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FIC: Bound (Sam/Dean, NC-17) Venom series 3/5
Title: Bound
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, a little bondage, and consent issues. (Anyone still here? *bg*)
Summary: The goth!boys go back to the club for more angst and eyeliner. Plus porn.
Notes: Third in a series of vignettes, with two more to come. Follows Beautiful and Broken. I’ve been trying to finish this for weeks. *g* Kisses to everyone who asked. (and to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sori1773 for the amazing beta!)
byangelaficionado and sylph_ironlight respectively
Bound by Audra Rose
Shouldn’t be here, Sam thinks, shouldn’t be here at all, parked near empty warehouses and dark alleys he wouldn’t want to walk though in the daytime. It would have been so easy to take off, just drive up the coast and put 500 miles between Dean and those things in the club before nightfall, but no, never the goddamned easy way out for his brother. Should have known he’d end up back outside the club with the sun going down behind him, sitting next to Dean in the front seat and feeling twitchy with exhaustion and fear.
The neon over the doorway across the street flickers into life.
Venom.
"They're not even trying to hide it, are they?" Dean asks.
Sam pretends he doesn't hear and digs in the pocket of his long leather coat for the eyeliner. There's still enough light to see so he tips the rearview mirror toward his face as Dean turns away, shifting uncomfortably.
Dean can bitch all he wants about having to shred his vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt and put more of "that black shit" on his face, but if they’re really going to do this then Sam wants this part of it, too. Needs it. The things lurking in the shadows of the club scare him cold, but with the make-up on his face he looks older, tougher, like someone who absolutely should not be fucked with. Long leather coat and massive boots making him even taller, broader, and suddenly he can feel it... power. Just that, thudding though his veins in time with the bass line that pulses out of the club every time someone slips through the door.
He turns to hand Dean the kohl-pencil and finds that Dean still won't look at him, gaze skating away like it has all day. Dean snatches the pencil away carefully, so their fingers don't touch and Sam sighs and looks back at the doorway of the club.
“We’re going to go in, find out where they sleep during the day, and get out. That’s all,” Dean says.
Sam isn’t listening because Dean’s said it twice in the last half hour and all he can think about is that he should have crawled into bed with Dean last night. He should have gone straight from the shower to the bed where Dean was pretending to sleep; ignored the tense wall of Dean’s shoulders trying to shut him out and covered Dean’s skin with his body. Should have made Dean wake up this morning with his cock in Sam's mouth.
See how distant he could act then.
Bastard.
"Let's go," Dean says, finally meeting Sam's eyes for the first time all day. Sam blinks, and then suddenly he’s choking with laughter. For a second Dean looks murderous and then turns abruptly and opens his car door.
"Dean, wait," Sam says, not sure how to tell him that the kohl he's scrubbed under his eyes makes him look like some kind of deranged football player. Dean faces him, impatient and glaring, and Sam reaches out.
"Cut it out, Sam," Dean mutters, turning his face.
"Dude, you need to --" Sam says, trying again, but Dean knocks his hand away.
"Back off! What’s wrong with you?", and he sounds so much like their father that Sam wants to laugh but is afraid it'll come out a half-hysterical giggle.
"You just need to --"
"Need to what, already?"
"Blend, okay? Just let me fix it," Sam tells him, stifling his grin, and catches Dean's face in his hands. And holy shit, the planets must be aligned, because Dean stays still and lets Sam smear the lines and blur the edges, his skin warm and smooth beneath Sam's fingertips. Dean's face changes with the shadows, and he glares off somewhere over Sam's shoulder; angry, sullen --
beautiful--
and Sam wonders if Dean knows what he looks like, knows what it does to Sam. Then Dean meets his eyes and it's all there for Sam to read -- fear and embarrassment and ohgod, hurt; cutting down so deep that Sam can't touch it. Yeah, Dean knows exactly what he looks like, exactly what Sam feels, and he hates it.
I'm sorry, Sam thinks, feeling numb, but the words stick in his throat and Dean pulls out of his grasp.
"Let's go."
-----
He feels it as soon as they walk through the door; dark curiosity running fast and cool through the shadows. The huge space is just grinding music and strobing lights that do nothing to cut through the darkness surrounding them, so Sam stares into the shifting crowd, into the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor where cold eyes meet his and disappear before he can see who - what - they belong to. He feels the weight of those eyes push against him and he shakes his head.
"What is it?" Dean shouts into his ear.
"They’ve noticed us," Sam tells him, distracted by the hiss of voices he can almost hear, and feels Dean tense beside him.
“That was fast,” Dean says, looking angry about it, and Sam can’t believe he didn’t know that they’d be waiting. For Dean.
