Fic: Wednesday Morning, 3 AM. SPN Sam/Dean NC-17
Sorry, peeps. No stuffed pigs in this one. *g* Just good ol' fashioned incest and schmoop.
Title: Wednesday Morning, 3 AM
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ca. 2100
Summary: Sam has this irrational fear of hurting him, as if every time is the first one, and when he finally slicks up his cock and slides in, his eyes are latched on Dean's the whole time.
Author’s note: Just another take on an old idea. For bittersweet_art for her birthday and because I'm so late with it this has not been beta'd. Which I know is bad because I'm still struggling with the boys and yeah, beta is good, Felis is bad. *hangs head in shame* So feel free to slap me over the head and point out mistakes.
“And these? What are these?” Long fingers trail over his skin, tracing the thin silvery lines that cross his abdomen. “Werewolf?”
“Stretch marks. Got impregnated by a gay incubus. Worst nine months of my life.”
Sam freezes, his jaw dropping comically and no matter how funny it would be Dean's way too tired to keep it up. Instead he rolls his eyes at his idiot brother and turns over on his stomach, resting his cheek on the back of his hand. His head feels heavy, the weight of it pressing his bruised knuckles into the soft flesh of his cheek, nudging against his molars.
“Mountain lion. Missouri. My twenty-fourth birthday.” Dean sniffs sleepily. “Not exactly the pussy I'd been hoping for.”
The light slap to his head is more affectionate than irritated. “Funny. Haha. Asshole.”
“Had you for a moment there though. You’re so easy, bro.” Dean yawns, blinking with eyelids heavy as lead. God, he's exhausted. He could sleep for a week. At least.
“Whatever. In our kind of work it really wouldn’t surprise me that much.”
Dean chuckles, a sound that turns into a soft sigh as Sam's fingers flutter over his back, until they reach a spot right under his left shoulder blade, circling it gently.
“And this? What's this?”
“Bullet. Hurt like a sonofabitch.” The shocked terror in John Winchester’s eyes as he watched his son fall slowly to his knees and then slide over on his side, blood splattered on the wall behind him, is a sight that will follow Dean to the end of his life. Like a snapshot of a fond memory, wearing thin in his wallet. “Got a matching one on the other side. Smaller.”
“Bullet?” The touch lightens, Sam's warm fingers brushing hesitantly over the damaged tissue, scared of hurting him more or believing it, he doesn’t know. “Jesus, Dean...”
“It's no big deal, all right?” His voice is sharper than he intended and he closes his eyes when the movement stops, fingertips hovering over the scarred skin for an eternity before continuing their slow caress.
“I presume it missed the heart.” Sam's voice shivers with what Dean recognises as anger more than fear. For some reason Dean getting hurt always has Sam seething with rage, like he wants to slam Dean into the nearest wall for even daring to put himself in danger.
“Thought you said I was a heartless dick.” He's going for funny but it misfires completely as Sam flattens his palm over the scar, soaking up Dean's heartbeat through the skin. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
“Don't.” Sam leans over, resting his forehead on his brother's shoulder, bringing with him a flowery smell of shampoo. “What was it?”
The words are breathed against Dean’s skin and he shifts on the bed to cover up the shiver. “Can't remember.”
Dad. Even drunk he's an excellent shot, just not as quick on the thinking. Like not realising it's his son walking through the door and not a damn demon until the gun is already in his hand, shaky fingers pulling the trigger.
“Liar.” But it's not said with the usual stop-defending-dad voice, just the if-you-don't-wanna-tell-me-I-won't-make-you tone and Dean breathes out in relief.
Sam raises himself up on his elbow and leans over; dropping kisses down Dean's spine all the way to the small of his back before sitting up, nudging his shoulder. “Roll over again.”
Dean groans softly. He’s too sleepy and relaxed and he doesn’t really want to move. The air is hot and humid and his belly sticks to the damp sheets. But one glance at Sam and he's rolling over like a good little puppy, one arm sliding over his eyes to shield them from the soft bedside light.
“Shit.” Sam swallows so hard Dean can hear the lump of emotions travelling down his throat, and the long fingers shake when they touch the small dot three inches from Dean’s left nipple. “It's... so close. You could have...”
Almost did, Sammy. Almost did. “Nah. Takes more than a bullet to kill your big brother.”
“What will it be then? A werewolf? A poltergeist?” The anger is completely gone, replaced by sad fear and Dean lifts his arm, blinking against the light as he tries to capture Sam's eyes.
“Hey. Kiddo. Don't. I'm not planning on dying anytime soon.”
