For salt_burn_porn: As You Are, As A Known Enemy (NC17)
AS YOU ARE, AS A KNOWN ENEMY.
rating. NC17
pairing. Dean/Sam and Dean/Lucifer!Sam [but also Lucifer/Michael]
words. 3500
warnings. Elements of this could definitely be considered dub!con, as Dean is not in a position to change his surroundings, but he gives willingly. Compulsion. Incest. Dirty talkin' devils.
summary. It's beautiful. Too beautiful so Dean knows it can't be real. Something created by the one he knows better than himself and not at all, just for Dean. That makes him feel worse. Spoilers for 5.04 'The End', but set after 5.10 'Abandon All Hope'.
prompt. you say yes, I will take you, I will love you, again.
Thanks to annabeth_fics for some serious hand-holding and encouragement! All mistakes are my own. maerhys, I just had to look up what your prompt was actually from and the poem worked WONDERS as far as inspiration goes (and I've added it to the end of this because it was essential to this story). I hope this comes even a little close to what you might have had in mind. ♥
When Dean falls asleep it's not quite dark outside. Distant fires set the horizon aglow and the air is thick and weighted with sorrow and loss. Across the Midwest similar fires are burning-plains and skies setting funeral pyres for lost souls when there are so few left here to bury the dead. The living are too busy trying to stay that way.
But Dean needs to sleep if he plans to get up and fight another day. Fighting is all he has left-that and his brother still loyal and sober beside him. Sam is already unconscious in the dreary room's second bed-passed out or dreaming, Dean doesn't know.
The first prickles of oblivion weigh in the corners of Dean's eyes and soon he's surrounded by blackness. That's the biggest clue he's no longer awake; the skies never go completely dark these days, even at night.
Something thin and soft brushes across Dean's palm. Swallowed by the pitch he can't see it, but he knows what it is. They are all around him, blown by a draft Dean can't feel. Like phantom lips they caress his skin, animated by the power of an unseen hand.
Rose petals.
Dean takes a fistful and crushes them in his hand. They're his favorite.
"You don't like them."
Suddenly there's light, pure and clean, shining through the tall form that's been cloaked by the darkness all this time, watching. He stands to Dean's left wearing all black-no longer trying to fool anyone-and his eyes are as brown as brandy, and have the same warming affect on Dean's nerves.
"I told you, you don't have to create...this." Dean's not sure if he's speaking or thinking; he can't feel the vibrations in his throat. "I'm not even here."
"I want you here."
Saying you've got me now seems too cliche, though it's the truth. He could fight harder against this, against him, but something pins Dean in this place between nothing and awake.
It's beautiful. Too beautiful so Dean knows it can't be real. A place created by the one Dean knows better than himself and not at all, just for Dean. That makes him feel worse. The room is opulent, rich and decadently appointed, but Dean won't look too closely at the carvings etched into ebony and cherry. The bed is covered in petals the color of blood; they veil the room with cloying sweetness and spill over the sides of the mattress. Thorny vines snake up the posts at each corner of the bed and create a breathing, moving canopy.
"Get me out of here."
He doesn't need to snap or wave his hands. He merely thinks and it is. In a breath the opulence disappears and they're in another room, plain and mild and it's suddenly easier for Dean to breathe-if he's truly breathing at all. It's the kind of room he's seen a thousand times before, scattered across the country in small towns and backwaters.
"Is this better?"
Better isn't the right word. This scene is less likely to drive Dean out of his own head. And he fits here despite the dark clothing. Sam's body seated on the rough duvet, nauseating pattern swirling under his thighs, looking at Dean to make the first move.
"Dean." That's Sam's voice, too. Actually Dean no longer doubts that he is Sam, essential pieces of Dean's brother reassembled. He's perfect though in a way Sam isn't, no longer bearing the scars and signs of a life at Dean's side. His form and shape are in mint condition, exactly as Heaven and Hell originally intended-no longer a roadmap to battle-though Dean would take every imperfection back in a heartbeat.
But it is the way he says Dean's name that makes him laugh.
"Am I?"
He tilts his head and considers his captive.
"Am I 'Dean'? Or are you here with Michael?"
"You are one and the same." Sam doesn't move any closer but Dean feels the space between them shrink. "He's my brother. You are my brother. Is that so hard to understand? To accept?"
It's not. Angels and demons have been shoving that bullshit down his throat for weeks.
"But I didn't call Michael here. I didn't even call you."
"But you want me here."
He smiles, so like Sam when Dean says something ridiculous.
"You need this."
"I don't."
"And you want this," he continues as if talking to himself.
