Gift for Tifaching
Title: Sorry About the Blood in Your Mouth (I Wish It Was Mine)
Gifter: kelios
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean
Word count/Medium: ~2k
Rating: Explicit, NC-17
Warnings: rough sex, (demon) blood drinking, blood as lube
Summary: Dean is back from Hell, and all Sam can think about is how good he'd taste.
Notes: Title from Richard Siken's Crush
Sam doesn’t notice it the first time--or rather he does, but he doesn’t think much of it. Ruby’s blood is singing in his veins, blood and sex and magic and it’s no wonder he can’t think of anything else. He pushes it all aside and pulls Dean closer, the joy of holding his brother in his arms again outweighing anything else.
But now.
Now.
It’s been three days since Dean came back. Three days since he’d left Dean in their bed to go with Ruby, three days since Dean found out what Sam was doing while Dean was in hell. Sam had burned a lot of power that night, more than usual, and Ruby had wisely kept her distance since then rather than trust Dean’s volatile temper. Three days since Dean had touched him voluntarily, and it’s not just the blood Sam wants.
Three days in the car with Dean, and Sam can’t fool himself any longer, can’t pretend that he doesn’t smell the taint of hell all over Dean’s skin, his hair, the blood rushing through his veins. Can’t pretend he doesn’t want to rub that scent all over his skin before he breaks it open and finds out if Dean tastes as good as he smells. He swallows thickly around the guilt and want lodged in his throat and can’t look away.
“What the fuck’s your problem, Sam?” Dean snaps suddenly. He sounds annoyed, undertones of hurt and anger and betrayal seeping through and coloring every word.
“I--uh--nothing?” Sam says weakly. He’d been staring again. Of course he had. And this time Dean had caught him. In the past Dean would have joked with him--take a picture, Sammy, it’ll last longer. Just make sure you get my good side--or ignored him, but those options are apparently off the table now.
“I got something on my face?” Dean’s voice softens unexpectedly. “I’m not going anywhere, Sam. You can blink.”
Sam’s face flames. “Nothing on your face, just...feels weird to be over here,” he mutters, looking down. He watches his fingers scrabble at a hole in the knee of his jeans like they belong to someone else, strung out on want and need, on the fact that the answer to both is less than three feet away and he can’t have either.
Dean rubs a hand over his face tiredly, grimacing when his fingers find the tiny cut on his jaw where he’d nicked himself this morning. Sam licks his lips, mouth watering as a tiny red drop wells up, wiped away irritably. Sam imagines taking Dean’s hand, feeling the pulse in Dean’s wrist hammering against his fingers as he licks away every trace. Imagines the thin skin of Dean’s wrist giving under his teeth, the hot rush of Dean’s blood filling his mouth until he can’t swallow it all. He must make a sound, because Dean’s looking at him oddly now, frowning a little--not unusual these days, but a shiver runs up Sam’s spine nonetheless, cold terror that Dean might know what he’s thinking.
They pull over for the night a few hours later, early but the map says there’s nothing else for a hundred miles and Dean wants to eat. Sam locks himself in the bathroom until they head out, just trying to breathe in air that doesn’t carry the scent of hell and damnation straight into his lungs. He feels a little better when they leave, but the need is back by the time they get to the diner and Sam can’t eat, just pushes the food around with shaking hands, his stomach curdled and aching for something other than a burger and fries. He hadn’t realized he was this bad off, another of Ruby’s tricks to keep him on the hook. Give him as much as he wants, as often as he wants, and when she’s gone…
Dean waits til they’re back at the hotel before he makes his move.
“What’s going on, Sam?” he demands, pushing Sam back against the wall before he can disappear into the bathroom again. “Is this about that black-eyed bitch and the poison she’s been feeding you? Is that what’s got you jonesing so hard you can’t eat, can’t sit still, can’t stand to be within two feet of me?”
“Dean, I--”
“Don’t lie to me, Sam. Not about this.” Dean stands in front of him, angry and hurt, and all Sam can see are the pale blue lines at his throat, his wrist.
“I just--” Sam trails off helplessly, mesmerized. The little red drop from earlier is back and Sam can’t help himself. Leans in and takes it, power bursting across his tongue in a sharp, bitter rush, too short to satisfy him and God he needs more.
“What the hell?” Dean’s voice, harsh and strident. Fear underneath, and that’s right and good because Sam’s a monster now, isn’t he? Isn’t he?