Sam just shakes his head, refusing to look at him. “The way you live your life you could go tomorrow.”
Dean bites back the 'you too' and instead purses his lips and raises his eyebrows accusingly. “Know what's probably gonna get me killed? You.”
That gets Sam's attention. His eyes snap up, staring at Dean with such hurt he instantly regrets his words, even if he didn’t mean them that way. Sometimes he forgets Sam’s guilt for all the scars he believes he caused on his brother’s body.
“Yeah, you. You're gonna be the death of me.” He snakes a hand up and around Sam's neck, pulling him down until their lips are a breath from touching. “You and your gigantic mouth, your sinfully talented tongue, your incredibly hot little ass.” He smiles as he feels Sam's lips curling against his own. “Killed by sex, that will be my death.”
“If that's how you feel we could always stop.” But Sam is already grinding down, pushing his erection into the hollow of Dean's hip. His lips are parted, ghosting over Dean's but not quite kissing him. “Wouldn't want to be the cause of your premature departure.”
“Hey, I'd rather die from too much sex than lack of it.”
That gets him a laugh, a hoarse and shaky one, but a laugh non-the-less. Dean tightens his hold on Sam's neck and forces him further down, sucking Sam's lower lip in between his teeth, nibbling at it until it feels hot and swollen against his tongue. He lets his other hand slide along Sam's spine, down the dip of his lower back and up to his ass, where he splays his fingers, pushing Sam down until his erection is fitted tight and snug between their bodies. His own lies still, soft and spent between his legs. He can taste his come in Sam's mouth, smell it on his breath as Sam pants against his lips.
“I'd rather you didn't die at all.”
There's still fear in Sam's voice and Dean bucks up, needing Sam to shut up more than anything. “Can we stop talking about me dying and get on to the part where you fuck me? Before I fall asleep even?”
“Always the romantic, Dean.”
But Sam’s voice sounds a little lighter, his hands already running down Dean's thighs and then under his knees, pushing them up and apart. He spits on his fingers before reaching down, sliding them inside Dean’s body. He's still slippery and stretched from Sam fucking him open with those ridiculously long digits earlier while sucking his brains out through his cock and the repeated invasion only leaves him wanting, needing, more. He wants to tell Sam to just get the fuck on with it but it won’t do any good. Sam has this irrational fear of hurting him, as if every time is the first one, and when he finally slicks up his cock and slides in, his eyes are latched on Dean's the whole time.
“Okay?”
Dean doesn't speak, just nods and closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable shock to subside. It isn't the burn or the stretch but simply Sam, having Sam inside him, that gets him every time. The magnitude of this, whatever it is, punching him in the gut no matter how many times they do this. It isn't until Sam starts moving, sliding slowly in and out, his arms already trembling with the effort, that Dean allows himself to open his eyes.
It's like watching sin in creation, the emotions flickering across Sam's face. He imagines this is what Adam looked like when he tasted the forbidden fruit. Lust and ecstasy mixed with guilt and fear.
“Yeah, that's it. Come on. Come on, Sammy.”
His brother actually whimpers, hips jerking forward in sudden desperate need. Dean can feel his own cock stirring, blood filling it again despite having come not even half an hour ago. He grabs Sam’s biceps, digging his fingers into the strained muscles, eyes locked on the pained face staring down at him.
“You can do me harder. I want it. Come on, Sammy.”
“No. I-I want to...” Sammy jerks again, sending sparks of electricity through Dean's body. He’s biting his lip so hard Dean expects to see blood spurting out any minute. “Be good for you. Show you...” Sam shudders then pulls out slowly until only the tip remains inside. His head falls forward, ragged breath brushing Dean's hair. “Dean...”
“It's okay. Just... do it, Sammy.” Dean grabs Sam's head with both his hands, pulling him down for a hard kiss. “Need it. Fuck, Sam.”
Sam shudders. He's breathing hard, his eyes closed as he sucks in air through his nose. Then with a sob he slams back inside, so hard Dean can't help the cry ripping from his lungs. God, yes! Just like that. When Sam pulls back Dean's already bracing himself for the next impact.
His head knocks against the wall as it comes, and then again and again until he's sure he's going to have a bump the size of Sam's fist at the back of his skull. Not that he cares. Not that even a knife in his belly could make him feel anything but Sam's cock fucking his body so hard he thinks he might split open. Sam is balancing on the tips of his toes now, jack-hammering his hips hard and fast, his elbows on either side of Dean's head as he buries his face in his brother's neck.
“Dean, Dean, Dean...”
