Sam/Dean | All The Broken Pieces Fit | NC-17
This year, I wanted to push myself out of my boundaries and do things I would never touch before ... pretty sure this definitely counts.
Title: All the Broken Pieces Fit
Words: 1500
Summary: Sometimes, Sam needs to be reminded of the deep, penetrable bond he and Dean have. Sometimes, that means his brother touching him in the darkest places, fitting them together like no one else can.
Notes: Set in Season 2. Written for this spn_masquerade prompt.
On AO3
It isn’t the first time Sam gives to Dean’s will. It certainly isn’t the tenth time that Sam has lifted his hips, let Dean tug his jeans down and off, and slowly run his hands over Sam’s underwear. And it won’t be the last time Sam finds himself bare-assed on scratchy hotel sheets with a fully-clothed Dean hovering over him.
It’s been a year now that they’re back together - SamnDean, riding in Baby, taking care of things that go bump in the night, the family business. Some days, Sam thinks it’s like he never ran off to Stanford and left the family behind. But other times, when Dean’s beautifully-angled face comes within an inch of Sam’s, when Dean’s pink, pert mouth parts in a breathless whisper, Sam knows this is nothing like before.
Dean’s amulet rests cold and heavy on Sam’s chest. No matter how small it is, the piece brands Sam’s skin, reminds him of all the times he’s watched it rest on Dean’s shirts, how it stands for more than just a random Christmas present fifteen years ago.
It is their bond, the memory of lonely nights in hotel rooms when Sam stared at his brother, wanted to be just like him.
Wanted to be with him.
But it was wrong. All so very wrong. And it still is, even when it feels so very right.
Dean settles down on his elbows, denim-clad thighs pressing against Sam’s chilled legs. Slowly, he comes even closer and drapes his lips over Sam’s, slicks them from side to side until his tongue presses into Sam’s. It’s always hesitant at first, Sam doesn’t know why. He doesn’t question it, though. Doesn’t hesitate to stay with the set rhythm either.
Sam swirls his tongue around his brother’s. He tastes the spice of apple pie-two slices tonight for Dean, a fruit salad for Sam-then he reaches in further and gets all Dean, Dean, Dean.
Which he murmurs into Dean’s mouth like he’s calling for him, pleading for him to stay right here, just like this. Except, Dean never does that. No, he always takes this moment like a guest pass to other sights. Dean backs up to sit on his haunches, runs his warm palms up and down Sam’s thighs, then squeezes lightly.
Dean gives him a small smile, and Sam melts. “On your belly, Sam.”
He obeys, wouldn’t think of doing anything else. He lifts his hips in offering and happily receives the firm touch of Dean’s hands on his ass. Those rugged, callous-filled fingers drag along the cold-prickled skin of Sam’s ass and spread his cheeks apart.
Sam breaths in deep, feels his hole pucker against the chill in this musty hotel room, then there’s a warm brush of air down his crack as Dean comes in close, likely to inspect the goods. Another deep breath, and Sam rests on his forearms and tucks his head down with his eyes clenched tight. From here on out, he’s all about the touch, the experience, nothing but Dean right at his core.
Dean brushes the pad of his thumb down Sam’s crack and stops right at the tight skin of Sam’s hole. “Oh, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “What’m I gonna do with you.”
The satisfied, yet wondrous smile is obvious in his voice, almost obnoxious when Sam’s on display like this. But anger never comes close to Sam, not when Dean’s now licking at his hole, pushing his thumb inside, tugging it right back out. He does it again … tongue, thumb, in, out … and Sam slowly rocks his hips back, tries to increase the pressure until Dean shifts back and leaves Sam alone in his little cocoon of warmth and safety, the place where only Dean can settle beneath his skin, so long as they’re an arm’s-length away.
Sam breathes heavily while trying to ignore the strain in his shoulders of keeping himself up without any relief elsewhere on his body. He whispers for Dean, like a whistle calling his brother back home.
