Drown and Float Away (Sam/Dean, nc-17, 2116 words)
Oh God, more evil!Sam! I promise there are cheerful and non-angsty ficlets in the Christmas batch!
Drown and float away
(Anti-Christ!Sam/Dean, nc-17, 2116 words)
Dean comes back to Sam
It's after he's been missing for three months that Dean finally comes back to Sam. It's after Sam's opened the Devil's Gate, after he's brought his infernal, bickering legions to a cohesive, loyal whole. Azazel's blood has risen to the surface and Sam feels it with every pulse of his heart.
There's ash smudged across Dean's face, a smear of smoke and red. There's a shadow in his eyes that says the little boy has finally grown up. Sam still wants him, aches for him bone-deep. Three months without Dean, without the steady presence of him at his side, without him pressed warm and fuckable beneath him in his bed every night - Sam goes a little crazy just looking at Dean.
Sam always knew it would come to this. Deep down, he always knew he wasn't born to save the world but to destroy it. The only thing he hadn't known was whether Dean would be standing beside him or in his way. Sam's not sure he knows the answer to that yet.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean's tongue flickers over his unsmiling lips, leaving them moist and pink. "I'd've been here this morning but the roads are pretty chaotic since you took out Pittsburgh."
Sam shifts in his throne and takes a moment before responding; if Dean wants to act like nothing's happened, then Sam's gonna be damn well sure his own voice doesn't betray him when he answers.
"If I'd known you were coming, I'd've made arrangements to get you through."
It's not quite enough. There's still a crackle of barely restrained fury there, angry desire and frustration. Dean doesn't respond to it, just lifts his shoulder in half a shrug and flashes a smirk as feeble and fake as their conversation.
"What, and kill the surprise?"
They go quiet again and Sam tries to get a grip. He tries to stop the noise in his head, tries to ignore the thrum of blood that tells him to kissfuckbreak and then he lets go. Because this is Dean and all Sam's self-control and composure goes out the window with one look from Dean.
He springs from his throne and his long-legged stride eats up the distance between them before Dean can even think of backing away. His hand curls about Dean's throat like it belongs there, his jugular pressed against the thin webbing of skin where thumb sweeps into finger.
Dean's breath catches but his eyes widen only for a second, hazel-green and shining. His hand comes up to settle on Sam's, his lips move to speak and Sam's had enough. He grabs Dean's wrist and yanks it behind his back, pushing until Dean stumbles into him. And before any stupid, worthless words can come tumbling out of Dean's prettypretty mouth, Sam takes it as his own and kisses past the excuses.
He bites his way past Dean's lips, sharp teeth worrying the full curve of them until Dean opens up for him. He doesn't know if the desperate noises Dean's making are about pain or arousal, doesn't care. All that matters is that Dean gives it up to him, gives in. Surrenders, to this at least.
The kiss drives Dean backwards, until his back slams into the wall and Sam's mouth is still on his, tongue fucking past his slack lips, hardness of his cock riding the angular line of Dean's hipbone, as if they could somehow be fucking if Sam is just hungry enough.
Dean jerks his head to the side and drags in breath. Sam can feel him shivering and his grip on him tightens instinctively. He's left Dean's mouth looking soft and dark and bruised. He wants to fuck Dean's mouth, push him down onto his knees and grind Dean's face into his lap, until every time he breathes he'll be sucking Sam deeper. He wants to lick Dean's lips, feather them with delicate kisses that will beg for a second chance better than any words Sam can come up with.
"You left me," Sam whispers against Dean's temple.
He watches Dean's eyes flutter shut, coal-dark lashes a smudge on his cheeks. He hates the change he can see in Dean. He didn't do that to him. He's sure of it. Dean was never so broken with him. And if Sam did do it then he'll put it right.
"I left when your eyes went yellow, Sammy."
"It's still me."
Dean looks at him sharply. Then he tilts his face back towards Sam, wordlessly offering his mouth again. An answer is almost more important to Sam than more kissing but it's been three months and he thinks he'll need to be kissing Dean for another three years simply to get over it.