"I think it's okay, though," Sam says, and turns his head to talk to his brother. “For now, anyway. They’re curious.” Sam’s lips brush against the edge of Dean’s ear and the hiss becomes a roar -- hunger -- washing over him, through him, centering on his brother beside him and he almost stumbles. “Interested,” he adds, through a throat gone suddenly dry.
“That’s great,” Dean is saying, from somewhere far away, while Sam watches his mouth form the words. “I’m sorry, but I don’t trust them.”
Shouldn’t trust me, either, Sam thinks; idle thought that scatters away when he looks at the torn places on Dean’s shirt where his skin shows through. Strange, wary look from Dean and then he’s turning, moving further into the club. Sam follows by rote, pushing past moving bodies that brush up against them, heat and skin and sweat. Dean’s ahead of him, weaving through the crowd almost faster than Sam can follow. He can still see Dean, though, and he can see the way they turn to look at him, the way they trail soft touches over his body as he passes. Elegant fingers drifting over his shoulders and his throat, sliding across the leather on his hips and why the hell can’t Dean tell that it’s deliberate?
“Hey, Dean –"
He reaches out to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, stops his forward movement and oh -- warm skin beneath the cloth, an immediate jolt rushing through his body, from Dean, from them, and
touch him touch him touch him
and yes, that’s what he wants, has always wanted, so he steps up close against his brother, slips his arms around Dean’s waist, and drags him close. Dean’s back colliding with his chest, and god, who knew they’d fit together like this, so perfectly? When he bends his head his lips brush the skin behind Dean’s ear and he can feel the sharp point of Dean’s jaw against his mouth; has to lick a little, just to taste…
Dean flinches, tenses in his arms, and then Sam’s staring into Dean’s face, close and angry.
“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” Sam blinks at him, the outrage in Dean’s eyes breaking through the haze and he can barely answer.
“They like it when we touch each other,” Sam says, stuttering over the words.
Dean stares, and then suddenly he’s moving, turning in Sam’s arms to twist a hand into Sam’s hair so hard it hurts.
“Sam, you goddamn listen to me,” Dean says, lips practically touching Sam’s, eyes almost closed so that Sam can see the thick fringe of his eyelashes splayed across the shadow. “Get your head back in the game and go use the force or whatever the hell it is you do and find out what we need to know. Now.”
Except it isn’t anything like now because Dean’s pulling Sam’s head down until their mouths crush together, teeth and tongues and bruised lips, and Sam gets a taste of copper that seems to make the walls tremble. He wants to fall into this, right here, rightfuckingnow, but Dean’s already gone, pulling out of Sam’s arms and diving into the crowd, disappearing before Sam can even think.
He should be worried, probably, should be scared as fuck, but what he’s feeling doesn’t allow for it. It’s the power again, the excitement that whirls around and carries him with it, like ex, maybe; like all the shit he never did, never tried, because Sam doesn’t do things like that, though right now he can’t think why. Hypnotic movements to grinding music all around him and he finds himself drawn out to the dance floor, moving to rhythms he hears in his head.
The leather coat slips from his shoulders to fall from his hands, and the humid air feels cool on his arms, bare where he’s torn the sleeves off his black shirt. Cool fingers over his biceps, trailing under the hem of his shirt to brush his skin, skimming over the dark denim on his thighs. He could give in so easily.
It’s then he realizes that they know exactly what information he’s looking for, exactly why he wants it, and they will never let him have it.
So why the fuck is he still walking around and not a bloodstain in the parking lot? Why --
know what you are
Words clear as the daylight he probably won’t see again, words to make Sam freeze in place and let the crowd push him around.
What am I?
He forms the words before he can stop himself and disbelief comes back at him. Something else, too. Something that feels a lot like fear.
What am I, he asks again, desperate, because here, finally, he might find out why he dreams in prophecy and moves things with his mind and oh, yeah, can fucking talk to vampires in his head.
tell you
A taunting promise, and god, he can almost see hear touch the answer, held just out of reach…
Just give him to us.
Fuck. Dean.
“Where is he?” Spoken out loud as he turns in a circle, searching, and panic makes him shaky. “What did you do?”
Desire, hunger, crashing against his mind and Sam sees Dean as they see him, sees everything they want to do to him, and god, it makes Sam so hard. Fear and need he can taste and it draws him, makes him push through the crowd, feeling writhing bodies stumble to get out of his way.
He doesn’t know how he finds the room, hidden in the maze of hallways at the back where the music is muted to a low throb. Almost completely dark but he can see chain link fence lining the walls, crush of bodies in leather and chains, cuffs and masks, things he never knew to imagine, and there –- thank god, Dean -- leaning back against the wall, head bent and arms bound behind him and for Sam there might as well be no one else in the room.
Torn shirt framing his shoulders and soft leather falling off his hips, long line of perfect skin and muscle Sam wants to run his hands over and for one crazy second Sam wishes they had finished undressing him. God. What the fuck is wrong with him? He pushes the thought away and calls out Dean’s name into dead air, pushing though clinging hands and stroking fingers.