And Dean returns, thankfully with lube that’s cold and slick and messy on his hands when he gets right back to Sam’s hole. He slides one finger in, long and thick, reaching further than Sam could ever get when he’s tried this himself. Dean’s not as hesitant as Sam is; he pushes up and in, crooks his finger, lets the whole of his fingertip drag along the most sensitive spots of Sam’s body until he moves right back in.
Sam arches his back when Dean makes it two fingers.
He keens when there’re three.
And when Dean’s pinky starts to press in alongside the others, Sam huffs out a chant of curses. There’s sharp relief, a distraction, when Dean bites into the meat of Sam’s ass. When he nips his way up to the crest of Sam’s ass and licks into the beginning of that dip as he pushes his fingers in and out, tucks them together and spins them within Sam. And finally, when he laves his tongue along the flat of Sam’s lower back, while finally pressing his fourth finger in and stretching Sam wide.
In tiny bursts of pain, Sam is put back together again. He’s reminded of that erratic, yet insistent bond that he and Dean share, that they will always share. Sam pushes back onto Dean’s hand, crying through the sharp ache, but begs for it over and over again as Dean gives him exactly what he wants, like he always does, and whispers a sweet, soaring hymn of Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.
Soon enough, Dean’s painful bites turn into pleasurable, sucking kisses, and Sam knows that he’s finally reached the crescendo. They’re at the final climax where Dean not only gives Sam exactly what he needs, but takes what Dean wants as well.
Sam’s panting as he waits for it, as he listens for the jangle of Dean’s belt, the whisper of Dean’s zipper, then gets Dean’s hands back on him. Just one at his hip for now, the other helping his teeth open the condom with a snick of the wrapper being torn open. Dean’s hand roams all of Sam’s back with gentle, looping patterns until he finally rubs the head of his dick at Sam’s ass.
Sam knows he’s wide open, knows he’s stretched wide from the whole of Dean’s hand, but he still feels the pressure of Dean’s cock sliding inside, completing the puzzle, setting that last piece in its place.
“You ready, Sammy?” Dean asks, just like all the other times, just like he will a hundred more in the future.
Sam picks his head up, still keeps his eyes closed to witness this event with his ears and Dean’s stuttered, anxious breathing. With his nose and the bitter tang of sweat in the air. With his skin as Dean’s warm hands close around Sam’s hips, right where they fit.
Finally, Sam nods and Dean answers his promise. He fills Sam entirely and connects them where no one else can get to. Moving, breathing, and being one, Dean rocks forward. Again, and again, and again, until Sam is panting loudly, until Sam is fucking himself back on Dean’s cock and smacking skin to skin, until Dean is draped over Sam’s back and wraps his entire body around any inch of Sam that he can reach.
Dean’s forehead presses into the back of Sam’s neck, his hands run up and down Sam’s chest, his belly streaks Sam’s back with every stroke forward, his breath is coming out quick and harsh in Sam’s ear.
Dean is everywhere.
His cock is fucking so far and deep, it’s more than sex. Far past love. It’s something communal. Something unspeakable, really. Yet, Sam still cries out when Dean pushes in and in and in. Dean hits Sam’s prostate, goes for something else that unties every loose end Sam has done his best to fasten while at Stanford.
It was never any use. Sam would find reprieve in a class or a look from Jess, or even a few beers on Thursday nights, but Dean was still in Sam’s hindsight. He was always right there, just a few steps back, waiting, patient and yearning. And Sam was, too, he realizes now.
Always waiting and hoping to find this again, with a brother who knows him better than anyone else-human or otherwise-in this world. Who knows him inside and out, and fills the gaps where Sam doesn’t always feel right.
Sparks dance beneath Sam’s skin, his belly swoops and rises with every beat of Dean inside him. His legs tighten with beautiful pain, and his back bends impossibly low with every movement he pushes back on Dean. Still, he can’t give in, must experience this for as long as his brother will be here.
He cries out again as Dean drives home, fucks harder and faster, and Sam knows it’ll be over soon.
But not forever.
There’s always tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the year after that.