Now there's truly no space between them; the black clothes are gone and he's suddenly all skin and overwhelming aura pressed close on Dean's side of the bed.
"I'm here, Dean." Wet mouth on his neck, transmitting the words straight into Dean's bullet-riddled soul. "You can take me. Or give yourself over."
He's fallen into this dream enough to not care about doing it again. When his mouth connects with Sam's, Dean feels it like a chilling rush in his blood, sobering the effects of this place for a moment. And he draws Dean back.
"You don't have to say yes to me."
Or maybe Dean already has, an infinite amount of times, and can't remember.
When Dean's here, he's never naked to begin with. It's possible that he just wants the pleasure of stripping Dean, one more thing to show Dean that these scenarios aren't just a product of his own twists and torments. He is here through some power or enchantment, and maybe Sam's here as well, lost on the other side of this intricate illusion.
Because there are certain things Sam would do to Dean, he knows. Dean's imagined how it would go so many times, fueled by his knowledge of Sam. Places only Sam would know to touch and grip. Only Sam will know that Dean's lips, when bitten, turn an alluring shade of red, or that Dean wants to be bitten beyond that point, until his whole mouth tingles with the rush of blood. Knowledge written into Sam's genes, carved onto his bones for the time to come when Dean stops fighting what could be between them.
On his back with Sam's weight on top of him, Dean's dream-form becomes a traitor. His brother's body heals the wounds and ragged flesh that daily battles-the ones breaking bone and splitting sinew-leave behind. His hands mend what the real Sam carefully bandaged and swabbed, his mouth supplying the elixir to soothe burns and drug his mind.
Intoxication. It's the only explanation as to why Dean's so eager here, bending to mirror him. He can be so close to Sam; it strengthens his resolve to make sure his brother never ends up-
"Didn't I tell you, Dean?"
His tongue traces the tendons stretched taut in Dean's throat, threatening to bite down with gentle pressure.
"You and I always end up here."
A strangled gasp-half plea, half desperation-gets caught in Dean's throat.
"You want that, though. Don't you?"
"No."
"Yes," he counters. "But that's not important right now."
"No."
Sucking on Dean's tongue, he ends the argument. Sam's skin is hot but does not burn as Dean once expected, and his tongue tastes not of sulfur but of cheap mouthwash. The illusion gets deeper each time he's drawn here-more detailed and refined.
Their kiss becomes a battle, but he lets Dean win. The victory spins Dean's mind, vertigo forcing him away from Sam's lips. Dizzy and needy he tries to find them again, chasing Sam's shadowed face in the strangely lit room.
"You've always loved me." His teeth snag painfully on Dean's upper lip. "And you've always fought me."
Too much talking. Dean closes his eyes and moans for more, getting his mouth back where it belongs. He yanks Sam roughly, pushing and pulling until Sam's beneath him, kissing turned fully to tongue-fucking with gnashing teeth. Even with a near perfect replica between his legs, Dean won't look down. He conjures his Sam behind his eyelids, squeezes into muscle and familiar flesh until he can almost hear Sam begging, pleas Dean can't deny.
"Yes, Sam-anything."
Sam's body stops rising-everything in the room ceases to move.
"You don't usually call me that."
Dean can't take it back. He finally looks down and sees his eyes contemplate, hazel windows to the Fallen's mind.
"Because you're not-"
"Didn't I just tell you this?" He flips them again, starts to pull Dean's shirt away to leave him wide open and bare. "I am Sam. Every nerve and breath." Insistent hands push and force, moving on Dean's skin like he's deciding where the marks and bruises he could inflict would look best. "I'm what you want."
Stripping the last of Dean's clothes away, his eyes turn molten and appreciative. Dean is always surprised that he stops here when he could just as easily keep stripping Dean layer by layer. His skin, his muscles, his life. All of it as easy to peel away as shirts and underwear. Then he's drowning in skin-Sam's against his, his tight with Sam's. Dean wants every inch even as he knows what deceit lies beneath it.
Dean goes cold when Sam's bulk looms over him. He's kneeling astride Dean's chest, thighs a warm vise across his torso.
"Open up for me, Dean."
The head of Sam's cock nudges Dean's lips, slipping across his chin and cheek when Dean doesn't obey.
"You and I already know you're going to."
Dean's not sure how much control he really has over this body, but his mind wants so it's difficult to hold out. Sam's scent surrounds him-real or just another deception-and fills his nostrils when he inhales. He doesn't shove forward; Sam's cock glides along Dean's face in a dirty, soft caress. Slick and pungent, Dean feels-compares it to what he knows about his Sam, whether he's asleep in that decrepit motel room or here, somewhere, with Dean.