He walks Dean backwards into his bedroom, mouth on his jaw and throat, hands moving reverently, desperately over him. The back of Dean's knees hit the bed and Sam pushes him down. When he starts undressing him, he's gentle, careful but the more golden-tan skin he uncovers, the rougher he becomes. Dean is so pliant, letting him take what he wants. The ragdoll limpness is contradicted by the straining curve of his cock.
Pretending's useless. Sam knows. Sam knows he gets under Dean's skin just like Dean gets under his. There's no way out of this thing they're in, not unless it's feet first.
Sam's knuckles skim the taut muscle of Dean's lower belly and instantly, Dean's legs fall open for him. Dean closes his eyes, turns his face away. A rosy flush creeps along his cheekbones as if he's embarrassed. He probably is. Anyone ever called Dean a whore and Sam would gouge their eyeballs out with one of their own ribs, but he wouldn't deny the truth of it. Dean's a total slut, but only for Sam.
As Sam's fumbling about for lube, Dean looks back at him and says, "I saw what you did in Pittsburgh. I saw the bodies. Gave me nightmares for a week."
"It had to be done," says Sam. He works slick fingers into Dean, working him open for his cock. He'd be more gentle but it's been three months. If Dean ends up being fucked raw and bloody it'll be his own fault for leaving Sam. "There were things I needed beneath the city."
Dean makes a short, hacking sound that Sam chooses to interpret as laughter. It cuts off into swearing and panting for breath as Sam lifts him bodily and drags him down the bed and onto his cock.
It's that first moment of penetration, of sinking into Dean, that second when the head of Sam's cock pushes past all resistance and into him, that always gives Sam a rush of drunken madness. He loves to spread the high cheeks of Dean's ass apart and watch him stretch about Sam. He could spend hours just watching his cock slide back and forth into Dean's swollen, lube-glistening hole.
But three months and Sam can't give himself time to enjoy it. Can only taketaketake. He fucks up into Dean like he means to break him. Dean scrabbles at the sheet for something to brace against as Sam's thrusts slam him back up the bed.
"You went away," says Sam. He presses down into Dean, spine curving as he works his hips fiercely because he needs to be deeper inside Dean, needs to make sure it'll still be hurting should Dean even think of walking away. "Where did you go? I looked for you. Were you hiding from me? Haven't I only ever been good to you?"
His teeth graze over the delicate skin at Dean's throat, tongue flickering briefly over his pulse, then his teeth sink in. Dean thrashes beneath him, his fingers grabbing at the back of Sam's neck like he wants to pull him off. The sounds he's making are definitely pained but Sam bites harder, gnaws at the flesh until Dean goes limp.
Sam pounds his cock into him, his hands curling about the sharpness of Dean's hips and yank him up to meet his thrusts, and he bites down again, into the ugly bruise that is already forming. He can taste Dean in his mouth, feels the three-month old fear easing as he fucks it away in Dean. His body's felt so tight with tension since Dean disappeared but the longer he has his cock in Dean's ass, the more it melts away.
By the time he comes, he feels safe and happy again. He groans against Dean's mouth as he lazily rides out the end of it. His cock slips free with an obscene, moist sound and he pauses to watch his come trickle from Dean's ass. He trails his fingertip over the flushed, hot skin and scoops up his come so he can push it back inside Dean. Where it belongs. Three months.
Dean moans as Sam's fingertip prods at his abused hole and he tries to shift away, which means Sam instantly has to be crawling over him, pinning him down with his body. He kisses Dean languidly as he fists Dean's cock and Dean looks too feeble to even be able to come.
"Did I break you, baby?" Sam says, smile tugging at his lips.
Dean's eyes are hooded, blissed-out, but they track to Sam at his question. Dean is how Sam likes him best, freshly fucked, bruised and boneless. Here. He licks at Dean's lips until he can slip his tongue into his mouth once more.
"Yeah, you did. For a while," Dean says, when Sam lets him have his mouth back. "I got it together."
He might have said more but Sam's hand is insistent at his cock and he pushes up into his touch, hips jerking needily. His face crumples into some kind of anguish that Sam doesn't understand as he looks at him. His lip catches between his teeth and the dim light in the room catches on the tears in Dean's eyes. He comes all over his belly and Sam's hand. And even as Sam's staring at him, stricken, Dean's stretching up to be kissed again.