Maybe Dean can hear him because he raises his head, all mouth and cheekbones and dazed eyes. Even from across the room Sam can see his lips are swollen
bitten
like someone had just stopped kissing him, and in one cold-bright moment of rage Sam decides that these things are going to die tonight for touching him.
The thought alone seems to be enough to make them scatter, slender figures darting away as he rushes to his brother so by the time he gets to Dean there’s space around them. Sam steps close, leans their foreheads together, blocks out everything else so it’s just the two of them, just like always.
Breathless silence now, just waiting, where he’s gotten used to noise inside his mind.
“You hurt?” Whispered into the space between their lips. Dean’s eyes are closed again, black kohl making them looked bruised, and Dean makes a slight motion with his head.
“No.” Stops. “I don’t think so.”
Sam doesn’t believe him so he runs his hands over Dean’s arms, his chest; does it again because he’s wanted to do it forever, even if he only realized it just now. Smooth over hard and he loves
they love
the way his hands look on Dean’s skin. Dean makes a sound when Sam’s palms brush over his nipples, makes another when Sam uses his fingertips to make one hard.
“Oh, fuck. Sam.” Dean takes a breath that catches in his throat. “What are you doing?”
“Wanted to touch you all day,” Sam says softly, watching what his fingers can do to Dean’s body. He traces a perfect circle that makes Dean shiver, that makes him pull against the binding on his wrists. “And you wouldn’t let me. Why?”
“They’re doing this to you,” Dean says, trying to sound like dad giving orders, but it doesn’t work. “Come on, just get us out of here.”
“You wanted me to touch you, though,” Sam tells him, fascinated by the sight of his own fingers trailing down the smooth lines of Dean’s body, hard chest and muscled stomach. “You wanted to touch me, too. Kiss me.” Soft whisper in Dean’s ear. “Fuck me.”
Dean shakes his head, maybe at the words or at Sam’s hands tugging the leather lower on his hips. Sam runs the backs of his fingers over the taut skin he can see now, Dean’s eyes on Sam’s hands like he’s hypnotized. Follows them down, down, over the front of Dean’s pants and Sam can feel the shape of him through the soft leather. They both watch as Sam finds the tip of Dean’s cock and makes slow circles with his thumb.
“I want to put my mouth here,” he whispers.
“Jesus, Sam! Look,” Dean swallows, and his voice sounds used, a little desperate, “Okay, you’re right, I want that, too. Want you, just – just not here.”
Something there he should listen to but he can smell Dean’s skin, soap and sweet, clean sweat,
blood
and rising musk that makes his mouth water. The hard points of Dean’s hips fit into his palms as he leans down, licks Dean’s lips until they open, and then ohgod, finally – kissing Dean, soft lips and teasing tongue and he knows just what to do to make Dean kiss him back. Soft sighs surround him, like they can feel how good this is, how much Sam wants him.
Dean is talking again; Sam can feel the vibration against his lips as he kisses down Dean’s throat, come on, sam, let me go, and you don’t want to do this, words that don’t make any sense the way Dean’s body is arching toward him so he bites along Dean’s collar-bone to make him gasp. Licking at Dean’s nipples makes him moan, biting them makes him squirm, makes him pull against the restraints until Sam worries he’s going to hurt himself so he puts his hands around Dean’s twisting wrists, stills Dean’s frantic hands. Feels leather wound around Dean’s wrists, too, pulled tight and threaded through a metal buckle and the cold chain-link behind them.
Dean’s belt. No question. Sam’s going to kill them all.
Later.
He drops down, and it’s so much easier to do this on his knees, soothe the raw skin around Dean’s wrists with his fingers, and whisper against Dean’s chest, heaving like this is a race.
“This will be so good, I promise,” he tells his brother, nuzzling the damp skin, touching his tongue to the flat curves of Dean’s navel, moaning when Dean makes a brief, aborted thrust. His hands drift from Dean’s wrists to his ass, soft leather warm as skin and Sam just slides his palms over, curls his fingers under the band and pulls, feeling the button give and the cloth slide down Dean’s skin.
“Oh, Jesus, Sam, this is so fucked up,” Dean says, dropping his head back against the metal fence. “Not like this, Sam, okay? Not like -- fuck.”
Dean hunches forward when Sam traces the low curve of muscle beneath his hipbone, follows the line of it with his tongue until he feels a slick slide against his cheek, musky scent where the leather’s pulled down low. When he turns his head he’s breathing over the wet, swollen tip of Dean’s cock, rising from the damp leather.
Dean’s begging him now, promising bed and darkness, just the two of them, “Anything, Sammy, anything you want, just don’t-” but Dean's voice shatters when he touches his lips to the tip, wets them with slick-salt liquid.
