Fic: Taboo
Title: Taboo
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warning: incest!kink, bondage
Summary: “To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved."
Word Count: 1,700
A/N: For geckoholic for spn_j2_xmas. I tried to use as many of your likes as possible, including the prompt in the summary, public sex, voyeurism, bottom!Dean and angst. Many, many thanks to missyjack for her beta work.
Additional note: With all the LJ fuckery, I have switched the comments style to my default. If my journal style is hard for you to read, please use this link instead to switch it to your own style.
It’s a simple two-story house, the kind you speed by on long road trips and then wonder who the hell would want to live all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. It could use a good coat of paint, and the screen is missing from one of the second floor windows. It's only on Saturdays that the lights are on, but otherwise there’s nothing of note about it. To look at, that is.
It’s not the type of place you hear about in polite society, and even the seedy underbelly is uncertain about what truly goes on there. Invitations are passed along by word-of-mouth, and the chances of receiving one are slim at best. You have to be at the right place at the right time and only under particular circumstances might it be whispered to you. It’s an elite club, but one that most people would never even consider being a member of.
There’s one written rule, carved into the beam above the front door: Never Alone. There are two guards posted at the door, and heaven help the single man or woman who so much as parks in the driveway. Pairs are expected, trios a treat, and stories are still being told about the party of six who once walked through the door. But never, ever, shall an individual be allowed inside.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder why there’s such a high level of secrecy. After all, once you get inside, this place appears rather tame when compared to some open-access clubs in major cities. Except…
Except for the resemblances. Eyes the exact same shape and shade of pale blue. The similar slopes of cheekbones and jaw lines. The twins in the corner.
That’s why.
*****
It’s a normal Saturday when the front door opens and Sam and Dean walk in for the first time in months. Only a few people can still remember these boys’ inaugural visit, and only one person still lives who knows why they’re entitled to a room any time they wish to stay. They only show up once or twice a year; no-one knows too much about them, but everyone knows they’re the reason for second, unwritten rule of the house: If you wish to keep your fingers, you ask before you touch.
It’s better for everyone involved.
They don’t say much when they walk inside, merely nodding in acknowledgement to the people who greet them. There’s a shot of whiskey for each of them waiting at the wet bar in the den, which they both down effortlessly and slam back onto the bar for a refill. They only ever seem to appear when one of them is on the edge, when it looks like they’re not going to make it another minute unless something happens. There’s tension written all over them, in the space between their eyes, in the set of their shoulders, in the lines around their mouths.
It takes a moment and another shot for them to settle, one more of each for them to relax. You can see the moment they remember why they’re here. How they can truly let go. They don’t have to hide here. Or hold back.
Dean’s the one who finishes first. After taking out his wallet and throwing a couple bills on the bar, he shakes himself out, takes a deep breath and heads for the stairs. His footsteps have faded away before Sam looks around the room and catches the not-so-subtle glances in his direction. With a quiet sigh and a quick nod, he heads up the steps after Dean. Silently, most of the room’s other occupants follow him.
The bedroom Dean’s chosen is one of the more barren ones, just a four-post bed in the middle of the room, leaving plenty of space for those who wish to watch the show. He’s stripped off his jacket, shirts and jeans, the articles dropped into a pile beside the bed, leaving him in only his boxer briefs that do little to hide how he’s already half hard.
The other people, twelve, maybe fourteen of them, file into the room, taking up positions round the bed. Some standing right up close, others hiding back in the shadows.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly bends down and picks up Dean’s discarded jeans. The belt makes a zwip noise as it’s pulled through the loops, and Sam snaps the leather together once it’s free. Everyone in the room jumps.
It’s Dean’s cue, though, and he takes a deep slow breath before sliding his boxers down his legs and crawling onto the bed. He settles belly down, legs straight out with both hands behind his back. Sam’s by his side in an instant, wrapping the belt around Dean’s wrists with a weave and a twist that makes it impossible to get free. Once the buckle is secured, he taps twice on the back of Dean’s thigh. Without hesitation, Dean draws his knees up beneath him, leaving his face pressed to the pillow.