The idea that his Sam could be a piece of this, wanting this, parts Dean's lips. He unleashes when Dean sucks him down. His mouth is full and straining, unable to choke and unable to gag. Unable to do anything but crave and taste, each spill of precome over his tongue leaves Dean shaking for more. He stares down, face flushed in pleasure, hips rolling Sam's cock in and out while his fingers slide over Sam's skin to touch the places Dean knows will give him a greater rush.
If Dean's stuck here, he intends on being more than just a receptacle, another kind of vessel. Keeping Sam's cock in his mouth, Dean reaches for him, creating his own rhythm with his hands on Sam's flanks. One of his hands stretches to roll Sam's balls lightly, pressing hard up underneath and bucking into Dean's face.
"So amazing, Dean-you don't know how you look when you're like this."
A mirror to see himself is the last thing Dean wants, worried he'll see a creature in place of Sam, and terrified by what he might see on his own face.
"I could keep you here and take this endlessly," he mutters as he rides Dean's throat. "We could trap ourselves here and let the war wear itself out-come out only when it's done and the Earth is wiped clean of everyone."
Spit runs over Dean's chin, cooling his neck where it slides down, forced out of his mouth by Sam's thick flesh. His own cock has been hard since they started kissing, but it goes rock-solid now.
"We don't need anyone-anything else, Dean. Let the demons die, let the angels fade to nothing, and we can have it all. You and I. You and Sam."
Dean shoves himself up on his elbows and swallows as much of his cock as he can-if only to shut him up. Sam's body falls forward over Dean's face, fucking his cock down into Dean's throat, messy and unrestrained. This way at least Dean can take hold of Sam's wrists, take back some control of the assault and connect them in a less obscene way. Dean grips tightly, white-knuckled, and feels the bones under skin and muscle shift against each other as he tenses and pulls back.
"Dean..." he gasps. "You're too good at that. I'll save that particular temptation for another time."
Sitting back on his haunches, he considers the marks on Sam's wrists. The imprints of Dean's hands shade the skin red. On Dean, such marks would be painful but to see them on Sam's body is worse. Unthinking, Dean leans up to check the irritation, but he just chuckles with amusement in Sam's low voice.
"You can't hurt me."
Just as quickly Dean is forced back down. Sam's hair gets in his face and mouth as he's nuzzling the join of Dean's neck and shoulder.
"Let it go, Dean. You can't scare me, I already know what you want." He licks and tastes Dean's skin, thumbs swiping at Dean's chest. "Every touch from gentle to torturous means you love me."
Every part of him is only inches away, so close to what Dean truly wants. This is his most clever and diabolical disguise.
"Take it." Then harsher, "take me."
He imagines that Sam would never beg-not like this, but Dean's still helpless at the sound of his voice and he gives in. Dean takes this now to burn it away because he never wants it to be like this with the real Sam. His waking hours are spent in restraint, fighting to show Sam how worthy he is, while he does his best to unravel those threads by giving Dean his every desire when he closes his eyes. Even here, Dean is only human.
Dean raises his knee and locks his leg around Sam's to pull his legs wider apart. If he had the same powers, Dean would conjure bars and ropes to keep him in place and at Dean's mercy. He doesn't need a body to compel Dean-Sam's voice carries all the command he needs.
"Give me...give me something," Dean hisses, pulling at Sam's ass with dry fingers as his body moves against him. He won't-he can't-hurt Sam even with his false permission. In an instant something warm and slick coats Dean's fingers. It could be blood. It could be holy water just to prove he can take it.
Dean doesn't look. The lights in the room dim as if in response to Dean's wishes and he wonders just how much control he has over this place, if he would let him-
"Open me, Dean," he orders with little patience.
One, two, and three fingers slide easily into Sam's body, more so than Dean ever imagined was possible. He barely waits for Dean to pull him open and stretch Sam's body before he's rearing up and sinking down with a cry that could break the heavens. Here, Dean has fucked him over and over-Dean's so used to giving when it comes to Sam that taking like this is the greater torture-but it still feels different every time. Tonight, Sam's body is tight, a punishing grip around Dean. He works up and down, almost oblivious to the counter-motion of Dean's hips.
To Dean, their fucking here is fueled more by grief than passion-he's saving that part of himself for the day when it's finally Sam surrounding his cock. When his brother is breathing in and crying out the first few times Dean thrusts up into him. A dream far distanced from this one, but Dean knows as well as he does that he won't hold out forever. Sam's looks already linger, igniting a slow burn and it's only a matter of time...
"Think, Dean," he rasps. "Could have this-could have me."