“Oh, god.” Something broken in Dean’s voice now. “Okay, Sam. Okay. Just – just let me touch you.”
Something breaks in Sam, too, and he reaches back, wrenching the buckle free. He doesn’t wait, just unzips and peels the leather down Dean’s thighs to the floor and God – Dean – flushed and hard, moisture beading at the tip that he needs to taste. Slick and salt and Dean’s helpless sounds and he can’t stop, just pulls Dean into him – full and hot and yes – Sam needs this. He grasps Dean’s hips like he might try to get away and feels Dean stagger, feels him hitch helplessly beneath his hands.
drink
God, yes. Sam slides his hands around to cup hard muscle and take him deep, open mouth and stroking tongue and he didn’t know he could do this but it’s amazing – how it feels and what it does to Dean. No words now, just moans and movement that Sam stills with hands tight enough to mark.
Dean’s hands are in his hair, clumsily grasping for purchase and sliding free – maybe Sam would worry if he weren’t so hard he can’t think anymore -- nothing but pleasepleaseplease, over and over, willing Dean to lose control, years of control. Looking up he sees Dean staring down at him, wild and lost until the moment Sam swallows.
Sam gets just a glimpse of Dean’s throat when he arches and tilts his head back, and then Sam has to close his eyes and just take it. Ragged thrusts, fingers brutal on his neck and shoulders and then Dean frozen above him, movement stuttering to a stop as Dean pulses over and over in Sam’s mouth.
Licks and kisses as Dean comes down, and Sam has just enough brain function left to catch him when his knees buckle – sprawling across Sam’s lap with his forehead against Sam’s neck. Dean’s breath against his throat is a tease as powerful as the solid weight of Dean’s body on his aching cock, trapped between them beneath too many layers of cloth. Sam can’t help but push up into that weight and press his mouth to Dean’s damp temple, tasting the heat there.
Then suddenly Dean is staring at him, his expression torn open and dark with rage, and Sam has no time to wonder before Dean is kissing him, ruthless and hard as his hands scrabble between them, tearing at buttons and cloth. The first touch of Dean’s hand, bare and hot on his cock, makes him moan around Dean’s tongue, practically makes him sob.
“Can I do this to you? What you did to me?” Dean says against his jaw between biting kisses that stab shocks down into his dick, so all he can do is push up helplessly into Dean’s fist. “Make you crazy?” Dean whispers. “Make you come?”
The only answer to that is to shove his mouth against Dean’s, bruise him, crush him, and thrust hard until the world whites out and then somehow they’re on the floor, tangled in clothes and each other like they’ll never be able to move apart again.
Yes, the voices whisper. Yes.
----------
The voices are gone.
Wait.
Not gone. Silent. Drifting and aimless.
Sated.
“Dean?" It’s like talking through a throat full of broken glass.
“Yeah, who else?” Weary voice, muffled by Sam’s shoulder.
Dean’s already shifting off of him, pulling back, but Sam isn’t ready to let him go and tightens his arms instinctively. “You okay?” he asks.
Dean lifts his face from Sam's shoulder, messy hair, bruised lips and smeared kohl, completely fuckable except for his eyes.
Oh, God.
There’s nothing in Dean’s cold stare that he can even begin to deal with, so he looks away and sees they aren’t the only ones on the floor. Bodies crumpled around them, arms stretched out toward them as if trying to touch. As he stares, one pale hand flexes.
“I think we better get the fuck out of here,” Dean says, evenly. “Don’t you?”
Yeah, leaving’s probably a really good idea.
He lets Dean go and stands somehow, makes his gaze skate away from Dean's body as Dean gets dressed. The rags of Dean’s shirt hit him in the side of the head and he grabs for it before it hits the floor.
“Clean yourself up,” Dean says in a quiet voice that's far worse than anger so Sam just does it, buttons up as he nervously watches the sprawled bodies around them begin to move. Dean grabs Sam's arm, bruising-hard, and pushes him toward the door.
"Go."
Sam stumbles through the maze of hallways, following Dean until they’ve almost reached the main part of the club. Sam can see lights and movement up ahead and the music’s getting more intense, but Dean stops him at a fire door hidden in an alcove, and Sam wonders how Dean even found it.
Dean shoves the door open but Sam stops at the threshold, trying to clear his head, to remember why they came in here in the first place. "Wait.”
“What now?”
Something. Something important.
“We don't know where they sleep," Sam says, trying to break through Dean’s indifference.
"I do," Dean says.
That throws him for a second. “How…?”
“Does it matter? I know. We’re out of here.” Sam grabs his arms when he turns to go.
“Look, they know things. Things about me. What I can do.”
Sam watches Dean’s cold mask shatter.
“So you want to stay here and party? Tie me up again? Maybe fuck me for your new friends?”