Satisfied with Dean’s position, Sam bends again and grabs the Henley from the floor. He rolls it until it’s all one long strip of fabric, then reaches over and secures it over Dean’s eyes with one solid knot.
Sam stands still at the end of the bed.
For a moment, everyone’s silent, just waiting to see what he’s going to do. But then the whispers start, growing louder as the onlookers get more impatient waiting for the show to begin. Sam still doesn’t move.
But Dean does.
It starts with a twitch of his foot, just an involuntary muscle spasm if he wanted to explain it away. But as the whispers increase, so does Dean’s squirming, until he’s downright writhing on the bed.
Sam smiles, small but genuine, and pulls a packet of lube from his pocket. The snap of it opening is loud in the room. He leans close to Dean’s ear and says softly, “They’re all watching.”
It’s the first thing either of them has said since walking in the door.
Sam finally sits on the bed, taking a spot right behind Dean, and slicks his whole hand to shining wetness. Slowly, he uses his other hand to carefully spread Dean apart, putting him even more on display, and then he places one slick fingertip at Dean’s entrance and holds it there for a moment. Dean’s rigid beneath him, breath coming in sharp pants at this point, and it seems like a reward when Sam presses the finger forward, mere fractions of an inch at a time until he’s up to the second knuckle. Sam pushes and twists his finger, sinking further in with every movement, until Dean tries to push back.
Dean’s lips part on a moan as Sam adds another finger and Dean’s moving with him, tiny, steady flexes of his ass and thighs. Sam works his two fingers until they slide in and out with no resistance, then he slowly wedges in a third.
The room has gone silent again, listening instead to every gasp Dean takes, watching every movement. Without pausing, Sam glances over his shoulder at their audience and raises an eyebrow, and the chatter start up again, commenting on how well Dean’s taking it and how gorgeous he looks.
No one speaks above a whisper, but the effect is instantaneous on Dean. His gasps turn to groans, and he twists and squirms and pushes back in a silent plea. Sam works his fingers deep inside his brother’s body, answering every one of Dean’s moans with a crook, a twist, a thrust.
Dean’s not the only one who huffs in disappointment when Sam pulls free. More than a couple of the witnesses have had to adjust themselves in their pants, and one of the women whimpers slightly when Sam stands up and strips. Then, he’s back on the bed, kneeling between Dean’s now spread legs and slicking his cock with what’s rest of the lube.
Sam pushes in with one slow but solid thrust, and Dean’s long drawn out moan echoes around the room. Once Sam bottoms out, he drapes himself over Dean’s back. Dean’s bound hands are wedged between them, and the position Sam has pinned him in can’t be comfortable, but he still pushes back eagerly.
Finally, Sam sits up on his ankles and drags Dean back onto his lap, holding him in place with one hand on his hip and one wrapped around the belt. Sam draws out slowly, leaving only the head of his cock in place before he slams in hard again, setting the pace as he fucks in and in and in. The thrusts are pushing Dean up along the bed, causing the blindfold to slide free, but his eyes are squeezed shut, like he can’t watch. He grunts with each snap of Sam’s hips; between him and the spectators, the volume in the room rises every moment.
“They can see you, Dean,” Sam says, flexing his hand on Dean’s hip as he gets a better grip. “Every one of them can see you, even if you won’t look at them, and they’re all getting off on it. Getting off on watching you trust me to give you what you need.”
Dean cries out, raw and wordless sounds torn from him. He seizes up, and even though they can’t see it, it’s clear to everyone in the room that he came completely untouched.
Sam follows with a few more thrusts, crying out, and his hips shudder through his release as he presses himself into Dean as deep as the position allows. When he pulls out with a wet, dirty sound that seems to echo around the now-silent room, he wrestles the bindings off Dean’s wrists and fumbles to get the sheets free from underneath them both. Dean’s ragdoll-loose, rolling wherever Sam pushes him. Once they’re covered, Sam throws a glare back at the other people in the room and gives them a shooing motion.
The last person out the door shuts it behind them.
*****
No one’s surprised when Sam and Dean leave a couple hours later, before the night is fully over and looking more relaxed than they had when they arrived. Everyone knows those two brothers will be back eventually. It’s what this place is for.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warning: incest!kink, bondage
Summary: “To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved."