Sam will always have his brother in places no one else can reach, crevices that Sam can’t even get into.
He has his brother right. here.
Title: All the Broken Pieces Fit
Words: 1500
Summary: Sometimes, Sam needs to be reminded of the deep, penetrable bond he and Dean have. Sometimes, that means his brother touching him in the darkest places, fitting them together like no one else can.
Notes: Set in Season 2. Written for this spn_masquerade prompt.
On AO3
It isn’t the first time Sam gives to Dean’s will. It certainly isn’t the tenth time that Sam has lifted his hips, let Dean tug his jeans down and off, and slowly run his hands over Sam’s underwear. And it won’t be the last time Sam finds himself bare-assed on scratchy hotel sheets with a fully-clothed Dean hovering over him.
It’s been a year now that they’re back together - SamnDean, riding in Baby, taking care of things that go bump in the night, the family business. Some days, Sam thinks it’s like he never ran off to Stanford and left the family behind. But other times, when Dean’s beautifully-angled face comes within an inch of Sam’s, when Dean’s pink, pert mouth parts in a breathless whisper, Sam knows this is nothing like before.
Dean’s amulet rests cold and heavy on Sam’s chest. No matter how small it is, the piece brands Sam’s skin, reminds him of all the times he’s watched it rest on Dean’s shirts, how it stands for more than just a random Christmas present fifteen years ago.
It is their bond, the memory of lonely nights in hotel rooms when Sam stared at his brother, wanted to be just like him.
Wanted to be with him.
But it was wrong. All so very wrong. And it still is, even when it feels so very right.
Dean settles down on his elbows, denim-clad thighs pressing against Sam’s chilled legs. Slowly, he comes even closer and drapes his lips over Sam’s, slicks them from side to side until his tongue presses into Sam’s. It’s always hesitant at first, Sam doesn’t know why. He doesn’t question it, though. Doesn’t hesitate to stay with the set rhythm either.
Sam swirls his tongue around his brother’s. He tastes the spice of apple pie-two slices tonight for Dean, a fruit salad for Sam-then he reaches in further and gets all Dean, Dean, Dean.
Which he murmurs into Dean’s mouth like he’s calling for him, pleading for him to stay right here, just like this. Except, Dean never does that. No, he always takes this moment like a guest pass to other sights. Dean backs up to sit on his haunches, runs his warm palms up and down Sam’s thighs, then squeezes lightly.
Dean gives him a small smile, and Sam melts. “On your belly, Sam.”
He obeys, wouldn’t think of doing anything else. He lifts his hips in offering and happily receives the firm touch of Dean’s hands on his ass. Those rugged, callous-filled fingers drag along the cold-prickled skin of Sam’s ass and spread his cheeks apart.
Sam breaths in deep, feels his hole pucker against the chill in this musty hotel room, then there’s a warm brush of air down his crack as Dean comes in close, likely to inspect the goods. Another deep breath, and Sam rests on his forearms and tucks his head down with his eyes clenched tight. From here on out, he’s all about the touch, the experience, nothing but Dean right at his core.
Dean brushes the pad of his thumb down Sam’s crack and stops right at the tight skin of Sam’s hole. “Oh, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “What’m I gonna do with you.”
The satisfied, yet wondrous smile is obvious in his voice, almost obnoxious when Sam’s on display like this. But anger never comes close to Sam, not when Dean’s now licking at his hole, pushing his thumb inside, tugging it right back out. He does it again … tongue, thumb, in, out … and Sam slowly rocks his hips back, tries to increase the pressure until Dean shifts back and leaves Sam alone in his little cocoon of warmth and safety, the place where only Dean can settle beneath his skin, so long as they’re an arm’s-length away.
Sam breathes heavily while trying to ignore the strain in his shoulders of keeping himself up without any relief elsewhere on his body. He whispers for Dean, like a whistle calling his brother back home.
