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Entry tags:
FIC: Broken (Sam/Dean, spn, NC-17) Venom series 2/5
Title: Broken
Paring: Sam/Dean, Supernatural
Warnings: Incest. Make up. A little Dean-worship.
Summary: Dean sees Sam.
Notes: I wasn't going to revisit the gothboys, but look!![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sylph_ironlight has GothSam! *dies* So this is for her. Follow up to Beautiful.
(Also, big thanks tounfamousl, the ultimate enabler. *bg*)
Worst fucking idea ever. Dean's falling through the motel room door and hitting the lights almost before he can stand. Ordinarily, he'd have pushed Sam through the door ahead of him, but he can't touch Sam now; not after he reached back once and felt Sam's shoulders shaking under his jacket. If he closes his eyes he can still feel Sam shoving him out of the club, can feel Sam's hand between his shoulder-blades,
between his --
No. Just no.
He bolts the door after Sam stumbles through it; leans on the dresser and watches his brother sit on the edge of the bed, hunched forward with his hands clasped to keep them steady and looking at the ugly orange carpet like it might open up and swallow them. Who knows? Maybe that's next. Silent and still and Dean hates when Sam is like this; hates when Sam doesn't even try to use words to fix things and suddenly it's so easy to remember how angry he is.
"Sam-- what the hell-- " The words catch on his rage, but it isn't just anger rushing red behind his eyes and roaring so loud in his head that he almost misses Sam's voice.
"Wanted you." Words to make him stop short; make him sick and hopeless and needing all at the same time.
Deep breath. "What did you say?"
"Those things. At the club. Wanted to...keep you." Sam's talking to the floor, and for a minute Dean gets lost staring at the shadows hiding Sam's expression, the bruise at the corner of his mouth.
I know what he tastes like
God.
"Why?" he asks at last, and his voice never sounds like this, so scared like this, so he clears his throat and says, "Why the fuck would they want to keep me, Sam?"
Harsh, knowing look from Sam then, from eyes made older and harder by dark pencil scrubbed beneath them, and his voice sounds older, too.
"To look at you. Touch you. And --"
Dean has to look away then, and ends up catching his own reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Unrecognizable under sticky glitter and smeared eyeliner and it doesn't make him look older -- it makes him look -- Sam's wrong but --
Vivid memory -- nine years old and learning to fire a gun; playing army with real weapons. It's too loud at the firing range, too cold, but he can play it tough, just like the big kids so dad will be proud. Then a man in flannel puts callused fingers hard beneath his chin and turns his face up to the weak sunlight.
Granite eyes and a dry voice, "You better teach this one to fight, John."
Laughter all around and Dean is embarrassed, not even realizing it's a prophecy for his whole god-damned life.
"We need to go back," he tells Sam. "Now that we know what we're up against."
Sam doesn't get up, though, just swallows hard. "We can't. There -- there are too many of them. They're too strong, and the voices -- God, Dean, look what happened." He looks up when Dean turns to face him and his voice changes, turns anxious. "Hey -- it was just the voices. That's why we -- It was the voices, that's all." Dean can hear the rest of the argument even when Sam stops talking. Not my fault. Not yours.
Dean wishes he could believe that. Wishes he could lie.
"No voices."
"No --"
"I didn't hear any fucking voices, Sam. You see dead people, not me."
"Then why did you...?" For the first time Sam looks confused, lost like Dean feels inside; just his little brother under the harsh make-up. He's looking at Dean for reassurance, just like he always does and Dean can see faint, dry lines threading down his cheeks, like earlier he'd been sweating, bleeding, crying? -- fuck.
"No voices." Just you.
Dean sees understanding hit and then Sam is moving, surging up off the bed toward him. Dean tenses, turns his head. They've already broken everything to pieces so there's no need to be careful; maybe if he lets Sam take a swing at him --
Hands cupping his face and Sam's mouth is harder than it was in the club; messy and raw and for just a second the weirdest thing about this is having to tilt his head up to be kissed.
be careful with your little brother
Well, Sam hasn't been little in years and suddenly Dean is on the bed, dizzy from the change in position. The whole world is Sam -- lean, hard body pressing him into the mattress, warm hands looking for skin and Sam's mouth -- oh jesus kissing him, just kissing him and just like that Dean is almost gone.
Can't do this. The reasons why are scattering away along with Dean's control but Dean knows they can't do this; not again, not if they want to come out whole on the other side. He turns his head so Sam's mouth scrapes over his jaw, his throat.
"Sam." Breathless against Sam's temple and he can't help it, has to press his lips against that soft skin, just for a second. "Sam, come on, we can't --"
Sam's body tightens over his and the words just seem to make Sam more urgent. He feels the scrape of Sam's teeth over his collarbone, the heat of Sam's breath on his neck.