Sam's voice is mumbled, hardly audible, the chanting interrupted by small sobs that Dean knows are not really from crying but rather Sam's inability to handle this without breaking small parts off himself in the process. Sometimes that scares Dean more than anything, Sam's fragile state of mind. No matter how often he tells Sam it's okay, that it's nobody's fucking business but their own. That this is what he, Dean, wants just as much as Sam and therefore there can be no wrong. After four years of separation he'd been sure Sam wouldn’t want any more of this but as it turned out he wanted it, needed it, more than ever. And even if Dean sometimes suspects he plays stand-in for Jessica's ghost he doesn't really care as long as Sam doesn’t say it to his face.
When Sam comes his eyes squeeze shut for a moment before snapping open wide with shock, lips forming a perfect 'o' as he gasps shallowly for air, hips jerking a few final times. “De-“
“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.”
They ride it together, Dean managing a few weak spurts of his own, but he hardly notices, too caught up in the look on Sam’s face, the smell of his breath and… Sam, just Sam. Jesus, Sam.
Finally Sam collapses upon him, heavy and slick with sweat, his whole body shivering, and Dean wraps his arms tight around the heaving chest. They breathe together, in-out, in-out, until the room stops spinning. Then he gently nudges Sam off and onto his side, legs still tangled and Sam's nose buried in Dean's neck. Sam fumbles blindly until he finds the small scar again and he covers it with his hand, palm sticky with sweat and come and so warm Dean thinks that if ever his heart did stop it would be from this, the heat of Sam burning him inside out.
“Sorry. I'm sorry.”
The broken voice makes Dean’s stomach twist painfully and his heartbeat speed up until it’s slamming against Sam’s palm. “Sshh, what? What, Sammy?”
“Wanted to show you. Show you...” Sam sucks in his breath and shakes his head. “Dean.”
“You did. I know. Sshh, I know.” Dean shifts back, tipping up his brother's head until they're eye to eye, lips to lips. He kisses him softly, the way they almost never do, then pulls back again, watching Sam's red-rimmed eyes. “Sleep, Sam. Okay?”
Sam swallows, then nods. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” He blinks a few times, then closes his eyes and is asleep within seconds.
Dean watches the early morning sun dance along the walls, golden rays licking his brother's cheek and bronzing his hair. Just for a few minutes and then Dean’s eyelids fall shut as well, his body going slack with a sigh.
He dreams of Sam shooting him straight in the heart. It doesn't hurt at all.
fin
Title: Wednesday Morning, 3 AM
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ca. 2100
Summary: Sam has this irrational fear of hurting him, as if every time is the first one, and when he finally slicks up his cock and slides in, his eyes are latched on Dean's the whole time.
Author’s note: Just another take on an old idea. For bittersweet_art for her birthday and because I'm so late with it this has not been beta'd. Which I know is bad because I'm still struggling with the boys and yeah, beta is good, Felis is bad. *hangs head in shame* So feel free to slap me over the head and point out mistakes.
“And these? What are these?” Long fingers trail over his skin, tracing the thin silvery lines that cross his abdomen. “Werewolf?”
“Stretch marks. Got impregnated by a gay incubus. Worst nine months of my life.”
Sam freezes, his jaw dropping comically and no matter how funny it would be Dean's way too tired to keep it up. Instead he rolls his eyes at his idiot brother and turns over on his stomach, resting his cheek on the back of his hand. His head feels heavy, the weight of it pressing his bruised knuckles into the soft flesh of his cheek, nudging against his molars.
“Mountain lion. Missouri. My twenty-fourth birthday.” Dean sniffs sleepily. “Not exactly the pussy I'd been hoping for.”
The light slap to his head is more affectionate than irritated. “Funny. Haha. Asshole.”
“Had you for a moment there though. You’re so easy, bro.” Dean yawns, blinking with eyelids heavy as lead. God, he's exhausted. He could sleep for a week. At least.
“Whatever. In our kind of work it really wouldn’t surprise me that much.”
Dean chuckles, a sound that turns into a soft sigh as Sam's fingers flutter over his back, until they reach a spot right under his left shoulder blade, circling it gently.
“And this? What's this?”
“Bullet. Hurt like a sonofabitch.” The shocked terror in John Winchester’s eyes as he watched his son fall slowly to his knees and then slide over on his side, blood splattered on the wall behind him, is a sight that will follow Dean to the end of his life. Like a snapshot of a fond memory, wearing thin in his wallet. “Got a matching one on the other side. Smaller.”
“Bullet?” The touch lightens, Sam's warm fingers brushing hesitantly over the damaged tissue, scared of hurting him more or believing it, he doesn’t know. “Jesus, Dean...”
