SPN Fic: Reclaiming
Reveal time! Here's the second of three prompts I filled for blindfold_spn last week.
Title: Reclaiming
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,020
Warning: breathplay
Summary: Sam's not going to die unless Dean allows it.
Author's Note: Thanks to rivers_bend (once more!) for the ultra-quick beta. Written for the blindfold_spn meme for the prompt, Intense, possessive, breathplay goes too far when Dean's all fired up after a hunt.
Dean’s hands are shaking and adrenaline pinballs through his system with nowhere to drain. It's bad this time, worse than usual.
“Get your fucking ass in the fucking car.”
“Dean, I’m fine. Settle down.”
Sam’s sauntering out of the abandoned building, shotgun trailing loose and casual in one hand like he wasn’t just a split second from being tossed from the eighth-story roof and splattered in a goopy mess on the sidewalk.
“Settle down? Settle down?” Dean’s voice rises up, pitch spiraling, and he turns, grabs the front of Sam’s shirt in both fists, pulls him down face-to-face. “You’re gonna get your jeans off,” he growls, teeth bared against Sam’s lips, “and get ass up in the car or so help me God…”
Dean thrusts him away and stalks toward the Impala, popping the button on his pants with one hand and wrenching the passenger side door open with the other.
Sam’s following, of course, but too slowly, of course. He tosses the gun into the backseat and turns to Dean with placating eyes. “Let’s just go back to the motel and-“
“No,” Dean cuts him off. How the hell can Sam be so goddamn calm? He gets a hand on the back of Sam’s neck and shoves him facedown onto the front bench seat, scrabbling then yanking down Sam’s jeans and shorts so that his bare ass is exposed to the warm night air. “You don’t get to be stupid, nearly get yourself fucking killed and then just stroll out of there like it’s a fucking day at the park. Jesus Christ, Sam!”
“Dean-“ Sam’s wriggling around under the weight of Dean’s grip, trying to help by toeing off his shoes and inching his pants down past his knees, but Dean’s fevered brain interprets this as an escape attempt and he pounces, shifts his grip from Sam’s nape around front so that he’s trapping Sam’s chin in the vee of his hand, fingertips digging hard into Sam’s jaw.
He feels Sam gasp and start to speak, so Dean yanks backward, cutting off his air, his neck taut and exposed. Dean licks at it, then bites, worrying his teeth into the sweat-salty flesh under Sam’s ear until it’s red and sore.
“Not another word,” Dean snarls, keeping tight hold on Sam’s jaw with one hand and reaching with the other for the glove compartment, pulling out a tube of slick and popping the cap.
He feels Sam’s whole body shudder as the cold lube hits his exposed hole and then Dean’s rubbing it in, glossy and dripping, all over Sam’s crack and up inside him, two fingers jabbing knuckle deep into the tight heat. Sam jerks, soundless, and spreads his legs as wide as he can within the confines of the jeans still tangled at his ankles. Caught within Dean’s grasp, Sam shifts awkwardly up onto one elbow, working his right hand underneath to grasp his bobbing cock.
Dean’s got his own dick out now, too, and coats it with lube in two quick strokes. He lines up, pulling his fingers out and pushing into that open ring of muscle in the same swift motion. He releases Sam’s throat long enough for him to take a startled breath and then clamps down again, sealing up Sam’s airway at the same time he drives his aching cock all the way in with a sharp thrust of his hips.
Sam’s back is curved in a cruel arch as Dean pounds into him, the rhythmic squeak of the Impala’s seat springs and Dean’s harsh pants and the wet squelch of Dean’s cock stroking in and out of Sam are the only sounds. Dean’s exquisitely aware of each finger buried in the supple skin of Sam’s neck, the exact weight of the blade of his palm closing off Sam’s windpipe.
Sam could get away if he wanted, leverage with his knees and arms and wrench himself out of Dean’s clutch, but he’s not; he’s just submitting to it, taking it, loving it. It’s a game, a test, a declaration of ownership. They’re taunting the Reaper: Sam leaning out over the precipice to take a quick glance down into the darkness, Dean yanking him back to safety.
Sam’s not going to die unless Dean allows it, and Dean will not fucking allow it.
Dean’s shaking, already riding the edge of his orgasm like the crest of a wave, but it’s okay because Sam’s writhing under him, throat working silently, one fist pounding against the seat while the other jerks himself-- short, fast pumps-- until Dean feels him seize up, muscles locking, tight channel milking Dean’s cock mercilessly, the smell of spunk sudden and pungent.
Sam collapses like a felled tree, limbs slack, head bouncing off of the seat cushion and then down again, unmoving. Dean follows him down, still buried balls-deep, releasing Sam’s windpipe but keeping his fingers looped lightly around his neck. He can feel Sam’s unconscious body gasping for air and matches the heaves of Sam’s chest with desperate thrusts into his unresponsive form. He wraps one hand behind Sam’s knee and pulls at it to hold him open.
“Fuck. Fuck! Sam!” He knows Sam can’t hear but Dean shouts again anyway, “Sammy!” Then he curls up, eyes squeezed shut, pressing his forehead down into the flat plane of Sam’s back, and comes in a hot, white flood, his load pulsing thick and deep inside Sam’s ass.
Dean nearly blacks out himself, nerves overloading, blood rushing from his brain, but he manages to hold himself up on trembling arms to avoid crashing down on Sam who’s still lax and defenseless underneath him. He rolls off, pulling his cock out carefully until he reels back out of the car, then kneels on the pavement, panting, shivering, gently tucking himself and then Sam back into briefs and pulling jeans up over hips, not bothering to try to zip. He stumbles around the Impala’s front end and around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel, where he sits combing his fingers through Sam’s hair until he sees the soft flutter of lashes.