Word Count: 1,700
A/N: For geckoholic for spn_j2_xmas. I tried to use as many of your likes as possible, including the prompt in the summary, public sex, voyeurism, bottom!Dean and angst. Many, many thanks to missyjack for her beta work.
Additional note: With all the LJ fuckery, I have switched the comments style to my default. If my journal style is hard for you to read, please use this link instead to switch it to your own style.
It’s a simple two-story house, the kind you speed by on long road trips and then wonder who the hell would want to live all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. It could use a good coat of paint, and the screen is missing from one of the second floor windows. It's only on Saturdays that the lights are on, but otherwise there’s nothing of note about it. To look at, that is.
It’s not the type of place you hear about in polite society, and even the seedy underbelly is uncertain about what truly goes on there. Invitations are passed along by word-of-mouth, and the chances of receiving one are slim at best. You have to be at the right place at the right time and only under particular circumstances might it be whispered to you. It’s an elite club, but one that most people would never even consider being a member of.
There’s one written rule, carved into the beam above the front door: Never Alone. There are two guards posted at the door, and heaven help the single man or woman who so much as parks in the driveway. Pairs are expected, trios a treat, and stories are still being told about the party of six who once walked through the door. But never, ever, shall an individual be allowed inside.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder why there’s such a high level of secrecy. After all, once you get inside, this place appears rather tame when compared to some open-access clubs in major cities. Except…
Except for the resemblances. Eyes the exact same shape and shade of pale blue. The similar slopes of cheekbones and jaw lines. The twins in the corner.
That’s why.
*****
It’s a normal Saturday when the front door opens and Sam and Dean walk in for the first time in months. Only a few people can still remember these boys’ inaugural visit, and only one person still lives who knows why they’re entitled to a room any time they wish to stay. They only show up once or twice a year; no-one knows too much about them, but everyone knows they’re the reason for second, unwritten rule of the house: If you wish to keep your fingers, you ask before you touch.
It’s better for everyone involved.
They don’t say much when they walk inside, merely nodding in acknowledgement to the people who greet them. There’s a shot of whiskey for each of them waiting at the wet bar in the den, which they both down effortlessly and slam back onto the bar for a refill. They only ever seem to appear when one of them is on the edge, when it looks like they’re not going to make it another minute unless something happens. There’s tension written all over them, in the space between their eyes, in the set of their shoulders, in the lines around their mouths.
It takes a moment and another shot for them to settle, one more of each for them to relax. You can see the moment they remember why they’re here. How they can truly let go. They don’t have to hide here. Or hold back.
Dean’s the one who finishes first. After taking out his wallet and throwing a couple bills on the bar, he shakes himself out, takes a deep breath and heads for the stairs. His footsteps have faded away before Sam looks around the room and catches the not-so-subtle glances in his direction. With a quiet sigh and a quick nod, he heads up the steps after Dean. Silently, most of the room’s other occupants follow him.
The bedroom Dean’s chosen is one of the more barren ones, just a four-post bed in the middle of the room, leaving plenty of space for those who wish to watch the show. He’s stripped off his jacket, shirts and jeans, the articles dropped into a pile beside the bed, leaving him in only his boxer briefs that do little to hide how he’s already half hard.
The other people, twelve, maybe fourteen of them, file into the room, taking up positions round the bed. Some standing right up close, others hiding back in the shadows.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly bends down and picks up Dean’s discarded jeans. The belt makes a zwip noise as it’s pulled through the loops, and Sam snaps the leather together once it’s free. Everyone in the room jumps.
It’s Dean’s cue, though, and he takes a deep slow breath before sliding his boxers down his legs and crawling onto the bed. He settles belly down, legs straight out with both hands behind his back. Sam’s by his side in an instant, wrapping the belt around Dean’s wrists with a weave and a twist that makes it impossible to get free. Once the buckle is secured, he taps twice on the back of Dean’s thigh. Without hesitation, Dean draws his knees up beneath him, leaving his face pressed to the pillow.
