So I Slept With an Angel of the Lord, Part 1 [NC17] Sam/Dean

[queenklu]

Title: So I Slept with an Angel of the Lord (sequel to Coming Clean)
Author: queenklu 
Beta By: the lovely shri_amato 
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 8,500+ O.O I did not mean for that to happen. *headdesk*
Spoilers: 4x09 and now 4x10
Disclaimer: I keep them in a jar by the side of my bed. This, according to Dean, does not mean i own them.
Warnings: read the rating and pairing and figure it out, but there's also mild Castiel bashing.

Summary: Angel sex was about as far from gay incestuous brother love as anyone could possibly get, so if Sam was looking for an excuse to run, Dean had just offered him one on a giant shiny silver platter.

A/N I'm so sorry this took so long, guys! I had the whole fic almost done even though it was finals week, and then Dean popped up in my head shuffling his feet and scratching the back of his neck, saying "So....I slept with an angel of the lord." And i realized THAT was the beginning, and pages of stuff had to be altered/thrown out/rewritten and GAH. What these boys do to a girl... I love it.


“So I slept with an angel. Of the lord,” Dean tacked on as an afterthought before tucking his aimlessly swinging hands into his pockets.

Sam stared at him.

Or at least, Dean was pretty sure Sam was staring at him, because his little brother was pretty damn quiet over there while Dean made sure the dust bunny lurking by his boot wasn’t lethal.

There were a lot of dust bunnies in their hotel room, now that he was looking. It was quite possible the rabbit-shaped stain on the peeling floral wallpaper had something demonic to do with it. Maybe if Sam hadn’t been too busy stripping down to yet another shamefully thin tee-shirt before plopping down on his bed with the Desert Eagle and a plan to clean it (what the fuck, by the way, that was Dean’s job…and totally not turning him on) he would’ve noticed and done some geek-boy research, and Dean wouldn’t have had to worry about these things. Hell, they’d had weirder things than possessed dust bunnies, and especially lately, with their luck? Sam should’ve at least looked into it before they’d slapped down cash for their rooms.

Alright, this had very little to do with dust bunnies.

He’d meant to break the news a lot better, honestly, leading up to it with something snazzy like, “Hey, so, you know how we maybe kind of started a relationship or something with that trade-off blowjob/hand job thing-not to mention the whole sleeping with you in a comatose girl’s body while you thought I was the spawn of Satan? Yeah, well, remember how we also didn’t specify about going steady…?”

Yes. Because Sam would have taken that so much better.

“Was it…good?”

Dean’s head jerked up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. “Uh, what?” He couldn’t have heard Sam right. Because, really, of all the weird-ass things to say, that had to be right up there at the fucking top.

Sam’s expression was all mild curiosity, glancing up at his brother as if he’d announced he’d tried that new pizza place down the block instead of-

Sam’s hand slipped on the gun and it snapped shut with a sharp clap of metal gears, much like the ones in Dean’s head. And there was the tightening in Sam’s jaw he’s nearly missed, the whiteness around his knuckles as he forced his hands to stay flexible around the gun. Cat eyes narrowed incrementally at the corners as they flicked nonchalantly at Dean, waiting for an answer.

Sam was jealous.

Dean coughed quickly to hide the near-childish swell of glee and quickly sobered when he realized this was not necessarily a Good Thing. Ground rules or no ground rules, he knew Sam, knew he wouldn’t be alright with this even before he’d let Anna in the back seat of his baby. Angel sex was about as far from gay incestuous brother love as anyone could possibly get, so if Sam was looking for an excuse to run, Dean had just offered him one on a giant shiny silver platter.

“Well, actually…?” A chuckle got stuck in his throat, but he forced it out anyway, scratching the back of his neck. “Kind of boring.”

Some noise came out of Sam’s mouth-it wasn’t anything like a laugh Dean had heard before-as he stood and took the gun back to their bag, half-cleaned. “Then you weren’t doing it right.”

Dean probably should have let that slide, in retrospect, but he was all kinds of strung out, muscles tensed and itching for Sam to make a move for the door so he could full-out tackle him to the ground. But hind-sight’s twenty/twenty, and Dean Winchester’s tongue isn’t always connected to his brain.

“Hey! Just ‘cause I was downstairs for a stretch doesn’t mean I forgot which end goes where!”

