FIC - Magis
title:Magis
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: Hard R, I guess.
summary: Dean's got a kink.
Both of the Winchester brothers the love the hunt now, despite the pressure of being pulled in directions they never saw coming. Sure, they could believe in nymphs, incubi, werewolves, demons…but angels? God? I mean…God? Really? And not even just God, but God who knows who they are? It turns out that their unshakeable faith in evil is much stronger than any belief they had before in whatever was on the flip side of that, not that either of the brothers had given much thought to the "good" side before recent events.
Most of their conquests have been physical. Salt and burn, iron in a ghostly presence, a silver bullet in a were, the decapitation of a vampire. But sometimes other, more subtle methods are necessary. Spells, exorcisms, ancient chants, symbols of protection. These things are Sam’s territory. Which is why he is fluent in Latin, and has been since before he was twelve years old. It hadn’t been that difficult for him to learn, honestly. Dean can chant rudimentary phrases and repeat things he’s told to say, read words from a page, but Sam can recite entire exorcism rites and centuries-old spells like it’s his first language.
Recent developments (Castiel, Zachariah, the search for God, the discovery of some destiny where the brothers are supposed to betray each other - the betrayal was bullshit as far as these men are concerned) have led to them leaning more on the sigils, the words of Castiel, the old rites, and this was Sam’s area of expertise.
One of the many very distinct differences between the brothers is illustrated with the addition of Castiel to their lives. Dean has the ability to try to find casual camaraderie, make jokes, call him "Cas", as Sam is barely able to speak or move or even breathe in the presence of one of the angels of God, knowing what Azazel had gifted him with at the tender age of six months, the blood of a demon as his mother had burned on the ceiling of his nursery, feeling unworthy to even show his face to God’s angel who knows exactly what he is inside.
No matter, though, when a demon has to be exorcised, Sam is the one who takes charge. He rattles off the phrases as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, but his voice turns lower, grittier, more intense as the chant goes on. At the end, as Sam is on the verge of casting the demon out of the human who’s been possessed, his voice is like gravel, deep and almost like the way it sounds in the most intimate parts of the brothers’ lives, when they’re alone in bed and breaking every rule that God and the angels should have already have cast them both (back) into Hell for. Yet for some reason the love shared by these brothers seems not to have phased Castiel in the slightest, and no gigantic red STOP sign from Heaven appeared to either of the men.
Dean certainly expects it to happen, especially when he realizes his body’s physical reaction to the tone of Sam’s voice as he casts the black smoke of a demon from what’s left of the body of the human it’s possessed. He waits to be smited (smited? Smitten? Smote? What is the proper tense when God smites someone? Sam probably knows.) but it doesn’t happen. Not even when he hears the last of the rite: Ego to order vos, super, obtempero mihi ut tabellae, Ego quisnam sum a minister of Deus odio meus unworthiness; neque nec vadum vos exsisto emboldened ut vulnero in ullus via is creatura of Deus, vel bystanders, vel ullus of suum capitale.
Not even when they make their way back to yet another dingy hotel room after they finish their work for the night, collapsing into each other with comforting touches and kisses, does Dean feel any tacit disapproval from any of the Heavenly creatures he’s known.
And as much thought as he’s put into any possible smiting (ok, fine, is smiting even a word? Whatever. They know what he means.), there is something Dean hasn’t caught onto.
Sam knows. He is acutely aware of the physical reaction when his brother listens to that ancient language flowing so easily from his tongue. Even though he can’t let himself get distracted by it while it’s happening, Sam knows full well that Dean is turned on, more turned on than usual, completely rapt by the sound of his voice as the Latin words fall from his lips just as easily as ordering a cobb salad at a diner, as easily as he begs Dean in the darkness for more, harder, please, always, yours.
This dark night in the motel, where they’d long ago given up the pretense of asking for two beds, the tension starts to melt away, first with just holding each other, moving to chaste and then more passionate kissing, then the stripping away of one piece of clothing after another. When the two of them are just skin against skin, Sam decides it’s time for him to let Dean know that his little secret is not such a secret. Dean may not be fluent, but he knows at least the basics, if not more, and Sam is ready to see what happens when the sounds of the dead language are introduced to their intimate acts.
As Dean maps out Sam’s body with his hands, touching every piece of skin he can, Sam takes a deep breath and says "Commodo. Magis." (Please. More.)