They don't talk again that night. They sleep for a few hours, fuck again just before the hellfire sun comes up in the smoke-filled sky.
Dean doesn't speak again, not properly, until Sam's back on his throne, waiting. Dean has changed and there can be no hiding from it. Sam waits without drumming his fingers or raising an eyebrow but inside everything is chaos.
"You asked where I was," Dean says at last. "I've been with them. The hunters. They've teamed up, got organised. Just like you've got your demons organised. They've worked out how to kill you."
The Colt is a muted line of silver in Dean's hands but Sam tenses all the same. Dean's eyes are fixed on the gun. His grip on it is light but steady.
"They know your weakness, Sam. Just like you and me both know it. It's me."
He sounds tired. Even through the sudden pulse of dread going through Sam's body, he finds space to feel concern for Dean. Dean's so tired. He's fought and fought and it comes to this all the same. Maybe, if Sam's honest, he knew it would. Maybe he hoped it would be different, but knew otherwise.
There's not a single other person in the world who could have got this close to Sam. Only Dean. It's not so much that Sam's guard goes down around Dean, it's that he opens up to him.
Only Dean could get this close.
Azazel's blood tells him to fight. To snap Dean's neck where he stands. To call Ruby and the others and have them tear him to wet, red shreds.
But it's Dean and if three months almost killed him then there's no way he'll survive with Dean dead.
Instead, he just looks away because it's bad enough that Dean has to do this, Sam can at least not make him do it while having to look him in the eyes. He knows Dean will make it quick, and he hopes, because he's always been selfish, that Dean will follow on shortly behind him.
But as he tries to turn away, Dean falls to his knees before him, silent and graceful as snow. Dean kneels before Sam's throne and holds the Colt out to him.
"I killed them," he says. "Who'm I kidding? I'm yours. Always gonna be."
Dean's smile is faint but genuine as Sam slowly reaches out to take the Colt from him. He catches Sam's hand, ignores the gun in favour of pressing his lips to Sam's knuckles. It's love and loyalty all at once.
"Long live the boy-king."
Drown and float away
(Anti-Christ!Sam/Dean, nc-17, 2116 words)
Dean comes back to Sam
It's after he's been missing for three months that Dean finally comes back to Sam. It's after Sam's opened the Devil's Gate, after he's brought his infernal, bickering legions to a cohesive, loyal whole. Azazel's blood has risen to the surface and Sam feels it with every pulse of his heart.
There's ash smudged across Dean's face, a smear of smoke and red. There's a shadow in his eyes that says the little boy has finally grown up. Sam still wants him, aches for him bone-deep. Three months without Dean, without the steady presence of him at his side, without him pressed warm and fuckable beneath him in his bed every night - Sam goes a little crazy just looking at Dean.
Sam always knew it would come to this. Deep down, he always knew he wasn't born to save the world but to destroy it. The only thing he hadn't known was whether Dean would be standing beside him or in his way. Sam's not sure he knows the answer to that yet.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean's tongue flickers over his unsmiling lips, leaving them moist and pink. "I'd've been here this morning but the roads are pretty chaotic since you took out Pittsburgh."
Sam shifts in his throne and takes a moment before responding; if Dean wants to act like nothing's happened, then Sam's gonna be damn well sure his own voice doesn't betray him when he answers.
"If I'd known you were coming, I'd've made arrangements to get you through."
It's not quite enough. There's still a crackle of barely restrained fury there, angry desire and frustration. Dean doesn't respond to it, just lifts his shoulder in half a shrug and flashes a smirk as feeble and fake as their conversation.
"What, and kill the surprise?"
They go quiet again and Sam tries to get a grip. He tries to stop the noise in his head, tries to ignore the thrum of blood that tells him to kissfuckbreak and then he lets go. Because this is Dean and all Sam's self-control and composure goes out the window with one look from Dean.
He springs from his throne and his long-legged stride eats up the distance between them before Dean can even think of backing away. His hand curls about Dean's throat like it belongs there, his jugular pressed against the thin webbing of skin where thumb sweeps into finger.