Sam looked like he’d been slapped, stunned into momentary silence. Then he started shaking. Dean took a step back before his brain connected the dots from holyshitfury to Sam, which just about negated any fear of physical trauma. It was a really dumb switch, but it was hardwired into his being so far it was barely discernable from common sense.

“Forgot?” Sam spat, then tore into Dean, lashing out with every ounce of livid betrayal he had. There was a lot more than Dean had been prepared to deal with, really, even if he’d slept with twelve Annas. “Did you forget what I promised you, too? Fuck, Dean!”

Oh shit. There were ground rules. How had he blacked out the ground rules?! He could remember every second of hell but not, “Don’t sleep with angels?!”

“Look, Sam,” he said, digging himself deeper, “we never said-”

“Sorry if I didn’t expect you to get laid before I could tell you not to fuck around on me!”

“Why are you so mad about this?” he blurted, then backtracked hard. “No, I know why you’re mad but why are you-I mean, Jesus, Sam, I couldn’t exactly explain why I couldn’t! ‘Hey, hold up, angel cakes, I’d love to romp in the Impala but, see, I promised my baby brother I’d let him fuck me later tonight-maybe some other time.’ Yes, Sam, that would’ve gone over real well.”

“The Impala?” Sam looked like he was gagging on the words. “You let-You know what? Never mind. Obviously it was too much to expect you to keep it in your pants. Hell, how could I ever even compete with the guy who dragged you out of hell? Surprised he took so fucking long to collect.”

“Whoa, what?” Okay, this time he really was getting whiplash. Pronoun whiplash. “He who, what?”

“Castiel! Who-” Sam’s voice dropped dramatically from a shout. His features evened out, until the only thing Dean could see was hurt confusion. “Who did you think I meant? Oh, hell, Dean, not Uriel-"

“Anna!” Dean all-but-yelled to make Sam. Stop. Talking. “Anna, you retard! ANNA!”

“Oh,” Sam said, very quietly. “I...uh. Huh.”

“Castiel?!” Dean’s voice was reaching upwards of a shriek, but-“Bleeeeagh, Sam! That’s just-that’s only the grossest-AUGH!”

“Okay, alright.” His brother was doing that hand-waving placating thing, which really wasn’t doing a whole lot for either of them.

“Sam. My balls are shrinking. Up. Into my body. You are never to come near me again, you-sick-freak.” Sam winced, staring down at his shoes, but Dean was too grossed out to pay it much attention. “Jesus Christ, Sam! I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Drama queen,” Sam growled, not nearly as mad as before, but not puppies and rainbows yet either.

Dean had run out of words to describe how nauseated he was. Instead, his lips curled in a gag, and his tongue dropped down to his chin, nose wrinkling hard at Sam-because this was his fault, these mental images he’d never wanted to have, ever, ever, ever. “You’re a sick fuck.”

There was that cringe again, like Sam was visibly recoiling, curling in on himself away from Dean. “Fine,” he mumbled, hands back up, backing toward their bathroom. “Sorry. I’m taking a shower.”

What? Dean’s brain finally turned on. Wait wait wait wait-

The door clicked shut. Dean stared at it, tilted his head to the side and glared some more, hands clenching into fists as he tried to put a stop to the quickening thrum of blood through his veins. That was too easy. Sam was-Dean’s gut gave an uncomfortable squirm, heart thumping up against his tonsils. Fuck, Sam was running.

So maybe hell had done wonders for his imagination. It’d certainly fucked with his intimacy issues, because every time Sam was out of sight it felt like thousands of ants were crawling over his skin. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t a bathroom window made that Sam could fit through, his brother had a fucking knack for disappearing, especially in the middle of a fight.

“Ohhhhh, no you don’t,” he snarled under his breath, pushing into the bathroom (with a broken lock, thank god) just as the water snicked on. “You don’t get to run away. I can’t wait the cursory three days of Sam Winchester pout time-" before I find out if I fucked this up for good, his brain finished when his mouth flat out refused to.

He was trying very hard not to notice Sam was very naked, very tall, very pissed, and very one-foot-in-the-shower-so-the-water-was-running-down-the-inside-of-his-thigh. He was-no, it was hard. To not stare. Um. At anything but Sam’s bangs, because he’d started to duck his head in the shower when Dean had barged in, so now they were kind of sticking straight up where Sam had raked them out of his eyes. Those big hazel eyes with water droplets on their lashes. Damn, when did Dean get close enough to see that?