"Don't want you," Dean manages to say though his throat aches from Sam's cock and holding back his own screams.
He laughs and the sound infuriates Dean. Catching his tormentor off guard, Dean fists into Sam's hair and yanks him down. Forces him close so Dean can bite at his lips. The primal part of Dean wants to draw blood just to see if he can taste Sam somewhere in the creature seducing his body and mind.
"Why?" Dean chokes. "Why do you want this from me?"
"Don't you know?" Sam's ass squeezes around Dean-too tight, too much. "After all you've been told?"
Dean smacks his hand down on Sam's thigh, as much to ease the grip around his cock as to telegraph frustration. He only holds Dean tighter and bends close to pour more sugared poison into Dean's ear.
"You can have this." He undulates on Dean's cock, forcing him to pay attention. "All you have to do is take-he wants you to, Dean. He's wanted it since you were raised up and made whole again by my brothers. Even before that, when you were too afraid and he wouldn't ruin your new brotherhood."
"I can't-"
"You will. Someday you will. I never got to have this-my brother didn't love me enough to fight Heaven, but yours..." He bites the cartilege of Dean's left ear, hissing dangerously. "And maybe it will save you. Maybe it will damn you completely, but you'll have it."
"Why-"
"This way, no matter what happens, I'll live on. You may end me, Dean, but I will always live within you and Sam."
"Enough!" Dean screams and grapples until he is bent and subjugated beneath him on the bed. He's torn between sheer want and sheer horror that he can be this rough. Sam's ass is gaping and wide for Dean to slide right back in, and with every punishing thrust comes a mantra of never, never, never! Yet there are days Dean would give anything for this, to be able to lose himself in Sam and give back more than he already does. He wants it to happen, but not like this. Wants his mind and body to give consent.
Dean's strength is waning but his is never-ending. He rocks back into Dean's groin, ass hitting hard against Dean's thighs with a dull slap. Whatever lube he conjured is running down the back of Sam's legs to mix with the sweat dripping off Dean. A long arm reaches back and swipes through the mess, bringing it forward to Sam's pink lips. Sam's long tongue laps in long, lewd passes over his palm and he moans.
"You taste just like my brother."
Mind blown, Dean's body quickly follows suit, spilling inside the shell of his brother's form with his own sky-splitting scream. He can't string together enough thoughts to care if he comes or not, but Sam's body slumps forward onto the worn mattress with a sound that speaks of triumph. The way Dean feels-fucked-empty and used-he's surprised his body and mind have been able to withstand this for so many nights.
Dean falls next to him on the bed, drawing what breath he can from the air that's suddenly thick and heavy-the illusion's inevitable end at dawn.
"You'll wake up soon."
Dean looks over at his flawless face. More grief and terror await on the other side of this dream. Another day, another round of death and destruction until the bell rings. But Sam is waiting, too, and if Dean can't say what he needs to when he wakes up, he has no choice but to say it here and hope that he is right. That there's a connection-horrible and divine-between his brother and this creature, if not more.
"Sam..."
He grins, more innocently than he has during all this time.
"I'm so sorry," Dean whispers for Sam's ears only.
For a split second, Dean is shocked to see his eyes go wide, lips apart as if to speak and warn Dean against coming closer. Dean doesn't kiss him-he knows that he's kissing Sam, his little brother. Each touch is a question hoping for an answer when Dean wakes up.
In the first kiss, Dean reiterates the forgiveness he already granted Sam. In the second and third, he asks for the same, for the forgiveness he's been desperate to get and too cowardly to admit he needs. One kiss for his doubt, another for anger. And with the last, deeper yet softer than the others, Dean makes a promise. It's one he's already made, and will continue to make every night until this is over one way or another. It's a promise to keep fighting for the world and to be worthy of Sam's love again. Maybe even for the first time.
Rolling away, Dean sees the face before him morph and change into something else-eyes almost looking into Dean's with hope.
Then the light disappears and Dean rolls into the pitch just minutes before the radio clicks on with scratchy static. Cracking his eyelids and moving cautiously, Dean feels no pain. Absent are the aches he fell into this bed with, but there's a new sensation crowding into his mind-knowledge that this will all be over soon. Dean can feel it coming like pulling on a thread that's suddenly tense and stubborn. Time is growing short and there's so much Dean needs, so much he wants...
Sam's asleep but his nose is twitching-a sure sign he'll be up and growling at Dean in a few minutes. His brother's face is creased from the cheap pillowcase and Sam's snuffling as he's drifting back to consciousness.
He's still more beautiful than anyone who walks in Dean's dreams.
Lying back and waiting for the day to begin-one day closer to the end-Dean stretches and waits for Sam to wake up.