Sam’s not sure which hurts more, the sarcasm or the pain in Dean’s voice. “I’m going to kill them all,” he whispers. “They’re going to die in pain and blood and fire, I swear it. But, Dean.” He has to make his brother understand. “This might be the only chance I have to get some answers.”
“Christ, Sam.” Dean looks away, and reaches up to rub a bruise on his neck that Sam doesn’t remember making. Then his face changes and he rubs harder. “What the hell did you do to me?” he asks.
“I didn’t –“ Sam starts, stepping closer to look.
I didn’t do that, Sam wants to say, but he can’t. Can’t speak, can’t move, can’t breathe – can only stare at the blood.
On Dean’s fingertips. And on the puncture wounds at the base of Dean’s neck.
End
To part 4, Bitten
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, a little bondage, and consent issues. (Anyone still here? *bg*)
Summary: The goth!boys go back to the club for more angst and eyeliner. Plus porn.
Notes: Third in a series of vignettes, with two more to come. Follows Beautiful and Broken. I’ve been trying to finish this for weeks. *g* Kisses to everyone who asked. (and to
sori1773 for the amazing beta!)by
angelaficionado and sylph_ironlight respectivelyBound by Audra Rose
Shouldn’t be here, Sam thinks, shouldn’t be here at all, parked near empty warehouses and dark alleys he wouldn’t want to walk though in the daytime. It would have been so easy to take off, just drive up the coast and put 500 miles between Dean and those things in the club before nightfall, but no, never the goddamned easy way out for his brother. Should have known he’d end up back outside the club with the sun going down behind him, sitting next to Dean in the front seat and feeling twitchy with exhaustion and fear.
The neon over the doorway across the street flickers into life.
Venom.
"They're not even trying to hide it, are they?" Dean asks.
Sam pretends he doesn't hear and digs in the pocket of his long leather coat for the eyeliner. There's still enough light to see so he tips the rearview mirror toward his face as Dean turns away, shifting uncomfortably.
Dean can bitch all he wants about having to shred his vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt and put more of "that black shit" on his face, but if they’re really going to do this then Sam wants this part of it, too. Needs it. The things lurking in the shadows of the club scare him cold, but with the make-up on his face he looks older, tougher, like someone who absolutely should not be fucked with. Long leather coat and massive boots making him even taller, broader, and suddenly he can feel it... power. Just that, thudding though his veins in time with the bass line that pulses out of the club every time someone slips through the door.
He turns to hand Dean the kohl-pencil and finds that Dean still won't look at him, gaze skating away like it has all day. Dean snatches the pencil away carefully, so their fingers don't touch and Sam sighs and looks back at the doorway of the club.
“We’re going to go in, find out where they sleep during the day, and get out. That’s all,” Dean says.
Sam isn’t listening because Dean’s said it twice in the last half hour and all he can think about is that he should have crawled into bed with Dean last night. He should have gone straight from the shower to the bed where Dean was pretending to sleep; ignored the tense wall of Dean’s shoulders trying to shut him out and covered Dean’s skin with his body. Should have made Dean wake up this morning with his cock in Sam's mouth.
See how distant he could act then.
Bastard.
"Let's go," Dean says, finally meeting Sam's eyes for the first time all day. Sam blinks, and then suddenly he’s choking with laughter. For a second Dean looks murderous and then turns abruptly and opens his car door.
"Dean, wait," Sam says, not sure how to tell him that the kohl he's scrubbed under his eyes makes him look like some kind of deranged football player. Dean faces him, impatient and glaring, and Sam reaches out.
"Cut it out, Sam," Dean mutters, turning his face.
"Dude, you need to --" Sam says, trying again, but Dean knocks his hand away.
"Back off! What’s wrong with you?", and he sounds so much like their father that Sam wants to laugh but is afraid it'll come out a half-hysterical giggle.
"You just need to --"
"Need to what, already?"
"Blend, okay? Just let me fix it," Sam tells him, stifling his grin, and catches Dean's face in his hands. And holy shit, the planets must be aligned, because Dean stays still and lets Sam smear the lines and blur the edges, his skin warm and smooth beneath Sam's fingertips. Dean's face changes with the shadows, and he glares off somewhere over Sam's shoulder; angry, sullen --
beautiful--
and Sam wonders if Dean knows what he looks like, knows what it does to Sam. Then Dean meets his eyes and it's all there for Sam to read -- fear and embarrassment and ohgod, hurt; cutting down so deep that Sam can't touch it. Yeah, Dean knows exactly what he looks like, exactly what Sam feels, and he hates it.
I'm sorry, Sam thinks, feeling numb, but the words stick in his throat and Dean pulls out of his grasp.
"Let's go."