“Hell is what,” Sam says, and laughs helplessly. Dean shakes him but he just laughs louder, can’t stop, even with wetness on his cheeks, even with his hands clenched in Dean’s shirt--push or pull, he can’t tell anymore because everything’s spinning and dark, and even Dean’s voice isn’t enough to lead him back to the light.
Sam’s head is throbbing when he opens his eyes again, relief flooding through him when he sees Dean sitting on the other bed.
“Dean--” He tries to sit up, and realizes his right hand is caught above his head. The metallic rattle when he pulls confirms his suspicions and he looks over to Dean again in confusion.
“I know you can get free if you want,” Dean says evenly, standing up, and for the first time Sam notices Dean’s shirt is gone. “It’s just a reminder, for both of us.” There’s a knife in Dean’s hand, and Sam swallows, fear and lust and want fighting their way up his throat as he struggles upright, back against the headboard to ease the strain on his shoulder.
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Sammy,” Dean says, and his face softens again into something more recognizable as he kneels across Sam’s thighs. “Wasn’t hard to figure out after you licked my face.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers miserably. He turns away, doesn’t want to see the anger and disappointment on Dean’s face again, but Dean catches him. Pulls him back and kisses him, and even without the blood Sam feels something inside him start to heal.
“You should be,” Dean says calmly when he pulls back. “You should have stayed away from that hell bitch, you should have told me what the problem was instead of making me figure it out on my own. But now we’re going to fix it.” He settles down, eyebrows rising in an amused smirk when he feels that Sam’s already half hard, just from this. “Kinky, Sam,” he teases, and it’s so close to normal that Sam only realizes he’s forgotten about the knife when it flashes across Dean’s chest in a gleaming arc, only realizes how sure he’d been that the knife was for him when he sees the blood stark and red on Dean’s skin.
“Come on, Sammy.” Dean stays perfectly still as Sam strains to catch the rivulet of blood running down his chest and abs, breath catching as Sam licks over the shallow cut. Iron, copper, sulfur like a starburst in his brain, and Sam whimpers when the cut goes dry, desperate. Dean kisses the blood from his mouth before he makes another cut and this time Sam doesn’t wait to be told. He’s dimly aware that he’s holding onto Dean with both hands now, the sting around his wrist from the broken cuff a distant ache as he grinds up against him. The power fills him up, both of them hard now, the starburst blooming into a supernova as Sam pushes Dean back onto the bed.
“Dean,” he pants, biting at Dean’s lip until he gets what he wants, the sour tang of iron and hell and Dean, fumbling with Dean’s pants until he finally rips them away in frustrated impatience.
“Jesus fuck, Sam,” Dean protests, but he’s not saying no. He’s saying those were my favorite jeans and fuck, Sammy, come on, do it, he’s lifting the knife again, or trying to, but Sam just pins his hand down to the mattress and swallows his blood tinged moan.
“Not yet,” Sam growls, and now his own jeans are open. Now he’s spitting blood into his hand, not enough when he pushes two fingers into Dean, not enough when he digs his fingers into the open wound on Dean’s chest and smears the blood over his leaking cock, not enough until Sam sinks into him, tight and hot and perfect. Dean cries out as he arches up to meet every thrust, and Sam revels in the sudden wet warmth streaking his chest when the blade bites into Dean’s skin again.
“You get enough?” Dean asks later. Sam’s lying next to him, trying not to feel guilty about the bandages taped to Dean’s chest or the way Dean had bitten his lip and hissed in pain when he’d gone into the bathroom earlier to clean up. “I think the arm next time, though. Better flow...and I want to ride you for real.”
“You really okay with this?” Sam asks, nervous and a little skeptical. “I never thought--not even for me.”
Dean doesn’t answer for awhile, long enough for Sam’s guilt to solidify into a hard lump in his stomach. “I don’t know if okay is the right word,” he says at last. “There’s not a damn thing about this that’s okay. But if it means that black eyed bitch doesn’t have her claws in you anymore, then I’m willing to give it a try. I don’t think we want to do a cold turkey detox off demon blood unless we have to, there’s no way that’s not going to suck.”
“Drinking from you isn’t much better,” Sam says quietly. “I can’t use you as my personal blood bank forever, Dean.”
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” Dean says, and the smug satisfaction in his voice catches Sam’s attention, pulls him up onto one elbow as Dean grins up at him. “The human body replaces its entire blood supply around every six months, which means we’re going to be slowly weaning you off this shit as we go. And,” he says consideringly, “the sex is pretty damn good too.”
Sam stares at him blankly for a moment, then laughs reluctantly, collapsing back down onto the bed. “I can’t believe this is what it took for you to do research,” he teases, and they’re not back to normal, not quite, but Sam can see it from here. And that’s good enough for now.