FIN.
the thing is...
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
~emily bass
rating. NC17
pairing. Dean/Sam and Dean/Lucifer!Sam [but also Lucifer/Michael]
words. 3500
warnings. Elements of this could definitely be considered dub!con, as Dean is not in a position to change his surroundings, but he gives willingly. Compulsion. Incest. Dirty talkin' devils.
summary. It's beautiful. Too beautiful so Dean knows it can't be real. Something created by the one he knows better than himself and not at all, just for Dean. That makes him feel worse. Spoilers for 5.04 'The End', but set after 5.10 'Abandon All Hope'.
prompt. you say yes, I will take you, I will love you, again.
Thanks to annabeth_fics for some serious hand-holding and encouragement! All mistakes are my own. maerhys, I just had to look up what your prompt was actually from and the poem worked WONDERS as far as inspiration goes (and I've added it to the end of this because it was essential to this story). I hope this comes even a little close to what you might have had in mind. ♥
When Dean falls asleep it's not quite dark outside. Distant fires set the horizon aglow and the air is thick and weighted with sorrow and loss. Across the Midwest similar fires are burning-plains and skies setting funeral pyres for lost souls when there are so few left here to bury the dead. The living are too busy trying to stay that way.
But Dean needs to sleep if he plans to get up and fight another day. Fighting is all he has left-that and his brother still loyal and sober beside him. Sam is already unconscious in the dreary room's second bed-passed out or dreaming, Dean doesn't know.
The first prickles of oblivion weigh in the corners of Dean's eyes and soon he's surrounded by blackness. That's the biggest clue he's no longer awake; the skies never go completely dark these days, even at night.
Something thin and soft brushes across Dean's palm. Swallowed by the pitch he can't see it, but he knows what it is. They are all around him, blown by a draft Dean can't feel. Like phantom lips they caress his skin, animated by the power of an unseen hand.
Rose petals.
Dean takes a fistful and crushes them in his hand. They're his favorite.
"You don't like them."
Suddenly there's light, pure and clean, shining through the tall form that's been cloaked by the darkness all this time, watching. He stands to Dean's left wearing all black-no longer trying to fool anyone-and his eyes are as brown as brandy, and have the same warming affect on Dean's nerves.
"I told you, you don't have to create...this." Dean's not sure if he's speaking or thinking; he can't feel the vibrations in his throat. "I'm not even here."
"I want you here."
Saying you've got me now seems too cliche, though it's the truth. He could fight harder against this, against him, but something pins Dean in this place between nothing and awake.
It's beautiful. Too beautiful so Dean knows it can't be real. A place created by the one Dean knows better than himself and not at all, just for Dean. That makes him feel worse. The room is opulent, rich and decadently appointed, but Dean won't look too closely at the carvings etched into ebony and cherry. The bed is covered in petals the color of blood; they veil the room with cloying sweetness and spill over the sides of the mattress. Thorny vines snake up the posts at each corner of the bed and create a breathing, moving canopy.
"Get me out of here."
He doesn't need to snap or wave his hands. He merely thinks and it is. In a breath the opulence disappears and they're in another room, plain and mild and it's suddenly easier for Dean to breathe-if he's truly breathing at all. It's the kind of room he's seen a thousand times before, scattered across the country in small towns and backwaters.
"Is this better?"
Better isn't the right word. This scene is less likely to drive Dean out of his own head. And he fits here despite the dark clothing. Sam's body seated on the rough duvet, nauseating pattern swirling under his thighs, looking at Dean to make the first move.
"Dean." That's Sam's voice, too. Actually Dean no longer doubts that he is Sam, essential pieces of Dean's brother reassembled. He's perfect though in a way Sam isn't, no longer bearing the scars and signs of a life at Dean's side. His form and shape are in mint condition, exactly as Heaven and Hell originally intended-no longer a roadmap to battle-though Dean would take every imperfection back in a heartbeat.
But it is the way he says Dean's name that makes him laugh.
"Am I?"
He tilts his head and considers his captive.
"Am I 'Dean'? Or are you here with Michael?"
"You are one and the same." Sam doesn't move any closer but Dean feels the space between them shrink. "He's my brother. You are my brother. Is that so hard to understand? To accept?"
It's not. Angels and demons have been shoving that bullshit down his throat for weeks.
"But I didn't call Michael here. I didn't even call you."
"But you want me here."
He smiles, so like Sam when Dean says something ridiculous.
"You need this."
"I don't."
"And you want this," he continues as if talking to himself.
Now there's truly no space between them; the black clothes are gone and he's suddenly all skin and overwhelming aura pressed close on Dean's side of the bed.