It was really difficult to notice much of anything with something awfully close to panic snapping through his blood vessels. He’d always been the guy to fight and run, because staying around to fix whatever was screwing up a relationship was always too much trouble when he wasn’t planning on sticking around long. But now he was in…whatever he was with Sam, and it was suddenly really fucking important to know how to fight.

That’s what this was, right? Something they would get over? There would eventually be make-up sex?

He had a sneaking suspicion Sam knew exactly how to walk this line-could even do the grapevine and electric slide on it-while Dean was stuck wondering who the fuck had thought it was a brilliant idea to paint a line in invisible ink.

He at least knew there was fighting, and then there was fighting for. That’s what he was doing-fighting for their right to finish a…fight. Exactly. Which had nothing at all to do with what came out of his mouth next:

“What’s with the sudden need to shower?”

Sam blinked. He was not the only one.

“We both scrubbed down before the big ass showdown-that’s only what? Two-three hours ago? How could you possibly get dirty so fast?” Like they hadn’t managed to get filthy in .2 seconds. Where the hell was he going with this?

A chill crept down his spine when Sam looked away, like he was the one naked and slightly damp in this not-quite steamy bathroom. Sam’s jaw was set in a hard, unhappy line, and all Dean wanted to do was tilt Sam’s head up and teeth at the skin underneath until he was gasping. “Don’t feel particularly clean for a sick fuck, somehow.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. “That’s what’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“Dean-!” Sam took one step toward his brother like he was going to start swinging, then backed off, fists pulled tight to his sides. He seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact he had no panties on, bunched or otherwise, choosing instead to huff agitatedly at his water-darkened bangs. Then, “It’s true. I’m your brother. I shouldn’t want-” His teeth clicked together as his jaw locked against the words. “Look…Look if-"

“Pansy,” Dean blurted, and just about swallowed his tongue.

Silence echoed against the tiles as Sam finally made eye-contact in what felt like years, eyebrows (and voice) low and incredulous. “…What?”

“Wimp, wuss, bitch, geek, college boy, Weirdy McWeirderton-Emo McEmopants.”

“…Emo…” The look on Sam’s face was something…artistically priceless. The kind of priceless even MasterCard couldn’t do justice to. Dean shook his head and pressed on to his point.

“I’m always going to call you names,”-he swallowed slightly and tossed out a word that had been avoided for a couple of months-"freak.”

“Dean,” Sam warned.

“Oh, and this shower thing?”

“Dean.”

“Now brace yourself, Sammy. I’m gonna call you another name n-erk!” Sam had him slammed against the wall before he knew what had happened. Dean looked down at the bare planes of Sam’s chest, and then fixed him with a grin. “Girrrrrrrl.”

Sam growled, deep in his throat, and fucking loomed over him. “Who’s the one with tits last time, Dean?”

His stomach dropped a couple inches, only kept from falling further by the hard press of Sam’s hips against his (which really couldn’t be comfortable, all that exposed tender skin against his jeans?). It finally clicked; Sam’s naked hips, Jesus Christ. Dean went to touch, uh, push him away (just so he could breathe, you know?) but his wrists were kind of pinned to the wall by his head with giant hand-shaped manacles attached to Sam’s hulked out arms. Dean grit his teeth and pushed-he wasn’t a fucking girl anymore-and Sam just leaned in harder. Oh well, a small part of Dean sighed, at least now he’s working for it.

Sam shifted, and Dean swallowed a noise in the back of his throat at the sudden feel of Sam’s thigh against his growing interest in showers, manacles, and hulks in general. Sam was looking interested too, but in the dangerous way that happens when Sam starts thinking he’s figured out a way to wrangle an extra-onions-free car ride.

“I think you like being manhandled.”

Dean choked and spluttered. “No!” Then, when Sam’s eyebrow and knee raised about an inch, and Dean found himself on his tiptoes in a rather compromising situation (and when did his breath start hitching on a gasp?). He ground out, “Comagirl likes being manhandled.”

“No,” Sam purred, and Jesus, Dean could feel the vibrations through three layers of clothing and his jean-covered dick. “I think you like it. Think you get all tingly when I take control like this.” He nuzzled at the skin beneath Dean’s jaw and earlobe and Dean did not shudder.

There was something there, in Sam’s voice, that was darker than it should have been considering the joke. Was there a joke? Sam’s deliberate rocking was tumble-drying his thoughts, but he thought that was something he would say, and maybe he had said it once but-

“Think you’re a little bit full of yourself,” he gasped instead.

