...But a Whimper (dark!Sam/Dean, 2093 words, NC-17)
…But a Whimper
(dark!Sam/Dean, 2093 words, NC-17, tiny spoiler for All Hell Breaks Loose part one, slightly dubious consent)
It's not about doing what's right anymore; it's about what's best for Sammy.
Those points don't come together quite like they used to.
Dean wonders at what precise shade grey becomes black. His conscience feels a boneless thing these days. How far did he have to have to relax his moral code before all this became acceptable?
The visions had just been start. He didn't like them because it put Sam on the same side as the things they were supposed to be fighting, but they were useful, right? They'd saved people's lives and that had to count for something. They just meant Sam was a little bit special. And a little more in need of his big brother to lean on when the visions left him weak and dizzy.
Finding out just how special Sam was, what he could become, what he was capable of, well that had just been a test. That had been a test to see just how much Dean loved his little brother.
Seeing Sam slit some guy's throat, then wipe the blade on his shirt like the blood was nothing but a nuisance? That hadn't been Sammy, and even if it had been, it had been Dean's fault for letting him out of his sight. At what point exactly was he supposed to decide Sam was too far gone to save? You don't turn your back on someone you love - it's not love if you can walk away.
And Sam, come hell or high water, is his baby brother and he loves him.
So Sam coming back from the dead, standing at the left hand of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, had been a shock, but not a fatal one. It had still been Sammy from the days of cheap motel rooms and late-night horror movies while they waited for Dad to come home. It had still been Sammy from the rear-view mirror, caught in the glass as he fidgeted on the leather seats, staring out the window as Dad dragged them from state to state.
Besides, their daddy made a deal with the devil to save Dean's life, why shouldn't Sam make a deal to save his own?
It's still Sammy, and so it's still Dean's job to look out for him. And somehow, the mission's not the same anymore. He doesn't approve and he doesn't enjoy it, but if he's honest, he doesn't give a damn about the people his brother kills. He tells himself he covers their tracks because more people would only get hurt if they tried to stop Sam, but he knows he's lying.
He buries the bodies not because Sam will hurt whoever gets in the way, but because they might, just might, hurt Sam.
He's glad when the job is done. The sun's high in the sky, blinding him, and the buzzing of flies that thicken the air damn near deafens him. His t-shirt is sticking to his back like a slippery second skin, clinging as a caul. He throws the spade down and stamps on the dry brown dirt of the fresh grave.
The balance swung at some point. He doesn't know when he crossed the mark, he's hardly been keeping track, but he knows the mark is far behind him. Once upon a time, there will have been a grave he dug that made it more bodies buried by him, than graves burnt by him.
It's deserted when he gets back to the motel. The owner disappeared a few days ago and Dean doesn't think Sam's responsible, but he hasn't found the body either. They'd better move on soon, before the smell gives the hiding place away. Won't be long in this heat.
The sweep of the ceiling-fans barely cuts through the stickiness but the corridor is cool in its gloom. Dean tries not to make any sound when he goes into their room. He doesn't want to wake Sam. He likes it better when Sam is asleep, curled up like a puppy about a pillow, eyes closed, one hand stretched towards Dean's bed even in dreams.
Sam is talking in his sleep again. Dean doesn't stop to catch the words anymore. The Demon sends his commands to Sam that way sometimes and even as blindly accepting as Dean is, he doesn't like to hear that voice coming from his brother's lips.
But sometimes, the bad times, Sam says his name. And he can almost believe that it's the old Sam, fighting his way to the surface. It never is, of course. It can't be. The old Sam became the new Sam but they're still Sam. The same flesh, the same spirit. The old Sam is the new Sam.
He lays his shotgun down on his bed and crosses to the bathroom. The tiles are chipped in the small, crappy bathroom, and the water runs a very pale brown, but he can close the door, and in the shadows, he can't make out his reflection in the mirror on the cracked cabinet door.
Water rumbles through the pipes and he glances back to the room, but there's no stirring and he lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He fills the basin and splashes it onto his face. It's not cold, doesn't refresh him, but it takes away a layer of grime. That's enough these days.
The water ripples in the sink, becoming murky as he sluices it over his skin. It dribbles down his forearms and splashes his t-shirt, but soon all he's doing is moving the sweat and dirt around on his body. There's no getting clean today. Maybe tomorrow.
He pulls the plug and watches the water gurgle down the plughole. He's still transfixed by it when the door opens and sunlight slants into the room. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, something hard and haunted, before he closes his eyes.
"Dean?"
His fingers tighten at the edge of the bowl as he answers.
"Yeah, Sammy? You get a good sleep?"
This is still wrong. This still takes getting used to. His ethics, as bloody and beaten as they are, still try to raise a protest when this kind of thing happens. Sam's arms snake about him, the sharp point of his chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel his breath on his skin. He moves so close that his lips brush Dean's cheek when he speaks, the words murmured into him.