"I'm here, Dean." Wet mouth on his neck, transmitting the words straight into Dean's bullet-riddled soul. "You can take me. Or give yourself over."
He's fallen into this dream enough to not care about doing it again. When his mouth connects with Sam's, Dean feels it like a chilling rush in his blood, sobering the effects of this place for a moment. And he draws Dean back.
"You don't have to say yes to me."
Or maybe Dean already has, an infinite amount of times, and can't remember.
When Dean's here, he's never naked to begin with. It's possible that he just wants the pleasure of stripping Dean, one more thing to show Dean that these scenarios aren't just a product of his own twists and torments. He is here through some power or enchantment, and maybe Sam's here as well, lost on the other side of this intricate illusion.
Because there are certain things Sam would do to Dean, he knows. Dean's imagined how it would go so many times, fueled by his knowledge of Sam. Places only Sam would know to touch and grip. Only Sam will know that Dean's lips, when bitten, turn an alluring shade of red, or that Dean wants to be bitten beyond that point, until his whole mouth tingles with the rush of blood. Knowledge written into Sam's genes, carved onto his bones for the time to come when Dean stops fighting what could be between them.
On his back with Sam's weight on top of him, Dean's dream-form becomes a traitor. His brother's body heals the wounds and ragged flesh that daily battles-the ones breaking bone and splitting sinew-leave behind. His hands mend what the real Sam carefully bandaged and swabbed, his mouth supplying the elixir to soothe burns and drug his mind.
Intoxication. It's the only explanation as to why Dean's so eager here, bending to mirror him. He can be so close to Sam; it strengthens his resolve to make sure his brother never ends up-
"Didn't I tell you, Dean?"
His tongue traces the tendons stretched taut in Dean's throat, threatening to bite down with gentle pressure.
"You and I always end up here."
A strangled gasp-half plea, half desperation-gets caught in Dean's throat.
"You want that, though. Don't you?"
"No."
"Yes," he counters. "But that's not important right now."
"No."
Sucking on Dean's tongue, he ends the argument. Sam's skin is hot but does not burn as Dean once expected, and his tongue tastes not of sulfur but of cheap mouthwash. The illusion gets deeper each time he's drawn here-more detailed and refined.
Their kiss becomes a battle, but he lets Dean win. The victory spins Dean's mind, vertigo forcing him away from Sam's lips. Dizzy and needy he tries to find them again, chasing Sam's shadowed face in the strangely lit room.
"You've always loved me." His teeth snag painfully on Dean's upper lip. "And you've always fought me."
Too much talking. Dean closes his eyes and moans for more, getting his mouth back where it belongs. He yanks Sam roughly, pushing and pulling until Sam's beneath him, kissing turned fully to tongue-fucking with gnashing teeth. Even with a near perfect replica between his legs, Dean won't look down. He conjures his Sam behind his eyelids, squeezes into muscle and familiar flesh until he can almost hear Sam begging, pleas Dean can't deny.
"Yes, Sam-anything."
Sam's body stops rising-everything in the room ceases to move.
"You don't usually call me that."
Dean can't take it back. He finally looks down and sees his eyes contemplate, hazel windows to the Fallen's mind.
"Because you're not-"
"Didn't I just tell you this?" He flips them again, starts to pull Dean's shirt away to leave him wide open and bare. "I am Sam. Every nerve and breath." Insistent hands push and force, moving on Dean's skin like he's deciding where the marks and bruises he could inflict would look best. "I'm what you want."
Stripping the last of Dean's clothes away, his eyes turn molten and appreciative. Dean is always surprised that he stops here when he could just as easily keep stripping Dean layer by layer. His skin, his muscles, his life. All of it as easy to peel away as shirts and underwear. Then he's drowning in skin-Sam's against his, his tight with Sam's. Dean wants every inch even as he knows what deceit lies beneath it.
Dean goes cold when Sam's bulk looms over him. He's kneeling astride Dean's chest, thighs a warm vise across his torso.
"Open up for me, Dean."
The head of Sam's cock nudges Dean's lips, slipping across his chin and cheek when Dean doesn't obey.
"You and I already know you're going to."
Dean's not sure how much control he really has over this body, but his mind wants so it's difficult to hold out. Sam's scent surrounds him-real or just another deception-and fills his nostrils when he inhales. He doesn't shove forward; Sam's cock glides along Dean's face in a dirty, soft caress. Slick and pungent, Dean feels-compares it to what he knows about his Sam, whether he's asleep in that decrepit motel room or here, somewhere, with Dean.