Sam grinned and ground his thigh in an unfuckingbelievably slow circle, head ducking down so their foreheads were touching and his breath was hot on Dean’s face. “Think you’d like being full of me, too.”

Dean wasn’t stupid, knew it wasn’t as simply and easily fixed. Something was still fucking with Sam, and that was his job. But when Sam said things like that, his upstairs brain completely derailed. It was all he could do to remember to blink.

“Promised I’d fuck you, Dean.” The hinting of that hard line was back, but Sam was close enough now and Dean ducked his head and went to work tonguing at the underside of Sam’s jaw until he dragged in a shuddering breath-just one, before he pulled away. “And then you went and slept with Anna.”

Sam’s voice had an almost over-the-top incredulity about it, like Dean had admitted to fucking a muppet instead, and not even a girl one. Like Kermit, or Fozzie Bear. Dean stopped trying to reach the bite mark he’d left in Sam’s skin and thumped his head against the wall, glaring at Sam.

“Again,” he growled slowly, incase Sam was stupid, “couldn’t exactly explain the gay incest to an angel of the lord.”

“Oh, I think you could’ve,” Sam drawled speculatively, “I mean, if there was ever an angel that would understand and forgive-”

Dean cut him off with a kiss that hurt as much as it distracted. None of it was physical-he’d never hurt Sam-but he knew he couldn’t keep avoiding telling him about hell forever, and he knew, knew, it would tear him apart. The thin membrane holding it all inside him was starting to tear already at the thought. The only fucking reason he was even considering it was because…well, because Sam was naked. And here, in his arms, with his tongue in Dean’s mouth and his thigh on Dean’s crotch, but mostly because he was naked. Someone who could hold Dean fucking Winchester against a wall in his birthday suit wasn’t someone who scared easy.

God, he hoped.

Sam moaned, low and eager, needy, and the last of Dean’s upstairs brain checked out for the night. His tongue, like the rest of him, was long and agile, doing insanely fucking hot things to Dean’s tongue, which may as well have belonged to a blushing school girl for all the good it was doing him now.

“Who the fuck taught you how to kiss?” he gasped when Sam finally broke away to breathe, and Dean stifled a whimper at the sight of Sam’s lips spit-slick and parted, lashes fanning across his baby brother’s flushed cheeks as Sam looked at his own.

“You really want to know?” Sam breathed, a flicker of a smile.

“No I fucking do not,” Dean snarled and dragged him back down.

The only way that worked was if one of his hands was free, but he really didn’t notice the absence of a manacle until it started thumbing at the button of his jeans.

“Sammy…” This time he really did whimper, because, well, the next words out of his mouth were, “Wait. Wait, wait…”

Sam made a disbelieving, needy noise that sounded a lot like Dean’s, but he pulled away from Dean enough to give him a look that said the same thing. “What?”

“I, uh.” Dean looked down to where his button was still playing peek-a-boo with Sam’s rogue hand. In, out, inoutin-fuck. He fixed his eyes back on his brother’s, trying to say it with the cant of his hips. No dice. “I have a dick now.”

Sam’s laugh was very short, like milliseconds. And not so much a laugh as a snort with vocals. “Yes, I dimly recall putting it in my mouth the other day. …And?”

“Well, I...” Figured. He got his hand free and the second thing he did with it was scratch the back of his head. “I didn’t before. Before before. Before with the sex.” Dean bit down on his insecurities and fixed Sam with a glare, giving an eyebrow one hell of an arch. “This going to be a problem?”

In two seconds flat Sam had his button undone, his zipper down, and his hand in Dean’s pants, encircling his cock with a sure, rough pull that made Dean’s knees buckle like he’d been shot.

And what’s really crazy was the look that broke over Sam’s face after that first stroke but just before Dean’s eyes rolled up into the back of his head. His huge hand faltered, and there was a barb of doubt Dean could feel coming a mile away, like Sam touching him solidified some mental connection. Hell, maybe it did.

“What about you?” Sam murmured against his lips, gentle shallow licks meant to sooth instead of drive Dean out of his mind (which is what they were really doing). “Last time-could’ve been some guilt thing, make me feel better… If that’s-god, Dean, if that’s what it was-” His mouth opened against Dean’s in a silent cry, and he knew without a doubt if Sam let out a sound it would kill him.