Gifter: kelios
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean
Word count/Medium: ~2k
Rating: Explicit, NC-17
Warnings: rough sex, (demon) blood drinking, blood as lube
Summary: Dean is back from Hell, and all Sam can think about is how good he'd taste.
Notes: Title from Richard Siken's Crush
Sam doesn’t notice it the first time--or rather he does, but he doesn’t think much of it. Ruby’s blood is singing in his veins, blood and sex and magic and it’s no wonder he can’t think of anything else. He pushes it all aside and pulls Dean closer, the joy of holding his brother in his arms again outweighing anything else.
But now.
Now.
It’s been three days since Dean came back. Three days since he’d left Dean in their bed to go with Ruby, three days since Dean found out what Sam was doing while Dean was in hell. Sam had burned a lot of power that night, more than usual, and Ruby had wisely kept her distance since then rather than trust Dean’s volatile temper. Three days since Dean had touched him voluntarily, and it’s not just the blood Sam wants.
Three days in the car with Dean, and Sam can’t fool himself any longer, can’t pretend that he doesn’t smell the taint of hell all over Dean’s skin, his hair, the blood rushing through his veins. Can’t pretend he doesn’t want to rub that scent all over his skin before he breaks it open and finds out if Dean tastes as good as he smells. He swallows thickly around the guilt and want lodged in his throat and can’t look away.
“What the fuck’s your problem, Sam?” Dean snaps suddenly. He sounds annoyed, undertones of hurt and anger and betrayal seeping through and coloring every word.
“I--uh--nothing?” Sam says weakly. He’d been staring again. Of course he had. And this time Dean had caught him. In the past Dean would have joked with him--take a picture, Sammy, it’ll last longer. Just make sure you get my good side--or ignored him, but those options are apparently off the table now.
“I got something on my face?” Dean’s voice softens unexpectedly. “I’m not going anywhere, Sam. You can blink.”
Sam’s face flames. “Nothing on your face, just...feels weird to be over here,” he mutters, looking down. He watches his fingers scrabble at a hole in the knee of his jeans like they belong to someone else, strung out on want and need, on the fact that the answer to both is less than three feet away and he can’t have either.
Dean rubs a hand over his face tiredly, grimacing when his fingers find the tiny cut on his jaw where he’d nicked himself this morning. Sam licks his lips, mouth watering as a tiny red drop wells up, wiped away irritably. Sam imagines taking Dean’s hand, feeling the pulse in Dean’s wrist hammering against his fingers as he licks away every trace. Imagines the thin skin of Dean’s wrist giving under his teeth, the hot rush of Dean’s blood filling his mouth until he can’t swallow it all. He must make a sound, because Dean’s looking at him oddly now, frowning a little--not unusual these days, but a shiver runs up Sam’s spine nonetheless, cold terror that Dean might know what he’s thinking.
They pull over for the night a few hours later, early but the map says there’s nothing else for a hundred miles and Dean wants to eat. Sam locks himself in the bathroom until they head out, just trying to breathe in air that doesn’t carry the scent of hell and damnation straight into his lungs. He feels a little better when they leave, but the need is back by the time they get to the diner and Sam can’t eat, just pushes the food around with shaking hands, his stomach curdled and aching for something other than a burger and fries. He hadn’t realized he was this bad off, another of Ruby’s tricks to keep him on the hook. Give him as much as he wants, as often as he wants, and when she’s gone…
Dean waits til they’re back at the hotel before he makes his move.
“What’s going on, Sam?” he demands, pushing Sam back against the wall before he can disappear into the bathroom again. “Is this about that black-eyed bitch and the poison she’s been feeding you? Is that what’s got you jonesing so hard you can’t eat, can’t sit still, can’t stand to be within two feet of me?”
“Dean, I--”
“Don’t lie to me, Sam. Not about this.” Dean stands in front of him, angry and hurt, and all Sam can see are the pale blue lines at his throat, his wrist.
“I just--” Sam trails off helplessly, mesmerized. The little red drop from earlier is back and Sam can’t help himself. Leans in and takes it, power bursting across his tongue in a sharp, bitter rush, too short to satisfy him and God he needs more.
“What the hell?” Dean’s voice, harsh and strident. Fear underneath, and that’s right and good because Sam’s a monster now, isn’t he? Isn’t he?
“Hell is what,” Sam says, and laughs helplessly. Dean shakes him but he just laughs louder, can’t stop, even with wetness on his cheeks, even with his hands clenched in Dean’s shirt--push or pull, he can’t tell anymore because everything’s spinning and dark, and even Dean’s voice isn’t enough to lead him back to the light.