-----
He feels it as soon as they walk through the door; dark curiosity running fast and cool through the shadows. The huge space is just grinding music and strobing lights that do nothing to cut through the darkness surrounding them, so Sam stares into the shifting crowd, into the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor where cold eyes meet his and disappear before he can see who - what - they belong to. He feels the weight of those eyes push against him and he shakes his head.
"What is it?" Dean shouts into his ear.
"They’ve noticed us," Sam tells him, distracted by the hiss of voices he can almost hear, and feels Dean tense beside him.
“That was fast,” Dean says, looking angry about it, and Sam can’t believe he didn’t know that they’d be waiting. For Dean.
"I think it's okay, though," Sam says, and turns his head to talk to his brother. “For now, anyway. They’re curious.” Sam’s lips brush against the edge of Dean’s ear and the hiss becomes a roar -- hunger -- washing over him, through him, centering on his brother beside him and he almost stumbles. “Interested,” he adds, through a throat gone suddenly dry.
“That’s great,” Dean is saying, from somewhere far away, while Sam watches his mouth form the words. “I’m sorry, but I don’t trust them.”
Shouldn’t trust me, either, Sam thinks; idle thought that scatters away when he looks at the torn places on Dean’s shirt where his skin shows through. Strange, wary look from Dean and then he’s turning, moving further into the club. Sam follows by rote, pushing past moving bodies that brush up against them, heat and skin and sweat. Dean’s ahead of him, weaving through the crowd almost faster than Sam can follow. He can still see Dean, though, and he can see the way they turn to look at him, the way they trail soft touches over his body as he passes. Elegant fingers drifting over his shoulders and his throat, sliding across the leather on his hips and why the hell can’t Dean tell that it’s deliberate?
“Hey, Dean –"
He reaches out to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, stops his forward movement and oh -- warm skin beneath the cloth, an immediate jolt rushing through his body, from Dean, from them, and
touch him touch him touch him
and yes, that’s what he wants, has always wanted, so he steps up close against his brother, slips his arms around Dean’s waist, and drags him close. Dean’s back colliding with his chest, and god, who knew they’d fit together like this, so perfectly? When he bends his head his lips brush the skin behind Dean’s ear and he can feel the sharp point of Dean’s jaw against his mouth; has to lick a little, just to taste…
Dean flinches, tenses in his arms, and then Sam’s staring into Dean’s face, close and angry.
“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” Sam blinks at him, the outrage in Dean’s eyes breaking through the haze and he can barely answer.
“They like it when we touch each other,” Sam says, stuttering over the words.
Dean stares, and then suddenly he’s moving, turning in Sam’s arms to twist a hand into Sam’s hair so hard it hurts.
“Sam, you goddamn listen to me,” Dean says, lips practically touching Sam’s, eyes almost closed so that Sam can see the thick fringe of his eyelashes splayed across the shadow. “Get your head back in the game and go use the force or whatever the hell it is you do and find out what we need to know. Now.”
Except it isn’t anything like now because Dean’s pulling Sam’s head down until their mouths crush together, teeth and tongues and bruised lips, and Sam gets a taste of copper that seems to make the walls tremble. He wants to fall into this, right here, rightfuckingnow, but Dean’s already gone, pulling out of Sam’s arms and diving into the crowd, disappearing before Sam can even think.
He should be worried, probably, should be scared as fuck, but what he’s feeling doesn’t allow for it. It’s the power again, the excitement that whirls around and carries him with it, like ex, maybe; like all the shit he never did, never tried, because Sam doesn’t do things like that, though right now he can’t think why. Hypnotic movements to grinding music all around him and he finds himself drawn out to the dance floor, moving to rhythms he hears in his head.
The leather coat slips from his shoulders to fall from his hands, and the humid air feels cool on his arms, bare where he’s torn the sleeves off his black shirt. Cool fingers over his biceps, trailing under the hem of his shirt to brush his skin, skimming over the dark denim on his thighs. He could give in so easily.
It’s then he realizes that they know exactly what information he’s looking for, exactly why he wants it, and they will never let him have it.
So why the fuck is he still walking around and not a bloodstain in the parking lot? Why --
know what you are
Words clear as the daylight he probably won’t see again, words to make Sam freeze in place and let the crowd push him around.
What am I?
He forms the words before he can stop himself and disbelief comes back at him. Something else, too. Something that feels a lot like fear.
What am I, he asks again, desperate, because here, finally, he might find out why he dreams in prophecy and moves things with his mind and oh, yeah, can fucking talk to vampires in his head.
tell you
A taunting promise, and god, he can almost see hear touch the answer, held just out of reach…
Just give him to us.
Fuck. Dean.
“Where is he?” Spoken out loud as he turns in a circle, searching, and panic makes him shaky. “What did you do?”