And Dean returns, thankfully with lube that’s cold and slick and messy on his hands when he gets right back to Sam’s hole. He slides one finger in, long and thick, reaching further than Sam could ever get when he’s tried this himself. Dean’s not as hesitant as Sam is; he pushes up and in, crooks his finger, lets the whole of his fingertip drag along the most sensitive spots of Sam’s body until he moves right back in.
Sam arches his back when Dean makes it two fingers.
He keens when there’re three.
And when Dean’s pinky starts to press in alongside the others, Sam huffs out a chant of curses. There’s sharp relief, a distraction, when Dean bites into the meat of Sam’s ass. When he nips his way up to the crest of Sam’s ass and licks into the beginning of that dip as he pushes his fingers in and out, tucks them together and spins them within Sam. And finally, when he laves his tongue along the flat of Sam’s lower back, while finally pressing his fourth finger in and stretching Sam wide.
In tiny bursts of pain, Sam is put back together again. He’s reminded of that erratic, yet insistent bond that he and Dean share, that they will always share. Sam pushes back onto Dean’s hand, crying through the sharp ache, but begs for it over and over again as Dean gives him exactly what he wants, like he always does, and whispers a sweet, soaring hymn of Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.
Soon enough, Dean’s painful bites turn into pleasurable, sucking kisses, and Sam knows that he’s finally reached the crescendo. They’re at the final climax where Dean not only gives Sam exactly what he needs, but takes what Dean wants as well.
Sam’s panting as he waits for it, as he listens for the jangle of Dean’s belt, the whisper of Dean’s zipper, then gets Dean’s hands back on him. Just one at his hip for now, the other helping his teeth open the condom with a snick of the wrapper being torn open. Dean’s hand roams all of Sam’s back with gentle, looping patterns until he finally rubs the head of his dick at Sam’s ass.
Sam knows he’s wide open, knows he’s stretched wide from the whole of Dean’s hand, but he still feels the pressure of Dean’s cock sliding inside, completing the puzzle, setting that last piece in its place.
“You ready, Sammy?” Dean asks, just like all the other times, just like he will a hundred more in the future.
Sam picks his head up, still keeps his eyes closed to witness this event with his ears and Dean’s stuttered, anxious breathing. With his nose and the bitter tang of sweat in the air. With his skin as Dean’s warm hands close around Sam’s hips, right where they fit.
Finally, Sam nods and Dean answers his promise. He fills Sam entirely and connects them where no one else can get to. Moving, breathing, and being one, Dean rocks forward. Again, and again, and again, until Sam is panting loudly, until Sam is fucking himself back on Dean’s cock and smacking skin to skin, until Dean is draped over Sam’s back and wraps his entire body around any inch of Sam that he can reach.
Dean’s forehead presses into the back of Sam’s neck, his hands run up and down Sam’s chest, his belly streaks Sam’s back with every stroke forward, his breath is coming out quick and harsh in Sam’s ear.
Dean is everywhere.
His cock is fucking so far and deep, it’s more than sex. Far past love. It’s something communal. Something unspeakable, really. Yet, Sam still cries out when Dean pushes in and in and in. Dean hits Sam’s prostate, goes for something else that unties every loose end Sam has done his best to fasten while at Stanford.
It was never any use. Sam would find reprieve in a class or a look from Jess, or even a few beers on Thursday nights, but Dean was still in Sam’s hindsight. He was always right there, just a few steps back, waiting, patient and yearning. And Sam was, too, he realizes now.
Always waiting and hoping to find this again, with a brother who knows him better than anyone else-human or otherwise-in this world. Who knows him inside and out, and fills the gaps where Sam doesn’t always feel right.
Sparks dance beneath Sam’s skin, his belly swoops and rises with every beat of Dean inside him. His legs tighten with beautiful pain, and his back bends impossibly low with every movement he pushes back on Dean. Still, he can’t give in, must experience this for as long as his brother will be here.
He cries out again as Dean drives home, fucks harder and faster, and Sam knows it’ll be over soon.
But not forever.
There’s always tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the year after that.
Sam will always have his brother in places no one else can reach, crevices that Sam can’t even get into.
He has his brother right. here.