Dean's breath catches but his eyes widen only for a second, hazel-green and shining. His hand comes up to settle on Sam's, his lips move to speak and Sam's had enough. He grabs Dean's wrist and yanks it behind his back, pushing until Dean stumbles into him. And before any stupid, worthless words can come tumbling out of Dean's prettypretty mouth, Sam takes it as his own and kisses past the excuses.
He bites his way past Dean's lips, sharp teeth worrying the full curve of them until Dean opens up for him. He doesn't know if the desperate noises Dean's making are about pain or arousal, doesn't care. All that matters is that Dean gives it up to him, gives in. Surrenders, to this at least.
The kiss drives Dean backwards, until his back slams into the wall and Sam's mouth is still on his, tongue fucking past his slack lips, hardness of his cock riding the angular line of Dean's hipbone, as if they could somehow be fucking if Sam is just hungry enough.
Dean jerks his head to the side and drags in breath. Sam can feel him shivering and his grip on him tightens instinctively. He's left Dean's mouth looking soft and dark and bruised. He wants to fuck Dean's mouth, push him down onto his knees and grind Dean's face into his lap, until every time he breathes he'll be sucking Sam deeper. He wants to lick Dean's lips, feather them with delicate kisses that will beg for a second chance better than any words Sam can come up with.
"You left me," Sam whispers against Dean's temple.
He watches Dean's eyes flutter shut, coal-dark lashes a smudge on his cheeks. He hates the change he can see in Dean. He didn't do that to him. He's sure of it. Dean was never so broken with him. And if Sam did do it then he'll put it right.
"I left when your eyes went yellow, Sammy."
"It's still me."
Dean looks at him sharply. Then he tilts his face back towards Sam, wordlessly offering his mouth again. An answer is almost more important to Sam than more kissing but it's been three months and he thinks he'll need to be kissing Dean for another three years simply to get over it.
He walks Dean backwards into his bedroom, mouth on his jaw and throat, hands moving reverently, desperately over him. The back of Dean's knees hit the bed and Sam pushes him down. When he starts undressing him, he's gentle, careful but the more golden-tan skin he uncovers, the rougher he becomes. Dean is so pliant, letting him take what he wants. The ragdoll limpness is contradicted by the straining curve of his cock.
Pretending's useless. Sam knows. Sam knows he gets under Dean's skin just like Dean gets under his. There's no way out of this thing they're in, not unless it's feet first.
Sam's knuckles skim the taut muscle of Dean's lower belly and instantly, Dean's legs fall open for him. Dean closes his eyes, turns his face away. A rosy flush creeps along his cheekbones as if he's embarrassed. He probably is. Anyone ever called Dean a whore and Sam would gouge their eyeballs out with one of their own ribs, but he wouldn't deny the truth of it. Dean's a total slut, but only for Sam.
As Sam's fumbling about for lube, Dean looks back at him and says, "I saw what you did in Pittsburgh. I saw the bodies. Gave me nightmares for a week."
"It had to be done," says Sam. He works slick fingers into Dean, working him open for his cock. He'd be more gentle but it's been three months. If Dean ends up being fucked raw and bloody it'll be his own fault for leaving Sam. "There were things I needed beneath the city."
Dean makes a short, hacking sound that Sam chooses to interpret as laughter. It cuts off into swearing and panting for breath as Sam lifts him bodily and drags him down the bed and onto his cock.
It's that first moment of penetration, of sinking into Dean, that second when the head of Sam's cock pushes past all resistance and into him, that always gives Sam a rush of drunken madness. He loves to spread the high cheeks of Dean's ass apart and watch him stretch about Sam. He could spend hours just watching his cock slide back and forth into Dean's swollen, lube-glistening hole.
But three months and Sam can't give himself time to enjoy it. Can only taketaketake. He fucks up into Dean like he means to break him. Dean scrabbles at the sheet for something to brace against as Sam's thrusts slam him back up the bed.
"You went away," says Sam. He presses down into Dean, spine curving as he works his hips fiercely because he needs to be deeper inside Dean, needs to make sure it'll still be hurting should Dean even think of walking away. "Where did you go? I looked for you. Were you hiding from me? Haven't I only ever been good to you?"
