a hell of a lot worse than a little fever, but that thing inside of him that aches whenever Sam's hurt is trying to gnaw its way out through his rib cage, getting all mixed up with the touch-hungry part of him that can't stop imagining better ways for Sam to get all hot and sweaty between the sheets.
To be honest, he hasn't got a clue which one of those it is that makes Dean scoot into bed behind the curl of his brother's body, but the second he's there, he feels better.
Sam's always put off crazy amounts of heat when he sleeps; so many nights Dean woke up slick with sweat from the heat of Sam's then-tiny body wrapped around him in the beds they so often shared. This temperature is much more intense than that though - and, in fact, he's not even sure Sam didn’t outgrow getting so hot in his sleep. This heat is too powerful, too crisp, like the warmth pouring off of a fresh sunburn. It sinks down into Dean's chest when he presses tight to Sam's back, filling him so thoroughly he has to pull back to shed his jacket, loses the shirt while he's at it because Sam won't really care.
It's almost funny how something like this can be so much the same when everything else about Sam is different. Sam's body is so much bigger now than that time he'd gotten chicken pox, more muscular than when he'd spent a week in bed with the flu, but he still molds right back into the press of Dean's body, like just the contact is going to cure him. And that's probably the most fucked up part about this - even more than the lust laying like an iron ball of shame in his gut - because even though Dean hates, HATES, to see anything hurting his Sammy, he loves the way his brother needs him right now.
Sam makes a little snuffling noise that builds into a whine of Dean's name at the end, scrubbing his face into the pillow. Dean reaches up and gently skins the sweat-soaked strands of Sam's bangs away from his forehead, pressing a 'shh' into the knobs of Sam's spine.
"I'm here baby boy, you're safe," he whispers and like those are the magic words, Sam's body goes liquid, relaxed.
Dean's hand rubs over the sharp joint of Sam's shoulder, down into the rippling dips of his torso. His fingertips find the edges of the taped-on bandage -still sticking despite the moisture - protecting the mark where that dead fucker left fang marks in Sam.
He paints a slow trail down Sam's abdomen with his fingers, enough pressure to keep the muscles from jumping ticklishly - Sammy was always ticklish - until they bump into the sweat-soggy waistband of his brother's boxers. There's more heat coming from there and the brush of cotton-covered stiffness on the back of Dean's hand tells him his brother's hard. He doesn't know if it's for him or something to do with the venom or just some fever-dream Sam's having, but he likes the first option and Sam whimpers his name again hungrily at the tiny touch. That sound firms Dean's resolve - even though a part of him knows that he probably would have done it anyway - so he lets his hand drift a little lower, palm skidding over the almost painful heat of his brother's erection.
Sam moans, hips bucking helplessly into Dean's hand and an electric shock travels up the older man's arm, jolting right down his body to ricochet dirty, white-hot patterns below his belly-button.
"I know baby," Dean promises breathlessly, "I know what you need." His fingers worm into the slit of Sam's boxers, let stiff flesh pop free before smoothing lower, splaying out over the weight of Sam's sac. He groans in time with Sam as he gives the heavy flesh a gentle squeeze.
"So full, Sammy. Bet you haven't gotten off in days," Sam probably too out of it to hear him, definitely can't understand him, but Dean's always had a big mouth when he's turned on - gotten him tossed out on his ass more than once, but it's also gotten him some of the best lays of his life. "Been waiting for me baby boy? Wanna shoot a big load for me?" Dean licks at the wet curls that have formed behind Sam's ear, salt heavy on his tongue with the rich taste of his brother at the back of his palate. Sam moans again, head arching back into Dean's mouth, hips fucking in a frantic, instinctual drive as Dean curls his fingers around Sam's throbbing length.
"That's it Sammy, fuck my fist. Make you feel so much better," is whispered with his lips against the shell of Sam's ear. Sam's overheated flesh pebbles up with goosebumps and Dean wishes he could get his other hand around to tweak his brother's nipples. When this plays out in his head, Sam always likes that.
Sam's hips are pumping into the corkscrew grip of Dean's hand like it's his one goal in life and the friction as Sam presses back, bumping into Dean's own achingly hard dick has him gasping right along with his little brother.
"Yeah, just like that," Dean pants, rocking his hips forward into the slide of Sam's, his stiff length finding the sweltering cleft of Sam's ass through fabric on each stroke, one teasing hint at what could be. He hadn't really meant to get himself off like this, had only meant to take care of his Sammy, but he can feel the tightness in his own chest as Sam's shaft hardens that tiny bit further, his balls drawing up.
"Gonna come for me, Sammy, come so hard. Want you so bad, baby. Love you. Come for me."
Sam's eyes flutter open when he shoots it, pupils wide and dark and wild; Sam at his most base and primal and it's a close contest for whether or not it's more beautiful than the jerking flex of Sam's reddened dick in Dean's hand, the streams of milky fluid pumping out onto the sheets and the floor and Dean's fist. The combination pushes Dean over the edge too, thrusting forward against the rigid clench of Sam's ass, each roll of his hips matching a pulse of come painting the inside of his jeans sticky.
He comes down with his own breath being shunted back onto his face by the nape of Sam's neck, so he spends a little while kissing the sweat-saltiness from the skin there, body still pressed in a tight line to his baby brother. He can tell from the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest that he's broken out of the toss and turn of fever sleep into real, deep rest.
Dean leans up as best he can without losing too much contact with Sam and wipes them both clean with the corner of the sheet. Once he feels Sam's temperature go down, he'll move them to the other bed, but for now this is fine, so he spoons himself against Sam's back and lays a line of soft kisses down his sweaty temple.
Sam's eyelids flutter again, but don't open, and when he follows the gentle caress of his brother's lips, he whispers "Dean".