"Please, Dean, just let me --" and the rough sound of Sam's voice would be enough to make him moan, even if Sam wasn't pushing his hands up beneath Dean's shirt, shoving it up so he can touch.
"Please," Sam says again, leaning down to lick, to bite softly, and Dean hasn't heard such grief in his brother's voice since the night Sam lost Jess and Dean got Sam back, and really, how fucked up is that?
But there's no stopping now, not when Sam needs him, is leaning up to kiss him again.
take care of your little brother
And that's something Dean knows he can do. He can push his fingers up into the softness of Sam's hair; he can gentle the kiss, deepen it until he feels Sam shudder. He can roll them both so Sam is under him, long body and slender muscles beneath his chest, his hips. Then he can move, rocking into the warmth between them; listening to the soft, broken sound Sam makes as he reaches up to hold Dean tight, tight.
"Hey -- it's okay, Sam," he whispers against Sam's mouth; Sam's beautiful, soft mouth that's just waiting for him to taste and Dean needs this so badly. Wet and slow and so good that Dean could almost be satisfied just kissing like this, just making out on the bed but Sam's getting insistent, pushing at their clothes, trying to move enough leather and cotton out of the way so they can be skin to skin. Every new place he touches just makes Dean want more, as long as he doesn't have to stop kissing Sam.
Only one moment breaks the surreality; the moment Dean reaches down and feels the buttons of Sam's jeans beneath his fingertips, the hardness beneath. can't. can't do this he thinks, but Sam feels the jolt go through Dean's body and grabs Dean's hand, presses it flat so they are both rubbing Sam through his jeans. Way hotter than it should be, enough to fragment any control Dean has left and he almost tears the buttons open and shoves the jeans down Sam's thighs.
Somehow side by side, facing each other on the bed, hands tangling as they touch each other and everything is hot and slick and frantic. Doesn't know who comes first, just sinks his face into Sam's shoulder and shudders his way through it, waits for the world to reassemble itself.
Almost by agreement they move apart, breathing hard and not touching but Sam is close enough that Dean can feel the heat from his body in the cool air. His brother. His lover. Dean thinks that it might be possible to fuck things up even more but he can't imagine how.
"We need to go back there," Sam says, and Dean doesn't even open his eyes.
"You changed your mind."
"No choice." Dean feels the ghost of a touch drift over his profile, brushing the bridge of his nose, his lips. He turns sharply to look at Sam, but it's like Sam never moved, lying there and staring at the ceiling.
"What do you mean?"
"What if they come after you?"
End
to next part Bound
Paring: Sam/Dean, Supernatural
Warnings: Incest. Make up. A little Dean-worship.
Summary: Dean sees Sam.
Notes: I wasn't going to revisit the gothboys, but look!
sylph_ironlight has GothSam! *dies* So this is for her. Follow up to Beautiful.(Also, big thanks to
unfamousl, the ultimate enabler. *bg*) Worst fucking idea ever. Dean's falling through the motel room door and hitting the lights almost before he can stand. Ordinarily, he'd have pushed Sam through the door ahead of him, but he can't touch Sam now; not after he reached back once and felt Sam's shoulders shaking under his jacket. If he closes his eyes he can still feel Sam shoving him out of the club, can feel Sam's hand between his shoulder-blades,
between his --
No. Just no.
He bolts the door after Sam stumbles through it; leans on the dresser and watches his brother sit on the edge of the bed, hunched forward with his hands clasped to keep them steady and looking at the ugly orange carpet like it might open up and swallow them. Who knows? Maybe that's next. Silent and still and Dean hates when Sam is like this; hates when Sam doesn't even try to use words to fix things and suddenly it's so easy to remember how angry he is.
"Sam-- what the hell-- " The words catch on his rage, but it isn't just anger rushing red behind his eyes and roaring so loud in his head that he almost misses Sam's voice.
"Wanted you." Words to make him stop short; make him sick and hopeless and needing all at the same time.
Deep breath. "What did you say?"
"Those things. At the club. Wanted to...keep you." Sam's talking to the floor, and for a minute Dean gets lost staring at the shadows hiding Sam's expression, the bruise at the corner of his mouth.
I know what he tastes like
God.
"Why?" he asks at last, and his voice never sounds like this, so scared like this, so he clears his throat and says, "Why the fuck would they want to keep me, Sam?"
Harsh, knowing look from Sam then, from eyes made older and harder by dark pencil scrubbed beneath them, and his voice sounds older, too.
"To look at you. Touch you. And --"
Dean has to look away then, and ends up catching his own reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Unrecognizable under sticky glitter and smeared eyeliner and it doesn't make him look older -- it makes him look -- Sam's wrong but --
Vivid memory -- nine years old and learning to fire a gun; playing army with real weapons. It's too loud at the firing range, too cold, but he can play it tough, just like the big kids so dad will be proud. Then a man in flannel puts callused fingers hard beneath his chin and turns his face up to the weak sunlight.