Dean’s head is spinning, but he does as he’s asked (I think he just asked me for more) and moves his hands down Sam’s body. He grips his baby boy on one hip to hold him still, puts his fingers inside his mouth, then moves two sweat and spit slicked fingers inside of Sam, slowly, letting him adjust to the stretch and slight burn until Dean feels him rocking back and forth, ready for more. Dean is reaching for the lube in his jacket that’s on the floor beside the bed when he hears it again.
"Te desiro intra mini" (Need you inside me.) (Yes, inside you, that’s where I’m going baby). But then Dean stops a minute, pulls up everything he knows, decides to draw it out just a bit more, he knows neither one of them can wait too much longer but even a little more of this is worth a shot. Aware that it doesn’t sound as easy and natural as it sounds on Sam, he does what he can, from the few things he knows. As he readies himself to cross his brother’s barrier, Dean whispers into Sam’s ear "Ne permittas me separari a te" (Don’t ever let us be apart), then pushes through and all the way inside all at once, rewarded by the familiar sound of Sam moaning, breath hitching on that edge between pain and perfectsogoodohfuckhowdidieverlivewithoutthis.
As they find their rhythm, Dean inside Sam, one hand still holding him at the hip, the other steadily jerking his brother’s cock, the intensity builds rapidly, and both men, in a matter of minutes, are looking into each other’s eyes as they move toward the crest of the wave but try so hard to hold out, to get just a little more out of this, as they so often do.
That plan is dashed when Sam places his hand on Dean’s cheek and whispers "Sum vestri. Te diligo (Love you. I’m yours.)." The second the last syllable is in the air, both of them are spilling into, onto each other, then sinking down into the mattress, locked together in the embrace of two people who can never be separated.
A few moments pass when they both collect what brain cells they have left so that some speech is possible. Dean shifts to the side so his arm is draped around Sam’s torso, and Sam moves his head enough to look at his brother directly.
With a grin so enthusiastic that his dimples are in full force, Sam pulls on Dean’s earlobe and says "You’ve got a kink, dude. A serious kink."
To which Dean replies, as expected, "Bitch.", with a smirk.
Sam yawns and stretches and pulls his brother closer, and reflexively replies, "Jerk."
Dean wonders if there’s a Latin translation for bitch, or jerk, and decides that he’s going to find out as soon as he can move again.
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: Hard R, I guess.
summary: Dean's got a kink.
Both of the Winchester brothers the love the hunt now, despite the pressure of being pulled in directions they never saw coming. Sure, they could believe in nymphs, incubi, werewolves, demons…but angels? God? I mean…God? Really? And not even just God, but God who knows who they are? It turns out that their unshakeable faith in evil is much stronger than any belief they had before in whatever was on the flip side of that, not that either of the brothers had given much thought to the "good" side before recent events.
Most of their conquests have been physical. Salt and burn, iron in a ghostly presence, a silver bullet in a were, the decapitation of a vampire. But sometimes other, more subtle methods are necessary. Spells, exorcisms, ancient chants, symbols of protection. These things are Sam’s territory. Which is why he is fluent in Latin, and has been since before he was twelve years old. It hadn’t been that difficult for him to learn, honestly. Dean can chant rudimentary phrases and repeat things he’s told to say, read words from a page, but Sam can recite entire exorcism rites and centuries-old spells like it’s his first language.
Recent developments (Castiel, Zachariah, the search for God, the discovery of some destiny where the brothers are supposed to betray each other - the betrayal was bullshit as far as these men are concerned) have led to them leaning more on the sigils, the words of Castiel, the old rites, and this was Sam’s area of expertise.
One of the many very distinct differences between the brothers is illustrated with the addition of Castiel to their lives. Dean has the ability to try to find casual camaraderie, make jokes, call him "Cas", as Sam is barely able to speak or move or even breathe in the presence of one of the angels of God, knowing what Azazel had gifted him with at the tender age of six months, the blood of a demon as his mother had burned on the ceiling of his nursery, feeling unworthy to even show his face to God’s angel who knows exactly what he is inside.
No matter, though, when a demon has to be exorcised, Sam is the one who takes charge. He rattles off the phrases as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, but his voice turns lower, grittier, more intense as the chant goes on. At the end, as Sam is on the verge of casting the demon out of the human who’s been possessed, his voice is like gravel, deep and almost like the way it sounds in the most intimate parts of the brothers’ lives, when they’re alone in bed and breaking every rule that God and the angels should have already have cast them both (back) into Hell for. Yet for some reason the love shared by these brothers seems not to have phased Castiel in the slightest, and no gigantic red STOP sign from Heaven appeared to either of the men.