His teeth graze over the delicate skin at Dean's throat, tongue flickering briefly over his pulse, then his teeth sink in. Dean thrashes beneath him, his fingers grabbing at the back of Sam's neck like he wants to pull him off. The sounds he's making are definitely pained but Sam bites harder, gnaws at the flesh until Dean goes limp.
Sam pounds his cock into him, his hands curling about the sharpness of Dean's hips and yank him up to meet his thrusts, and he bites down again, into the ugly bruise that is already forming. He can taste Dean in his mouth, feels the three-month old fear easing as he fucks it away in Dean. His body's felt so tight with tension since Dean disappeared but the longer he has his cock in Dean's ass, the more it melts away.
By the time he comes, he feels safe and happy again. He groans against Dean's mouth as he lazily rides out the end of it. His cock slips free with an obscene, moist sound and he pauses to watch his come trickle from Dean's ass. He trails his fingertip over the flushed, hot skin and scoops up his come so he can push it back inside Dean. Where it belongs. Three months.
Dean moans as Sam's fingertip prods at his abused hole and he tries to shift away, which means Sam instantly has to be crawling over him, pinning him down with his body. He kisses Dean languidly as he fists Dean's cock and Dean looks too feeble to even be able to come.
"Did I break you, baby?" Sam says, smile tugging at his lips.
Dean's eyes are hooded, blissed-out, but they track to Sam at his question. Dean is how Sam likes him best, freshly fucked, bruised and boneless. Here. He licks at Dean's lips until he can slip his tongue into his mouth once more.
"Yeah, you did. For a while," Dean says, when Sam lets him have his mouth back. "I got it together."
He might have said more but Sam's hand is insistent at his cock and he pushes up into his touch, hips jerking needily. His face crumples into some kind of anguish that Sam doesn't understand as he looks at him. His lip catches between his teeth and the dim light in the room catches on the tears in Dean's eyes. He comes all over his belly and Sam's hand. And even as Sam's staring at him, stricken, Dean's stretching up to be kissed again.
They don't talk again that night. They sleep for a few hours, fuck again just before the hellfire sun comes up in the smoke-filled sky.
Dean doesn't speak again, not properly, until Sam's back on his throne, waiting. Dean has changed and there can be no hiding from it. Sam waits without drumming his fingers or raising an eyebrow but inside everything is chaos.
"You asked where I was," Dean says at last. "I've been with them. The hunters. They've teamed up, got organised. Just like you've got your demons organised. They've worked out how to kill you."
The Colt is a muted line of silver in Dean's hands but Sam tenses all the same. Dean's eyes are fixed on the gun. His grip on it is light but steady.
"They know your weakness, Sam. Just like you and me both know it. It's me."
He sounds tired. Even through the sudden pulse of dread going through Sam's body, he finds space to feel concern for Dean. Dean's so tired. He's fought and fought and it comes to this all the same. Maybe, if Sam's honest, he knew it would. Maybe he hoped it would be different, but knew otherwise.
There's not a single other person in the world who could have got this close to Sam. Only Dean. It's not so much that Sam's guard goes down around Dean, it's that he opens up to him.
Only Dean could get this close.
Azazel's blood tells him to fight. To snap Dean's neck where he stands. To call Ruby and the others and have them tear him to wet, red shreds.
But it's Dean and if three months almost killed him then there's no way he'll survive with Dean dead.
Instead, he just looks away because it's bad enough that Dean has to do this, Sam can at least not make him do it while having to look him in the eyes. He knows Dean will make it quick, and he hopes, because he's always been selfish, that Dean will follow on shortly behind him.
But as he tries to turn away, Dean falls to his knees before him, silent and graceful as snow. Dean kneels before Sam's throne and holds the Colt out to him.
"I killed them," he says. "Who'm I kidding? I'm yours. Always gonna be."
Dean's smile is faint but genuine as Sam slowly reaches out to take the Colt from him. He catches Sam's hand, ignores the gun in favour of pressing his lips to Sam's knuckles. It's love and loyalty all at once.
"Long live the boy-king."