“It was,” he said to stifle it, but not before he’d wrapped a hand around the back of Sam’s neck to keep him there. Sam still managed to pull far enough away to de-blur, and he could’ve pulled father but not if he wanted to avoid the football tackle Dean was sill prepared to deal out. “Was but-I wanted it. Fuck, Sam, wanted you. Want you. Hell, I kissed you. I could’ve let it go, let you think it was Ruby but-"

“So fucking glad you didn’t,” Sam let out on one rushed, relieved sigh before covering Dean’s lips with his own again, effectively cutting off the talking. Which, for now, was so insanely alright with Dean because Sam was doing this twisty thing with his hand wrapped around the lowest part of his shaft, knuckles brushing his balls with every flick of his wrist. “Bad enough when I started thinking it too…”

Dean tried valiantly to fight through the fog of Sam.hand.guh. to understand, or at least ask, what the hell Sam was talking about, and ended up letting out a little, “A-ah?” instead.

“You should be freaking out,” Sam murmured where he had his forehead against Dean’s, tilted down to watch the way the cock in his enormous fucking hand was drooling and needy and red and-and Dean got a little sidetracked wondering at how bare ass naked Sam was while he still had every stitch of clothing on, even if it was slung low on his hips. And there was Sam’s cock, hot, flushed, dripping and completely ignored, which meant Sam shuddered every time his knuckles accidentally grazed the head. Dean knew that was wrong, a fucking shame, and he could not for the life of him let go of Sam’s shoulder, not without falling over. His other hand was slowly loosing circulation pinned next to his head, but-Dean shuddered and slunk a little lower on the wall-that wasn’t about to change any time soon. “Or I should be freaking out. There should be more freaking out going on than there-"

Dean sucked Sam’s tongue into his mouth and fucking kept it there, so Sam could maybe for once in his life shut the hell up.

He had about two minutes of blissful, uninterrupted silence, the rushing in his ears not-quite covering up the noise of skin on skin, and the soft mewling sounds that were somehow coming from him. Sam’s hand was moving faster on his cock, pulling the noises out of him, and sometimes the words were, “Shit,” sometimes, “Fuck,” sometimes not a word at all, but mostly, “Sam, Sam, Sam…”

“No more angels.” When Dean blinked part of the haze away he got the impression that wasn’t what Sam had meant to say, but his brother stuck by his guns-until Dean rocked his hips forward without any sort of warning, and Sam’s cock got trapped between their bellies, painting a white hot smear of come on Dean’s tee shirt and his own wrist. In the same lightning moment he had his head ducked down, teeth sinking in on the exact spot Dean had been feeling phantom marks for round about forty years.

Dean made a noise he’d deny to his dying day. His knees actually buckled, and Sam barely caught him in time, hand falling from his dick to his hip, thighs hard and flush against him, their cocks finally, finally saying hello.

Okay, less hello than Oh my fucking god where have you been all my life, but yeah. Dean tried really hard to turn the next whimper into a growl, and now that both his hands were free (one of them tingling with blood-loss and slightly bruised around the wrist) he planted them on Sam’s head and dragged him back down for another of those mind-meltingly hot kisses, figuring if he was about to spontaneously combust, might as well go out with a bang.

“That a claim?” God, it sounded like he was terrified and hopeful and desperate to hear yes, and maybe he was but Sam didn’t need to know.

Except maybe Sam did, because the shudder that rocked through his frame nearly undid them both. “Mine.” His voice was barely a whisper, like he couldn’t quite believe it, and then Sam’s eyes narrowed into something feral, lips curling in a snarl. “Mine.”

Holy Jesus Fuck. Dean was almost willing to forget the fucking promise (uh, no pun intended) and just go with the rubbing, but-

“Dean, you are-” How the hell did Sam have enough cognitive thought to talk? Dean was still trying to figure that out until something sparked in his frontal lobe and connected Sam with Worried, and he forced his eyes to focus on Sam’s. “No more. I couldn’t-If I’m not…enough, I need to know right now. Before-"

Dean just about climbed him trying to get those thoughts out of Sam’s mouth with his tongue. He wasn’t exactly sure how, but his legs wound up wrapped high around Sam’s hips, both of his brother’s gigantic hands palming his half-bare ass and holding him up with just that and the wall. This was nothing at all like when he was comagirl and practically insubstantial in Sam’s hands. This was real, he was heavy, Sam was fucking strong, and they both needed to hold on to make this work.

“Enough,” he growled into the kiss, more than one meaning behind the complete incapacity to form more than one-word sentences.

Part Two!