Satisfied with Dean’s position, Sam bends again and grabs the Henley from the floor. He rolls it until it’s all one long strip of fabric, then reaches over and secures it over Dean’s eyes with one solid knot.
Sam stands still at the end of the bed.
For a moment, everyone’s silent, just waiting to see what he’s going to do. But then the whispers start, growing louder as the onlookers get more impatient waiting for the show to begin. Sam still doesn’t move.
But Dean does.
It starts with a twitch of his foot, just an involuntary muscle spasm if he wanted to explain it away. But as the whispers increase, so does Dean’s squirming, until he’s downright writhing on the bed.
Sam smiles, small but genuine, and pulls a packet of lube from his pocket. The snap of it opening is loud in the room. He leans close to Dean’s ear and says softly, “They’re all watching.”
It’s the first thing either of them has said since walking in the door.
Sam finally sits on the bed, taking a spot right behind Dean, and slicks his whole hand to shining wetness. Slowly, he uses his other hand to carefully spread Dean apart, putting him even more on display, and then he places one slick fingertip at Dean’s entrance and holds it there for a moment. Dean’s rigid beneath him, breath coming in sharp pants at this point, and it seems like a reward when Sam presses the finger forward, mere fractions of an inch at a time until he’s up to the second knuckle. Sam pushes and twists his finger, sinking further in with every movement, until Dean tries to push back.
Dean’s lips part on a moan as Sam adds another finger and Dean’s moving with him, tiny, steady flexes of his ass and thighs. Sam works his two fingers until they slide in and out with no resistance, then he slowly wedges in a third.
The room has gone silent again, listening instead to every gasp Dean takes, watching every movement. Without pausing, Sam glances over his shoulder at their audience and raises an eyebrow, and the chatter start up again, commenting on how well Dean’s taking it and how gorgeous he looks.
No one speaks above a whisper, but the effect is instantaneous on Dean. His gasps turn to groans, and he twists and squirms and pushes back in a silent plea. Sam works his fingers deep inside his brother’s body, answering every one of Dean’s moans with a crook, a twist, a thrust.
Dean’s not the only one who huffs in disappointment when Sam pulls free. More than a couple of the witnesses have had to adjust themselves in their pants, and one of the women whimpers slightly when Sam stands up and strips. Then, he’s back on the bed, kneeling between Dean’s now spread legs and slicking his cock with what’s rest of the lube.
Sam pushes in with one slow but solid thrust, and Dean’s long drawn out moan echoes around the room. Once Sam bottoms out, he drapes himself over Dean’s back. Dean’s bound hands are wedged between them, and the position Sam has pinned him in can’t be comfortable, but he still pushes back eagerly.
Finally, Sam sits up on his ankles and drags Dean back onto his lap, holding him in place with one hand on his hip and one wrapped around the belt. Sam draws out slowly, leaving only the head of his cock in place before he slams in hard again, setting the pace as he fucks in and in and in. The thrusts are pushing Dean up along the bed, causing the blindfold to slide free, but his eyes are squeezed shut, like he can’t watch. He grunts with each snap of Sam’s hips; between him and the spectators, the volume in the room rises every moment.
“They can see you, Dean,” Sam says, flexing his hand on Dean’s hip as he gets a better grip. “Every one of them can see you, even if you won’t look at them, and they’re all getting off on it. Getting off on watching you trust me to give you what you need.”
Dean cries out, raw and wordless sounds torn from him. He seizes up, and even though they can’t see it, it’s clear to everyone in the room that he came completely untouched.
Sam follows with a few more thrusts, crying out, and his hips shudder through his release as he presses himself into Dean as deep as the position allows. When he pulls out with a wet, dirty sound that seems to echo around the now-silent room, he wrestles the bindings off Dean’s wrists and fumbles to get the sheets free from underneath them both. Dean’s ragdoll-loose, rolling wherever Sam pushes him. Once they’re covered, Sam throws a glare back at the other people in the room and gives them a shooing motion.
The last person out the door shuts it behind them.
*****
No one’s surprised when Sam and Dean leave a couple hours later, before the night is fully over and looking more relaxed than they had when they arrived. Everyone knows those two brothers will be back eventually. It’s what this place is for.