The idea that his Sam could be a piece of this, wanting this, parts Dean's lips. He unleashes when Dean sucks him down. His mouth is full and straining, unable to choke and unable to gag. Unable to do anything but crave and taste, each spill of precome over his tongue leaves Dean shaking for more. He stares down, face flushed in pleasure, hips rolling Sam's cock in and out while his fingers slide over Sam's skin to touch the places Dean knows will give him a greater rush.
If Dean's stuck here, he intends on being more than just a receptacle, another kind of vessel. Keeping Sam's cock in his mouth, Dean reaches for him, creating his own rhythm with his hands on Sam's flanks. One of his hands stretches to roll Sam's balls lightly, pressing hard up underneath and bucking into Dean's face.
"So amazing, Dean-you don't know how you look when you're like this."
A mirror to see himself is the last thing Dean wants, worried he'll see a creature in place of Sam, and terrified by what he might see on his own face.
"I could keep you here and take this endlessly," he mutters as he rides Dean's throat. "We could trap ourselves here and let the war wear itself out-come out only when it's done and the Earth is wiped clean of everyone."
Spit runs over Dean's chin, cooling his neck where it slides down, forced out of his mouth by Sam's thick flesh. His own cock has been hard since they started kissing, but it goes rock-solid now.
"We don't need anyone-anything else, Dean. Let the demons die, let the angels fade to nothing, and we can have it all. You and I. You and Sam."
Dean shoves himself up on his elbows and swallows as much of his cock as he can-if only to shut him up. Sam's body falls forward over Dean's face, fucking his cock down into Dean's throat, messy and unrestrained. This way at least Dean can take hold of Sam's wrists, take back some control of the assault and connect them in a less obscene way. Dean grips tightly, white-knuckled, and feels the bones under skin and muscle shift against each other as he tenses and pulls back.
"Dean..." he gasps. "You're too good at that. I'll save that particular temptation for another time."
Sitting back on his haunches, he considers the marks on Sam's wrists. The imprints of Dean's hands shade the skin red. On Dean, such marks would be painful but to see them on Sam's body is worse. Unthinking, Dean leans up to check the irritation, but he just chuckles with amusement in Sam's low voice.
"You can't hurt me."
Just as quickly Dean is forced back down. Sam's hair gets in his face and mouth as he's nuzzling the join of Dean's neck and shoulder.
"Let it go, Dean. You can't scare me, I already know what you want." He licks and tastes Dean's skin, thumbs swiping at Dean's chest. "Every touch from gentle to torturous means you love me."
Every part of him is only inches away, so close to what Dean truly wants. This is his most clever and diabolical disguise.
"Take it." Then harsher, "take me."
He imagines that Sam would never beg-not like this, but Dean's still helpless at the sound of his voice and he gives in. Dean takes this now to burn it away because he never wants it to be like this with the real Sam. His waking hours are spent in restraint, fighting to show Sam how worthy he is, while he does his best to unravel those threads by giving Dean his every desire when he closes his eyes. Even here, Dean is only human.
Dean raises his knee and locks his leg around Sam's to pull his legs wider apart. If he had the same powers, Dean would conjure bars and ropes to keep him in place and at Dean's mercy. He doesn't need a body to compel Dean-Sam's voice carries all the command he needs.
"Give me...give me something," Dean hisses, pulling at Sam's ass with dry fingers as his body moves against him. He won't-he can't-hurt Sam even with his false permission. In an instant something warm and slick coats Dean's fingers. It could be blood. It could be holy water just to prove he can take it.
Dean doesn't look. The lights in the room dim as if in response to Dean's wishes and he wonders just how much control he has over this place, if he would let him-
"Open me, Dean," he orders with little patience.
One, two, and three fingers slide easily into Sam's body, more so than Dean ever imagined was possible. He barely waits for Dean to pull him open and stretch Sam's body before he's rearing up and sinking down with a cry that could break the heavens. Here, Dean has fucked him over and over-Dean's so used to giving when it comes to Sam that taking like this is the greater torture-but it still feels different every time. Tonight, Sam's body is tight, a punishing grip around Dean. He works up and down, almost oblivious to the counter-motion of Dean's hips.
To Dean, their fucking here is fueled more by grief than passion-he's saving that part of himself for the day when it's finally Sam surrounding his cock. When his brother is breathing in and crying out the first few times Dean thrusts up into him. A dream far distanced from this one, but Dean knows as well as he does that he won't hold out forever. Sam's looks already linger, igniting a slow burn and it's only a matter of time...
"Think, Dean," he rasps. "Could have this-could have me."
"Don't want you," Dean manages to say though his throat aches from Sam's cock and holding back his own screams.