“It's no big deal, all right?” His voice is sharper than he intended and he closes his eyes when the movement stops, fingertips hovering over the scarred skin for an eternity before continuing their slow caress.
“I presume it missed the heart.” Sam's voice shivers with what Dean recognises as anger more than fear. For some reason Dean getting hurt always has Sam seething with rage, like he wants to slam Dean into the nearest wall for even daring to put himself in danger.
“Thought you said I was a heartless dick.” He's going for funny but it misfires completely as Sam flattens his palm over the scar, soaking up Dean's heartbeat through the skin. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
“Don't.” Sam leans over, resting his forehead on his brother's shoulder, bringing with him a flowery smell of shampoo. “What was it?”
The words are breathed against Dean’s skin and he shifts on the bed to cover up the shiver. “Can't remember.”
Dad. Even drunk he's an excellent shot, just not as quick on the thinking. Like not realising it's his son walking through the door and not a damn demon until the gun is already in his hand, shaky fingers pulling the trigger.
“Liar.” But it's not said with the usual stop-defending-dad voice, just the if-you-don't-wanna-tell-me-I-won't-make-you tone and Dean breathes out in relief.
Sam raises himself up on his elbow and leans over; dropping kisses down Dean's spine all the way to the small of his back before sitting up, nudging his shoulder. “Roll over again.”
Dean groans softly. He’s too sleepy and relaxed and he doesn’t really want to move. The air is hot and humid and his belly sticks to the damp sheets. But one glance at Sam and he's rolling over like a good little puppy, one arm sliding over his eyes to shield them from the soft bedside light.
“Shit.” Sam swallows so hard Dean can hear the lump of emotions travelling down his throat, and the long fingers shake when they touch the small dot three inches from Dean’s left nipple. “It's... so close. You could have...”
Almost did, Sammy. Almost did. “Nah. Takes more than a bullet to kill your big brother.”
“What will it be then? A werewolf? A poltergeist?” The anger is completely gone, replaced by sad fear and Dean lifts his arm, blinking against the light as he tries to capture Sam's eyes.
“Hey. Kiddo. Don't. I'm not planning on dying anytime soon.”
Sam just shakes his head, refusing to look at him. “The way you live your life you could go tomorrow.”
Dean bites back the 'you too' and instead purses his lips and raises his eyebrows accusingly. “Know what's probably gonna get me killed? You.”
That gets Sam's attention. His eyes snap up, staring at Dean with such hurt he instantly regrets his words, even if he didn’t mean them that way. Sometimes he forgets Sam’s guilt for all the scars he believes he caused on his brother’s body.
“Yeah, you. You're gonna be the death of me.” He snakes a hand up and around Sam's neck, pulling him down until their lips are a breath from touching. “You and your gigantic mouth, your sinfully talented tongue, your incredibly hot little ass.” He smiles as he feels Sam's lips curling against his own. “Killed by sex, that will be my death.”
“If that's how you feel we could always stop.” But Sam is already grinding down, pushing his erection into the hollow of Dean's hip. His lips are parted, ghosting over Dean's but not quite kissing him. “Wouldn't want to be the cause of your premature departure.”
“Hey, I'd rather die from too much sex than lack of it.”
That gets him a laugh, a hoarse and shaky one, but a laugh non-the-less. Dean tightens his hold on Sam's neck and forces him further down, sucking Sam's lower lip in between his teeth, nibbling at it until it feels hot and swollen against his tongue. He lets his other hand slide along Sam's spine, down the dip of his lower back and up to his ass, where he splays his fingers, pushing Sam down until his erection is fitted tight and snug between their bodies. His own lies still, soft and spent between his legs. He can taste his come in Sam's mouth, smell it on his breath as Sam pants against his lips.
“I'd rather you didn't die at all.”
There's still fear in Sam's voice and Dean bucks up, needing Sam to shut up more than anything. “Can we stop talking about me dying and get on to the part where you fuck me? Before I fall asleep even?”
“Always the romantic, Dean.”
But Sam’s voice sounds a little lighter, his hands already running down Dean's thighs and then under his knees, pushing them up and apart. He spits on his fingers before reaching down, sliding them inside Dean’s body. He's still slippery and stretched from Sam fucking him open with those ridiculously long digits earlier while sucking his brains out through his cock and the repeated invasion only leaves him wanting, needing, more. He wants to tell Sam to just get the fuck on with it but it won’t do any good. Sam has this irrational fear of hurting him, as if every time is the first one, and when he finally slicks up his cock and slides in, his eyes are latched on Dean's the whole time.