"No. My head hurts. Kiss me better?"
The muscles in Dean's arms tighten as he grips the sink harder and keeps his eyes closed. When he doesn't kiss Sam or even offer his mouth, Sam moves closer still, until his body is pressed flush to Dean's. It's probably not planned, probably nothing but a happy chance for Sam, but Dean is trapped now. Can't get past Sam, can't get out of the cage.
Sam lays a deceptively chaste kiss at the corner of Dean's mouth. It could almost be sweet but there's a sudden warm slip of tongue as Sam licks along the curve of Dean's lips, the very tip gliding along the line where they meet, almost pressing to slide inside but leaving it as a suggestion. Sam seems to like kissing Dean, likes pushing his tongue into his mouth and devouring him. He likes to kiss him breathless. But he also likes to hint.
"You're so pretty," he says. "Aren't you?"
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I'm a regular beauty queen."
Sam ducks his head and his mouth moves wetly over Dean's throat, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. His hips are thrusting gently again Dean and Dean can feel the hard line of his brother's cock grinding against his thigh even through their jeans. He refuses to move. That's something his dad taught him: when you're out of ammo and need to survive, keep real still and it might leave you alone. It's instinct now.
"Please, Dean," Sam whispers. His hand has slipped beneath Dean's t-shirt, his fingertips kneading lightly at his belly in a way that could almost be soothing if his touch didn't keep dipping lower. "Please… help me… only time I can get it out of my head is when my head's too full of you. Can't think of anything else when you let me touch you."
Sam's said this before. Dean's not sure, but he thinks this is a lie. This is nothing but another head-trip. This makes him go along with what Sammy wants to do to him, because there's just the slightest, feather-light hope that Sam really does manage to claw his way back to him, even if they have to be fucking and filthy when he does it. Maybe Dean really does bring him back, saving him with blowjobs and fast fucks in dirty restrooms.
"Please, don't let it hurt me anymore. Please, Dean…"
So he doesn't fight when Sam works his flies down and puts his hand between his legs. Sam's still dry-fucking him anyway, his hips rolling into Dean more fiercely now. His breath comes in short, hard pants, hitting Dean in the cheek like a parched summer over and over.
Sam's mouth is still latched onto his throat and Dean isn't surprised by the scrape of teeth. It hurts and he forces back a pained grunt, but he feels his skin break and hears the pleased moan from Sam. His cock is getting hard, responding on reflex to the slide of Sam's palm over it. He gets hard for Sam just as easily as he kills for Sam.
"Come on, Dean," says Sam. "I know you like this, I can feel how much you want it… I love it when you're like this, falling to pieces in my hand. You're so pretty when you're desperate. But you don't have to be brave, and you don't have to beg. Just say my name. Tell me you love me."
The harsh slap of Dean's cock sliding through Sam's hand and the ever-increasing force of Sam's thrusts almost push Dean from his feet, so he braces himself against the wash-hand basin. He will not be moved. This is where he belongs, right by Sammy.
"I love you, Sammy," he says. That's just instinct too.
"Oh Dean, I love you too! I wish I had time to show you how much… make you let go of it all, make you squirm like I know you want to… Fuck, I know you want it. "
His other hand slithers down Dean's spine and he swallows hard as Sam's fingers wriggle between the cheeks of his ass. Sam's touch isn't light, it's definite and full of promise as it slides along the heated, hidden skin. Dean can't help his strangled gasp as Sam's fingertip rubs at his hole, pressing the pad against him until his finger starts to push up into him.
The moment his lips part, Sam's tongue is pushing between them and into his mouth. He's got one hand with its fingers curled around Dean's cock, and he's rocking the fingers on his other hand deeper up into Dean.
In the moment before his balls tighten and he comes, Dean thinks about how hot Sammy feels, and whether it can be healthy for him to have such a high body temperature. Then the thought is lost in being trapped against the sink with Sam's hands on him and in him. Sam's still kissing him when he comes. He only draws away when Dean starts to tremble.
"I can still taste your sweat," Sam whispers. "And I can taste their blood on you. Cleaning up my mess, were you?"
Dean clutches the sink, falling forward to rest his sweat-damp forehead against the silvering glass of the mirror. He has to wait until he has the breath to speak. One of Sam's arms stays around him but the other flicks the faucet on and Dean watches his brother wash his come from his fingers.
"S'what big brothers are for, right?" he says.
He tries a laugh but it curls up and chokes in his throat. Sam kisses his temple.
"That's right," he agrees. He noses at Dean's hair almost affectionately. "You'd better get some sleep yourself. We've got work to do and I need you in fighting shape. I need to know you've got my back."
"Always," says Dean.
Fighting's what he does best. He was raised like a warrior after all. And it doesn't matter that the sides have swapped all round 'til he's dizzy. He's still on Sammy's side.