Desire, hunger, crashing against his mind and Sam sees Dean as they see him, sees everything they want to do to him, and god, it makes Sam so hard. Fear and need he can taste and it draws him, makes him push through the crowd, feeling writhing bodies stumble to get out of his way.
He doesn’t know how he finds the room, hidden in the maze of hallways at the back where the music is muted to a low throb. Almost completely dark but he can see chain link fence lining the walls, crush of bodies in leather and chains, cuffs and masks, things he never knew to imagine, and there –- thank god, Dean -- leaning back against the wall, head bent and arms bound behind him and for Sam there might as well be no one else in the room.
Torn shirt framing his shoulders and soft leather falling off his hips, long line of perfect skin and muscle Sam wants to run his hands over and for one crazy second Sam wishes they had finished undressing him. God. What the fuck is wrong with him? He pushes the thought away and calls out Dean’s name into dead air, pushing though clinging hands and stroking fingers.
Maybe Dean can hear him because he raises his head, all mouth and cheekbones and dazed eyes. Even from across the room Sam can see his lips are swollen
bitten
like someone had just stopped kissing him, and in one cold-bright moment of rage Sam decides that these things are going to die tonight for touching him.
The thought alone seems to be enough to make them scatter, slender figures darting away as he rushes to his brother so by the time he gets to Dean there’s space around them. Sam steps close, leans their foreheads together, blocks out everything else so it’s just the two of them, just like always.
Breathless silence now, just waiting, where he’s gotten used to noise inside his mind.
“You hurt?” Whispered into the space between their lips. Dean’s eyes are closed again, black kohl making them looked bruised, and Dean makes a slight motion with his head.
“No.” Stops. “I don’t think so.”
Sam doesn’t believe him so he runs his hands over Dean’s arms, his chest; does it again because he’s wanted to do it forever, even if he only realized it just now. Smooth over hard and he loves
they love
the way his hands look on Dean’s skin. Dean makes a sound when Sam’s palms brush over his nipples, makes another when Sam uses his fingertips to make one hard.
“Oh, fuck. Sam.” Dean takes a breath that catches in his throat. “What are you doing?”
“Wanted to touch you all day,” Sam says softly, watching what his fingers can do to Dean’s body. He traces a perfect circle that makes Dean shiver, that makes him pull against the binding on his wrists. “And you wouldn’t let me. Why?”
“They’re doing this to you,” Dean says, trying to sound like dad giving orders, but it doesn’t work. “Come on, just get us out of here.”
“You wanted me to touch you, though,” Sam tells him, fascinated by the sight of his own fingers trailing down the smooth lines of Dean’s body, hard chest and muscled stomach. “You wanted to touch me, too. Kiss me.” Soft whisper in Dean’s ear. “Fuck me.”
Dean shakes his head, maybe at the words or at Sam’s hands tugging the leather lower on his hips. Sam runs the backs of his fingers over the taut skin he can see now, Dean’s eyes on Sam’s hands like he’s hypnotized. Follows them down, down, over the front of Dean’s pants and Sam can feel the shape of him through the soft leather. They both watch as Sam finds the tip of Dean’s cock and makes slow circles with his thumb.
“I want to put my mouth here,” he whispers.
“Jesus, Sam! Look,” Dean swallows, and his voice sounds used, a little desperate, “Okay, you’re right, I want that, too. Want you, just – just not here.”
Something there he should listen to but he can smell Dean’s skin, soap and sweet, clean sweat,
blood
and rising musk that makes his mouth water. The hard points of Dean’s hips fit into his palms as he leans down, licks Dean’s lips until they open, and then ohgod, finally – kissing Dean, soft lips and teasing tongue and he knows just what to do to make Dean kiss him back. Soft sighs surround him, like they can feel how good this is, how much Sam wants him.
Dean is talking again; Sam can feel the vibration against his lips as he kisses down Dean’s throat, come on, sam, let me go, and you don’t want to do this, words that don’t make any sense the way Dean’s body is arching toward him so he bites along Dean’s collar-bone to make him gasp. Licking at Dean’s nipples makes him moan, biting them makes him squirm, makes him pull against the restraints until Sam worries he’s going to hurt himself so he puts his hands around Dean’s twisting wrists, stills Dean’s frantic hands. Feels leather wound around Dean’s wrists, too, pulled tight and threaded through a metal buckle and the cold chain-link behind them.
Dean’s belt. No question. Sam’s going to kill them all.
Later.
He drops down, and it’s so much easier to do this on his knees, soothe the raw skin around Dean’s wrists with his fingers, and whisper against Dean’s chest, heaving like this is a race.
“This will be so good, I promise,” he tells his brother, nuzzling the damp skin, touching his tongue to the flat curves of Dean’s navel, moaning when Dean makes a brief, aborted thrust. His hands drift from Dean’s wrists to his ass, soft leather warm as skin and Sam just slides his palms over, curls his fingers under the band and pulls, feeling the button give and the cloth slide down Dean’s skin.