Dean certainly expects it to happen, especially when he realizes his body’s physical reaction to the tone of Sam’s voice as he casts the black smoke of a demon from what’s left of the body of the human it’s possessed. He waits to be smited (smited? Smitten? Smote? What is the proper tense when God smites someone? Sam probably knows.) but it doesn’t happen. Not even when he hears the last of the rite: Ego to order vos, super, obtempero mihi ut tabellae, Ego quisnam sum a minister of Deus odio meus unworthiness; neque nec vadum vos exsisto emboldened ut vulnero in ullus via is creatura of Deus, vel bystanders, vel ullus of suum capitale.
Not even when they make their way back to yet another dingy hotel room after they finish their work for the night, collapsing into each other with comforting touches and kisses, does Dean feel any tacit disapproval from any of the Heavenly creatures he’s known.
And as much thought as he’s put into any possible smiting (ok, fine, is smiting even a word? Whatever. They know what he means.), there is something Dean hasn’t caught onto.
Sam knows. He is acutely aware of the physical reaction when his brother listens to that ancient language flowing so easily from his tongue. Even though he can’t let himself get distracted by it while it’s happening, Sam knows full well that Dean is turned on, more turned on than usual, completely rapt by the sound of his voice as the Latin words fall from his lips just as easily as ordering a cobb salad at a diner, as easily as he begs Dean in the darkness for more, harder, please, always, yours.
This dark night in the motel, where they’d long ago given up the pretense of asking for two beds, the tension starts to melt away, first with just holding each other, moving to chaste and then more passionate kissing, then the stripping away of one piece of clothing after another. When the two of them are just skin against skin, Sam decides it’s time for him to let Dean know that his little secret is not such a secret. Dean may not be fluent, but he knows at least the basics, if not more, and Sam is ready to see what happens when the sounds of the dead language are introduced to their intimate acts.
As Dean maps out Sam’s body with his hands, touching every piece of skin he can, Sam takes a deep breath and says "Commodo. Magis." (Please. More.)
Dean’s head is spinning, but he does as he’s asked (I think he just asked me for more) and moves his hands down Sam’s body. He grips his baby boy on one hip to hold him still, puts his fingers inside his mouth, then moves two sweat and spit slicked fingers inside of Sam, slowly, letting him adjust to the stretch and slight burn until Dean feels him rocking back and forth, ready for more. Dean is reaching for the lube in his jacket that’s on the floor beside the bed when he hears it again.
"Te desiro intra mini" (Need you inside me.) (Yes, inside you, that’s where I’m going baby). But then Dean stops a minute, pulls up everything he knows, decides to draw it out just a bit more, he knows neither one of them can wait too much longer but even a little more of this is worth a shot. Aware that it doesn’t sound as easy and natural as it sounds on Sam, he does what he can, from the few things he knows. As he readies himself to cross his brother’s barrier, Dean whispers into Sam’s ear "Ne permittas me separari a te" (Don’t ever let us be apart), then pushes through and all the way inside all at once, rewarded by the familiar sound of Sam moaning, breath hitching on that edge between pain and perfectsogoodohfuckhowdidieverlivewithoutthis.
As they find their rhythm, Dean inside Sam, one hand still holding him at the hip, the other steadily jerking his brother’s cock, the intensity builds rapidly, and both men, in a matter of minutes, are looking into each other’s eyes as they move toward the crest of the wave but try so hard to hold out, to get just a little more out of this, as they so often do.
That plan is dashed when Sam places his hand on Dean’s cheek and whispers "Sum vestri. Te diligo (Love you. I’m yours.)." The second the last syllable is in the air, both of them are spilling into, onto each other, then sinking down into the mattress, locked together in the embrace of two people who can never be separated.
A few moments pass when they both collect what brain cells they have left so that some speech is possible. Dean shifts to the side so his arm is draped around Sam’s torso, and Sam moves his head enough to look at his brother directly.
With a grin so enthusiastic that his dimples are in full force, Sam pulls on Dean’s earlobe and says "You’ve got a kink, dude. A serious kink."
To which Dean replies, as expected, "Bitch.", with a smirk.
Sam yawns and stretches and pulls his brother closer, and reflexively replies, "Jerk."
Dean wonders if there’s a Latin translation for bitch, or jerk, and decides that he’s going to find out as soon as he can move again.