~end
(dark!Sam/Dean, 2093 words, NC-17, tiny spoiler for All Hell Breaks Loose part one, slightly dubious consent)
It's not about doing what's right anymore; it's about what's best for Sammy.
Those points don't come together quite like they used to.
Dean wonders at what precise shade grey becomes black. His conscience feels a boneless thing these days. How far did he have to have to relax his moral code before all this became acceptable?
The visions had just been start. He didn't like them because it put Sam on the same side as the things they were supposed to be fighting, but they were useful, right? They'd saved people's lives and that had to count for something. They just meant Sam was a little bit special. And a little more in need of his big brother to lean on when the visions left him weak and dizzy.
Finding out just how special Sam was, what he could become, what he was capable of, well that had just been a test. That had been a test to see just how much Dean loved his little brother.
Seeing Sam slit some guy's throat, then wipe the blade on his shirt like the blood was nothing but a nuisance? That hadn't been Sammy, and even if it had been, it had been Dean's fault for letting him out of his sight. At what point exactly was he supposed to decide Sam was too far gone to save? You don't turn your back on someone you love - it's not love if you can walk away.
And Sam, come hell or high water, is his baby brother and he loves him.
So Sam coming back from the dead, standing at the left hand of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, had been a shock, but not a fatal one. It had still been Sammy from the days of cheap motel rooms and late-night horror movies while they waited for Dad to come home. It had still been Sammy from the rear-view mirror, caught in the glass as he fidgeted on the leather seats, staring out the window as Dad dragged them from state to state.
Besides, their daddy made a deal with the devil to save Dean's life, why shouldn't Sam make a deal to save his own?
It's still Sammy, and so it's still Dean's job to look out for him. And somehow, the mission's not the same anymore. He doesn't approve and he doesn't enjoy it, but if he's honest, he doesn't give a damn about the people his brother kills. He tells himself he covers their tracks because more people would only get hurt if they tried to stop Sam, but he knows he's lying.
He buries the bodies not because Sam will hurt whoever gets in the way, but because they might, just might, hurt Sam.
He's glad when the job is done. The sun's high in the sky, blinding him, and the buzzing of flies that thicken the air damn near deafens him. His t-shirt is sticking to his back like a slippery second skin, clinging as a caul. He throws the spade down and stamps on the dry brown dirt of the fresh grave.
The balance swung at some point. He doesn't know when he crossed the mark, he's hardly been keeping track, but he knows the mark is far behind him. Once upon a time, there will have been a grave he dug that made it more bodies buried by him, than graves burnt by him.
It's deserted when he gets back to the motel. The owner disappeared a few days ago and Dean doesn't think Sam's responsible, but he hasn't found the body either. They'd better move on soon, before the smell gives the hiding place away. Won't be long in this heat.
The sweep of the ceiling-fans barely cuts through the stickiness but the corridor is cool in its gloom. Dean tries not to make any sound when he goes into their room. He doesn't want to wake Sam. He likes it better when Sam is asleep, curled up like a puppy about a pillow, eyes closed, one hand stretched towards Dean's bed even in dreams.
Sam is talking in his sleep again. Dean doesn't stop to catch the words anymore. The Demon sends his commands to Sam that way sometimes and even as blindly accepting as Dean is, he doesn't like to hear that voice coming from his brother's lips.
But sometimes, the bad times, Sam says his name. And he can almost believe that it's the old Sam, fighting his way to the surface. It never is, of course. It can't be. The old Sam became the new Sam but they're still Sam. The same flesh, the same spirit. The old Sam is the new Sam.
He lays his shotgun down on his bed and crosses to the bathroom. The tiles are chipped in the small, crappy bathroom, and the water runs a very pale brown, but he can close the door, and in the shadows, he can't make out his reflection in the mirror on the cracked cabinet door.
Water rumbles through the pipes and he glances back to the room, but there's no stirring and he lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He fills the basin and splashes it onto his face. It's not cold, doesn't refresh him, but it takes away a layer of grime. That's enough these days.
The water ripples in the sink, becoming murky as he sluices it over his skin. It dribbles down his forearms and splashes his t-shirt, but soon all he's doing is moving the sweat and dirt around on his body. There's no getting clean today. Maybe tomorrow.
He pulls the plug and watches the water gurgle down the plughole. He's still transfixed by it when the door opens and sunlight slants into the room. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, something hard and haunted, before he closes his eyes.
"Dean?"
His fingers tighten at the edge of the bowl as he answers.
"Yeah, Sammy? You get a good sleep?"
This is still wrong. This still takes getting used to. His ethics, as bloody and beaten as they are, still try to raise a protest when this kind of thing happens. Sam's arms snake about him, the sharp point of his chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel his breath on his skin. He moves so close that his lips brush Dean's cheek when he speaks, the words murmured into him.