“Okay?”
Dean doesn't speak, just nods and closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable shock to subside. It isn't the burn or the stretch but simply Sam, having Sam inside him, that gets him every time. The magnitude of this, whatever it is, punching him in the gut no matter how many times they do this. It isn't until Sam starts moving, sliding slowly in and out, his arms already trembling with the effort, that Dean allows himself to open his eyes.
It's like watching sin in creation, the emotions flickering across Sam's face. He imagines this is what Adam looked like when he tasted the forbidden fruit. Lust and ecstasy mixed with guilt and fear.
“Yeah, that's it. Come on. Come on, Sammy.”
His brother actually whimpers, hips jerking forward in sudden desperate need. Dean can feel his own cock stirring, blood filling it again despite having come not even half an hour ago. He grabs Sam’s biceps, digging his fingers into the strained muscles, eyes locked on the pained face staring down at him.
“You can do me harder. I want it. Come on, Sammy.”
“No. I-I want to...” Sammy jerks again, sending sparks of electricity through Dean's body. He’s biting his lip so hard Dean expects to see blood spurting out any minute. “Be good for you. Show you...” Sam shudders then pulls out slowly until only the tip remains inside. His head falls forward, ragged breath brushing Dean's hair. “Dean...”
“It's okay. Just... do it, Sammy.” Dean grabs Sam's head with both his hands, pulling him down for a hard kiss. “Need it. Fuck, Sam.”
Sam shudders. He's breathing hard, his eyes closed as he sucks in air through his nose. Then with a sob he slams back inside, so hard Dean can't help the cry ripping from his lungs. God, yes! Just like that. When Sam pulls back Dean's already bracing himself for the next impact.
His head knocks against the wall as it comes, and then again and again until he's sure he's going to have a bump the size of Sam's fist at the back of his skull. Not that he cares. Not that even a knife in his belly could make him feel anything but Sam's cock fucking his body so hard he thinks he might split open. Sam is balancing on the tips of his toes now, jack-hammering his hips hard and fast, his elbows on either side of Dean's head as he buries his face in his brother's neck.
“Dean, Dean, Dean...”
Sam's voice is mumbled, hardly audible, the chanting interrupted by small sobs that Dean knows are not really from crying but rather Sam's inability to handle this without breaking small parts off himself in the process. Sometimes that scares Dean more than anything, Sam's fragile state of mind. No matter how often he tells Sam it's okay, that it's nobody's fucking business but their own. That this is what he, Dean, wants just as much as Sam and therefore there can be no wrong. After four years of separation he'd been sure Sam wouldn’t want any more of this but as it turned out he wanted it, needed it, more than ever. And even if Dean sometimes suspects he plays stand-in for Jessica's ghost he doesn't really care as long as Sam doesn’t say it to his face.
When Sam comes his eyes squeeze shut for a moment before snapping open wide with shock, lips forming a perfect 'o' as he gasps shallowly for air, hips jerking a few final times. “De-“
“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.”
They ride it together, Dean managing a few weak spurts of his own, but he hardly notices, too caught up in the look on Sam’s face, the smell of his breath and… Sam, just Sam. Jesus, Sam.
Finally Sam collapses upon him, heavy and slick with sweat, his whole body shivering, and Dean wraps his arms tight around the heaving chest. They breathe together, in-out, in-out, until the room stops spinning. Then he gently nudges Sam off and onto his side, legs still tangled and Sam's nose buried in Dean's neck. Sam fumbles blindly until he finds the small scar again and he covers it with his hand, palm sticky with sweat and come and so warm Dean thinks that if ever his heart did stop it would be from this, the heat of Sam burning him inside out.
“Sorry. I'm sorry.”
The broken voice makes Dean’s stomach twist painfully and his heartbeat speed up until it’s slamming against Sam’s palm. “Sshh, what? What, Sammy?”
“Wanted to show you. Show you...” Sam sucks in his breath and shakes his head. “Dean.”
“You did. I know. Sshh, I know.” Dean shifts back, tipping up his brother's head until they're eye to eye, lips to lips. He kisses him softly, the way they almost never do, then pulls back again, watching Sam's red-rimmed eyes. “Sleep, Sam. Okay?”
Sam swallows, then nods. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” He blinks a few times, then closes his eyes and is asleep within seconds.
Dean watches the early morning sun dance along the walls, golden rays licking his brother's cheek and bronzing his hair. Just for a few minutes and then Dean’s eyelids fall shut as well, his body going slack with a sigh.
He dreams of Sam shooting him straight in the heart. It doesn't hurt at all.
fin