Title: Reclaiming
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,020
Warning: breathplay
Summary: Sam's not going to die unless Dean allows it.
Author's Note: Thanks to rivers_bend (once more!) for the ultra-quick beta. Written for the blindfold_spn meme for the prompt, Intense, possessive, breathplay goes too far when Dean's all fired up after a hunt.
Dean’s hands are shaking and adrenaline pinballs through his system with nowhere to drain. It's bad this time, worse than usual.
“Get your fucking ass in the fucking car.”
“Dean, I’m fine. Settle down.”
Sam’s sauntering out of the abandoned building, shotgun trailing loose and casual in one hand like he wasn’t just a split second from being tossed from the eighth-story roof and splattered in a goopy mess on the sidewalk.
“Settle down? Settle down?” Dean’s voice rises up, pitch spiraling, and he turns, grabs the front of Sam’s shirt in both fists, pulls him down face-to-face. “You’re gonna get your jeans off,” he growls, teeth bared against Sam’s lips, “and get ass up in the car or so help me God…”
Dean thrusts him away and stalks toward the Impala, popping the button on his pants with one hand and wrenching the passenger side door open with the other.
Sam’s following, of course, but too slowly, of course. He tosses the gun into the backseat and turns to Dean with placating eyes. “Let’s just go back to the motel and-“
“No,” Dean cuts him off. How the hell can Sam be so goddamn calm? He gets a hand on the back of Sam’s neck and shoves him facedown onto the front bench seat, scrabbling then yanking down Sam’s jeans and shorts so that his bare ass is exposed to the warm night air. “You don’t get to be stupid, nearly get yourself fucking killed and then just stroll out of there like it’s a fucking day at the park. Jesus Christ, Sam!”
“Dean-“ Sam’s wriggling around under the weight of Dean’s grip, trying to help by toeing off his shoes and inching his pants down past his knees, but Dean’s fevered brain interprets this as an escape attempt and he pounces, shifts his grip from Sam’s nape around front so that he’s trapping Sam’s chin in the vee of his hand, fingertips digging hard into Sam’s jaw.
He feels Sam gasp and start to speak, so Dean yanks backward, cutting off his air, his neck taut and exposed. Dean licks at it, then bites, worrying his teeth into the sweat-salty flesh under Sam’s ear until it’s red and sore.
“Not another word,” Dean snarls, keeping tight hold on Sam’s jaw with one hand and reaching with the other for the glove compartment, pulling out a tube of slick and popping the cap.
He feels Sam’s whole body shudder as the cold lube hits his exposed hole and then Dean’s rubbing it in, glossy and dripping, all over Sam’s crack and up inside him, two fingers jabbing knuckle deep into the tight heat. Sam jerks, soundless, and spreads his legs as wide as he can within the confines of the jeans still tangled at his ankles. Caught within Dean’s grasp, Sam shifts awkwardly up onto one elbow, working his right hand underneath to grasp his bobbing cock.
Dean’s got his own dick out now, too, and coats it with lube in two quick strokes. He lines up, pulling his fingers out and pushing into that open ring of muscle in the same swift motion. He releases Sam’s throat long enough for him to take a startled breath and then clamps down again, sealing up Sam’s airway at the same time he drives his aching cock all the way in with a sharp thrust of his hips.
Sam’s back is curved in a cruel arch as Dean pounds into him, the rhythmic squeak of the Impala’s seat springs and Dean’s harsh pants and the wet squelch of Dean’s cock stroking in and out of Sam are the only sounds. Dean’s exquisitely aware of each finger buried in the supple skin of Sam’s neck, the exact weight of the blade of his palm closing off Sam’s windpipe.
Sam could get away if he wanted, leverage with his knees and arms and wrench himself out of Dean’s clutch, but he’s not; he’s just submitting to it, taking it, loving it. It’s a game, a test, a declaration of ownership. They’re taunting the Reaper: Sam leaning out over the precipice to take a quick glance down into the darkness, Dean yanking him back to safety.
Sam’s not going to die unless Dean allows it, and Dean will not fucking allow it.
Dean’s shaking, already riding the edge of his orgasm like the crest of a wave, but it’s okay because Sam’s writhing under him, throat working silently, one fist pounding against the seat while the other jerks himself-- short, fast pumps-- until Dean feels him seize up, muscles locking, tight channel milking Dean’s cock mercilessly, the smell of spunk sudden and pungent.
Sam collapses like a felled tree, limbs slack, head bouncing off of the seat cushion and then down again, unmoving. Dean follows him down, still buried balls-deep, releasing Sam’s windpipe but keeping his fingers looped lightly around his neck. He can feel Sam’s unconscious body gasping for air and matches the heaves of Sam’s chest with desperate thrusts into his unresponsive form. He wraps one hand behind Sam’s knee and pulls at it to hold him open.
“Fuck. Fuck! Sam!” He knows Sam can’t hear but Dean shouts again anyway, “Sammy!” Then he curls up, eyes squeezed shut, pressing his forehead down into the flat plane of Sam’s back, and comes in a hot, white flood, his load pulsing thick and deep inside Sam’s ass.
Dean nearly blacks out himself, nerves overloading, blood rushing from his brain, but he manages to hold himself up on trembling arms to avoid crashing down on Sam who’s still lax and defenseless underneath him. He rolls off, pulling his cock out carefully until he reels back out of the car, then kneels on the pavement, panting, shivering, gently tucking himself and then Sam back into briefs and pulling jeans up over hips, not bothering to try to zip. He stumbles around the Impala’s front end and around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel, where he sits combing his fingers through Sam’s hair until he sees the soft flutter of lashes.