"No. My head hurts. Kiss me better?"
The muscles in Dean's arms tighten as he grips the sink harder and keeps his eyes closed. When he doesn't kiss Sam or even offer his mouth, Sam moves closer still, until his body is pressed flush to Dean's. It's probably not planned, probably nothing but a happy chance for Sam, but Dean is trapped now. Can't get past Sam, can't get out of the cage.
Sam lays a deceptively chaste kiss at the corner of Dean's mouth. It could almost be sweet but there's a sudden warm slip of tongue as Sam licks along the curve of Dean's lips, the very tip gliding along the line where they meet, almost pressing to slide inside but leaving it as a suggestion. Sam seems to like kissing Dean, likes pushing his tongue into his mouth and devouring him. He likes to kiss him breathless. But he also likes to hint.
"You're so pretty," he says. "Aren't you?"
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I'm a regular beauty queen."
Sam ducks his head and his mouth moves wetly over Dean's throat, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. His hips are thrusting gently again Dean and Dean can feel the hard line of his brother's cock grinding against his thigh even through their jeans. He refuses to move. That's something his dad taught him: when you're out of ammo and need to survive, keep real still and it might leave you alone. It's instinct now.
"Please, Dean," Sam whispers. His hand has slipped beneath Dean's t-shirt, his fingertips kneading lightly at his belly in a way that could almost be soothing if his touch didn't keep dipping lower. "Please… help me… only time I can get it out of my head is when my head's too full of you. Can't think of anything else when you let me touch you."
Sam's said this before. Dean's not sure, but he thinks this is a lie. This is nothing but another head-trip. This makes him go along with what Sammy wants to do to him, because there's just the slightest, feather-light hope that Sam really does manage to claw his way back to him, even if they have to be fucking and filthy when he does it. Maybe Dean really does bring him back, saving him with blowjobs and fast fucks in dirty restrooms.
"Please, don't let it hurt me anymore. Please, Dean…"
So he doesn't fight when Sam works his flies down and puts his hand between his legs. Sam's still dry-fucking him anyway, his hips rolling into Dean more fiercely now. His breath comes in short, hard pants, hitting Dean in the cheek like a parched summer over and over.
Sam's mouth is still latched onto his throat and Dean isn't surprised by the scrape of teeth. It hurts and he forces back a pained grunt, but he feels his skin break and hears the pleased moan from Sam. His cock is getting hard, responding on reflex to the slide of Sam's palm over it. He gets hard for Sam just as easily as he kills for Sam.
"Come on, Dean," says Sam. "I know you like this, I can feel how much you want it… I love it when you're like this, falling to pieces in my hand. You're so pretty when you're desperate. But you don't have to be brave, and you don't have to beg. Just say my name. Tell me you love me."
The harsh slap of Dean's cock sliding through Sam's hand and the ever-increasing force of Sam's thrusts almost push Dean from his feet, so he braces himself against the wash-hand basin. He will not be moved. This is where he belongs, right by Sammy.
"I love you, Sammy," he says. That's just instinct too.
"Oh Dean, I love you too! I wish I had time to show you how much… make you let go of it all, make you squirm like I know you want to… Fuck, I know you want it. "
His other hand slithers down Dean's spine and he swallows hard as Sam's fingers wriggle between the cheeks of his ass. Sam's touch isn't light, it's definite and full of promise as it slides along the heated, hidden skin. Dean can't help his strangled gasp as Sam's fingertip rubs at his hole, pressing the pad against him until his finger starts to push up into him.
The moment his lips part, Sam's tongue is pushing between them and into his mouth. He's got one hand with its fingers curled around Dean's cock, and he's rocking the fingers on his other hand deeper up into Dean.
In the moment before his balls tighten and he comes, Dean thinks about how hot Sammy feels, and whether it can be healthy for him to have such a high body temperature. Then the thought is lost in being trapped against the sink with Sam's hands on him and in him. Sam's still kissing him when he comes. He only draws away when Dean starts to tremble.
"I can still taste your sweat," Sam whispers. "And I can taste their blood on you. Cleaning up my mess, were you?"
Dean clutches the sink, falling forward to rest his sweat-damp forehead against the silvering glass of the mirror. He has to wait until he has the breath to speak. One of Sam's arms stays around him but the other flicks the faucet on and Dean watches his brother wash his come from his fingers.
"S'what big brothers are for, right?" he says.
He tries a laugh but it curls up and chokes in his throat. Sam kisses his temple.
"That's right," he agrees. He noses at Dean's hair almost affectionately. "You'd better get some sleep yourself. We've got work to do and I need you in fighting shape. I need to know you've got my back."
"Always," says Dean.
Fighting's what he does best. He was raised like a warrior after all. And it doesn't matter that the sides have swapped all round 'til he's dizzy. He's still on Sammy's side.
~end