He laughs and the sound infuriates Dean. Catching his tormentor off guard, Dean fists into Sam's hair and yanks him down. Forces him close so Dean can bite at his lips. The primal part of Dean wants to draw blood just to see if he can taste Sam somewhere in the creature seducing his body and mind.
"Why?" Dean chokes. "Why do you want this from me?"
"Don't you know?" Sam's ass squeezes around Dean-too tight, too much. "After all you've been told?"
Dean smacks his hand down on Sam's thigh, as much to ease the grip around his cock as to telegraph frustration. He only holds Dean tighter and bends close to pour more sugared poison into Dean's ear.
"You can have this." He undulates on Dean's cock, forcing him to pay attention. "All you have to do is take-he wants you to, Dean. He's wanted it since you were raised up and made whole again by my brothers. Even before that, when you were too afraid and he wouldn't ruin your new brotherhood."
"I can't-"
"You will. Someday you will. I never got to have this-my brother didn't love me enough to fight Heaven, but yours..." He bites the cartilege of Dean's left ear, hissing dangerously. "And maybe it will save you. Maybe it will damn you completely, but you'll have it."
"Why-"
"This way, no matter what happens, I'll live on. You may end me, Dean, but I will always live within you and Sam."
"Enough!" Dean screams and grapples until he is bent and subjugated beneath him on the bed. He's torn between sheer want and sheer horror that he can be this rough. Sam's ass is gaping and wide for Dean to slide right back in, and with every punishing thrust comes a mantra of never, never, never! Yet there are days Dean would give anything for this, to be able to lose himself in Sam and give back more than he already does. He wants it to happen, but not like this. Wants his mind and body to give consent.
Dean's strength is waning but his is never-ending. He rocks back into Dean's groin, ass hitting hard against Dean's thighs with a dull slap. Whatever lube he conjured is running down the back of Sam's legs to mix with the sweat dripping off Dean. A long arm reaches back and swipes through the mess, bringing it forward to Sam's pink lips. Sam's long tongue laps in long, lewd passes over his palm and he moans.
"You taste just like my brother."
Mind blown, Dean's body quickly follows suit, spilling inside the shell of his brother's form with his own sky-splitting scream. He can't string together enough thoughts to care if he comes or not, but Sam's body slumps forward onto the worn mattress with a sound that speaks of triumph. The way Dean feels-fucked-empty and used-he's surprised his body and mind have been able to withstand this for so many nights.
Dean falls next to him on the bed, drawing what breath he can from the air that's suddenly thick and heavy-the illusion's inevitable end at dawn.
"You'll wake up soon."
Dean looks over at his flawless face. More grief and terror await on the other side of this dream. Another day, another round of death and destruction until the bell rings. But Sam is waiting, too, and if Dean can't say what he needs to when he wakes up, he has no choice but to say it here and hope that he is right. That there's a connection-horrible and divine-between his brother and this creature, if not more.
"Sam..."
He grins, more innocently than he has during all this time.
"I'm so sorry," Dean whispers for Sam's ears only.
For a split second, Dean is shocked to see his eyes go wide, lips apart as if to speak and warn Dean against coming closer. Dean doesn't kiss him-he knows that he's kissing Sam, his little brother. Each touch is a question hoping for an answer when Dean wakes up.
In the first kiss, Dean reiterates the forgiveness he already granted Sam. In the second and third, he asks for the same, for the forgiveness he's been desperate to get and too cowardly to admit he needs. One kiss for his doubt, another for anger. And with the last, deeper yet softer than the others, Dean makes a promise. It's one he's already made, and will continue to make every night until this is over one way or another. It's a promise to keep fighting for the world and to be worthy of Sam's love again. Maybe even for the first time.
Rolling away, Dean sees the face before him morph and change into something else-eyes almost looking into Dean's with hope.
Then the light disappears and Dean rolls into the pitch just minutes before the radio clicks on with scratchy static. Cracking his eyelids and moving cautiously, Dean feels no pain. Absent are the aches he fell into this bed with, but there's a new sensation crowding into his mind-knowledge that this will all be over soon. Dean can feel it coming like pulling on a thread that's suddenly tense and stubborn. Time is growing short and there's so much Dean needs, so much he wants...
Sam's asleep but his nose is twitching-a sure sign he'll be up and growling at Dean in a few minutes. His brother's face is creased from the cheap pillowcase and Sam's snuffling as he's drifting back to consciousness.
He's still more beautiful than anyone who walks in Dean's dreams.
Lying back and waiting for the day to begin-one day closer to the end-Dean stretches and waits for Sam to wake up.
FIN.
the thing is...
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
~emily bass