Granite eyes and a dry voice, "You better teach this one to fight, John."
Laughter all around and Dean is embarrassed, not even realizing it's a prophecy for his whole god-damned life.
"We need to go back," he tells Sam. "Now that we know what we're up against."
Sam doesn't get up, though, just swallows hard. "We can't. There -- there are too many of them. They're too strong, and the voices -- God, Dean, look what happened." He looks up when Dean turns to face him and his voice changes, turns anxious. "Hey -- it was just the voices. That's why we -- It was the voices, that's all." Dean can hear the rest of the argument even when Sam stops talking. Not my fault. Not yours.
Dean wishes he could believe that. Wishes he could lie.
"No voices."
"No --"
"I didn't hear any fucking voices, Sam. You see dead people, not me."
"Then why did you...?" For the first time Sam looks confused, lost like Dean feels inside; just his little brother under the harsh make-up. He's looking at Dean for reassurance, just like he always does and Dean can see faint, dry lines threading down his cheeks, like earlier he'd been sweating, bleeding, crying? -- fuck.
"No voices." Just you.
Dean sees understanding hit and then Sam is moving, surging up off the bed toward him. Dean tenses, turns his head. They've already broken everything to pieces so there's no need to be careful; maybe if he lets Sam take a swing at him --
Hands cupping his face and Sam's mouth is harder than it was in the club; messy and raw and for just a second the weirdest thing about this is having to tilt his head up to be kissed.
be careful with your little brother
Well, Sam hasn't been little in years and suddenly Dean is on the bed, dizzy from the change in position. The whole world is Sam -- lean, hard body pressing him into the mattress, warm hands looking for skin and Sam's mouth -- oh jesus kissing him, just kissing him and just like that Dean is almost gone.
Can't do this. The reasons why are scattering away along with Dean's control but Dean knows they can't do this; not again, not if they want to come out whole on the other side. He turns his head so Sam's mouth scrapes over his jaw, his throat.
"Sam." Breathless against Sam's temple and he can't help it, has to press his lips against that soft skin, just for a second. "Sam, come on, we can't --"
Sam's body tightens over his and the words just seem to make Sam more urgent. He feels the scrape of Sam's teeth over his collarbone, the heat of Sam's breath on his neck.
"Please, Dean, just let me --" and the rough sound of Sam's voice would be enough to make him moan, even if Sam wasn't pushing his hands up beneath Dean's shirt, shoving it up so he can touch.
"Please," Sam says again, leaning down to lick, to bite softly, and Dean hasn't heard such grief in his brother's voice since the night Sam lost Jess and Dean got Sam back, and really, how fucked up is that?
But there's no stopping now, not when Sam needs him, is leaning up to kiss him again.
take care of your little brother
And that's something Dean knows he can do. He can push his fingers up into the softness of Sam's hair; he can gentle the kiss, deepen it until he feels Sam shudder. He can roll them both so Sam is under him, long body and slender muscles beneath his chest, his hips. Then he can move, rocking into the warmth between them; listening to the soft, broken sound Sam makes as he reaches up to hold Dean tight, tight.
"Hey -- it's okay, Sam," he whispers against Sam's mouth; Sam's beautiful, soft mouth that's just waiting for him to taste and Dean needs this so badly. Wet and slow and so good that Dean could almost be satisfied just kissing like this, just making out on the bed but Sam's getting insistent, pushing at their clothes, trying to move enough leather and cotton out of the way so they can be skin to skin. Every new place he touches just makes Dean want more, as long as he doesn't have to stop kissing Sam.
Only one moment breaks the surreality; the moment Dean reaches down and feels the buttons of Sam's jeans beneath his fingertips, the hardness beneath. can't. can't do this he thinks, but Sam feels the jolt go through Dean's body and grabs Dean's hand, presses it flat so they are both rubbing Sam through his jeans. Way hotter than it should be, enough to fragment any control Dean has left and he almost tears the buttons open and shoves the jeans down Sam's thighs.
Somehow side by side, facing each other on the bed, hands tangling as they touch each other and everything is hot and slick and frantic. Doesn't know who comes first, just sinks his face into Sam's shoulder and shudders his way through it, waits for the world to reassemble itself.
Almost by agreement they move apart, breathing hard and not touching but Sam is close enough that Dean can feel the heat from his body in the cool air. His brother. His lover. Dean thinks that it might be possible to fuck things up even more but he can't imagine how.
"We need to go back there," Sam says, and Dean doesn't even open his eyes.
"You changed your mind."
"No choice." Dean feels the ghost of a touch drift over his profile, brushing the bridge of his nose, his lips. He turns sharply to look at Sam, but it's like Sam never moved, lying there and staring at the ceiling.
"What do you mean?"
"What if they come after you?"
End
to next part Bound
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