Sam’s head is throbbing when he opens his eyes again, relief flooding through him when he sees Dean sitting on the other bed.
“Dean--” He tries to sit up, and realizes his right hand is caught above his head. The metallic rattle when he pulls confirms his suspicions and he looks over to Dean again in confusion.
“I know you can get free if you want,” Dean says evenly, standing up, and for the first time Sam notices Dean’s shirt is gone. “It’s just a reminder, for both of us.” There’s a knife in Dean’s hand, and Sam swallows, fear and lust and want fighting their way up his throat as he struggles upright, back against the headboard to ease the strain on his shoulder.
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Sammy,” Dean says, and his face softens again into something more recognizable as he kneels across Sam’s thighs. “Wasn’t hard to figure out after you licked my face.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers miserably. He turns away, doesn’t want to see the anger and disappointment on Dean’s face again, but Dean catches him. Pulls him back and kisses him, and even without the blood Sam feels something inside him start to heal.
“You should be,” Dean says calmly when he pulls back. “You should have stayed away from that hell bitch, you should have told me what the problem was instead of making me figure it out on my own. But now we’re going to fix it.” He settles down, eyebrows rising in an amused smirk when he feels that Sam’s already half hard, just from this. “Kinky, Sam,” he teases, and it’s so close to normal that Sam only realizes he’s forgotten about the knife when it flashes across Dean’s chest in a gleaming arc, only realizes how sure he’d been that the knife was for him when he sees the blood stark and red on Dean’s skin.
“Come on, Sammy.” Dean stays perfectly still as Sam strains to catch the rivulet of blood running down his chest and abs, breath catching as Sam licks over the shallow cut. Iron, copper, sulfur like a starburst in his brain, and Sam whimpers when the cut goes dry, desperate. Dean kisses the blood from his mouth before he makes another cut and this time Sam doesn’t wait to be told. He’s dimly aware that he’s holding onto Dean with both hands now, the sting around his wrist from the broken cuff a distant ache as he grinds up against him. The power fills him up, both of them hard now, the starburst blooming into a supernova as Sam pushes Dean back onto the bed.
“Dean,” he pants, biting at Dean’s lip until he gets what he wants, the sour tang of iron and hell and Dean, fumbling with Dean’s pants until he finally rips them away in frustrated impatience.
“Jesus fuck, Sam,” Dean protests, but he’s not saying no. He’s saying those were my favorite jeans and fuck, Sammy, come on, do it, he’s lifting the knife again, or trying to, but Sam just pins his hand down to the mattress and swallows his blood tinged moan.
“Not yet,” Sam growls, and now his own jeans are open. Now he’s spitting blood into his hand, not enough when he pushes two fingers into Dean, not enough when he digs his fingers into the open wound on Dean’s chest and smears the blood over his leaking cock, not enough until Sam sinks into him, tight and hot and perfect. Dean cries out as he arches up to meet every thrust, and Sam revels in the sudden wet warmth streaking his chest when the blade bites into Dean’s skin again.
“You get enough?” Dean asks later. Sam’s lying next to him, trying not to feel guilty about the bandages taped to Dean’s chest or the way Dean had bitten his lip and hissed in pain when he’d gone into the bathroom earlier to clean up. “I think the arm next time, though. Better flow...and I want to ride you for real.”
“You really okay with this?” Sam asks, nervous and a little skeptical. “I never thought--not even for me.”
Dean doesn’t answer for awhile, long enough for Sam’s guilt to solidify into a hard lump in his stomach. “I don’t know if okay is the right word,” he says at last. “There’s not a damn thing about this that’s okay. But if it means that black eyed bitch doesn’t have her claws in you anymore, then I’m willing to give it a try. I don’t think we want to do a cold turkey detox off demon blood unless we have to, there’s no way that’s not going to suck.”
“Drinking from you isn’t much better,” Sam says quietly. “I can’t use you as my personal blood bank forever, Dean.”
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” Dean says, and the smug satisfaction in his voice catches Sam’s attention, pulls him up onto one elbow as Dean grins up at him. “The human body replaces its entire blood supply around every six months, which means we’re going to be slowly weaning you off this shit as we go. And,” he says consideringly, “the sex is pretty damn good too.”
Sam stares at him blankly for a moment, then laughs reluctantly, collapsing back down onto the bed. “I can’t believe this is what it took for you to do research,” he teases, and they’re not back to normal, not quite, but Sam can see it from here. And that’s good enough for now.