“Oh, Jesus, Sam, this is so fucked up,” Dean says, dropping his head back against the metal fence. “Not like this, Sam, okay? Not like -- fuck.”
Dean hunches forward when Sam traces the low curve of muscle beneath his hipbone, follows the line of it with his tongue until he feels a slick slide against his cheek, musky scent where the leather’s pulled down low. When he turns his head he’s breathing over the wet, swollen tip of Dean’s cock, rising from the damp leather.
Dean’s begging him now, promising bed and darkness, just the two of them, “Anything, Sammy, anything you want, just don’t-” but Dean's voice shatters when he touches his lips to the tip, wets them with slick-salt liquid.
“Oh, god.” Something broken in Dean’s voice now. “Okay, Sam. Okay. Just – just let me touch you.”
Something breaks in Sam, too, and he reaches back, wrenching the buckle free. He doesn’t wait, just unzips and peels the leather down Dean’s thighs to the floor and God – Dean – flushed and hard, moisture beading at the tip that he needs to taste. Slick and salt and Dean’s helpless sounds and he can’t stop, just pulls Dean into him – full and hot and yes – Sam needs this. He grasps Dean’s hips like he might try to get away and feels Dean stagger, feels him hitch helplessly beneath his hands.
drink
God, yes. Sam slides his hands around to cup hard muscle and take him deep, open mouth and stroking tongue and he didn’t know he could do this but it’s amazing – how it feels and what it does to Dean. No words now, just moans and movement that Sam stills with hands tight enough to mark.
Dean’s hands are in his hair, clumsily grasping for purchase and sliding free – maybe Sam would worry if he weren’t so hard he can’t think anymore -- nothing but pleasepleaseplease, over and over, willing Dean to lose control, years of control. Looking up he sees Dean staring down at him, wild and lost until the moment Sam swallows.
Sam gets just a glimpse of Dean’s throat when he arches and tilts his head back, and then Sam has to close his eyes and just take it. Ragged thrusts, fingers brutal on his neck and shoulders and then Dean frozen above him, movement stuttering to a stop as Dean pulses over and over in Sam’s mouth.
Licks and kisses as Dean comes down, and Sam has just enough brain function left to catch him when his knees buckle – sprawling across Sam’s lap with his forehead against Sam’s neck. Dean’s breath against his throat is a tease as powerful as the solid weight of Dean’s body on his aching cock, trapped between them beneath too many layers of cloth. Sam can’t help but push up into that weight and press his mouth to Dean’s damp temple, tasting the heat there.
Then suddenly Dean is staring at him, his expression torn open and dark with rage, and Sam has no time to wonder before Dean is kissing him, ruthless and hard as his hands scrabble between them, tearing at buttons and cloth. The first touch of Dean’s hand, bare and hot on his cock, makes him moan around Dean’s tongue, practically makes him sob.
“Can I do this to you? What you did to me?” Dean says against his jaw between biting kisses that stab shocks down into his dick, so all he can do is push up helplessly into Dean’s fist. “Make you crazy?” Dean whispers. “Make you come?”
The only answer to that is to shove his mouth against Dean’s, bruise him, crush him, and thrust hard until the world whites out and then somehow they’re on the floor, tangled in clothes and each other like they’ll never be able to move apart again.
Yes, the voices whisper. Yes.
----------
The voices are gone.
Wait.
Not gone. Silent. Drifting and aimless.
Sated.
“Dean?" It’s like talking through a throat full of broken glass.
“Yeah, who else?” Weary voice, muffled by Sam’s shoulder.
Dean’s already shifting off of him, pulling back, but Sam isn’t ready to let him go and tightens his arms instinctively. “You okay?” he asks.
Dean lifts his face from Sam's shoulder, messy hair, bruised lips and smeared kohl, completely fuckable except for his eyes.
Oh, God.
There’s nothing in Dean’s cold stare that he can even begin to deal with, so he looks away and sees they aren’t the only ones on the floor. Bodies crumpled around them, arms stretched out toward them as if trying to touch. As he stares, one pale hand flexes.
“I think we better get the fuck out of here,” Dean says, evenly. “Don’t you?”
Yeah, leaving’s probably a really good idea.
He lets Dean go and stands somehow, makes his gaze skate away from Dean's body as Dean gets dressed. The rags of Dean’s shirt hit him in the side of the head and he grabs for it before it hits the floor.
“Clean yourself up,” Dean says in a quiet voice that's far worse than anger so Sam just does it, buttons up as he nervously watches the sprawled bodies around them begin to move. Dean grabs Sam's arm, bruising-hard, and pushes him toward the door.
"Go."
Sam stumbles through the maze of hallways, following Dean until they’ve almost reached the main part of the club. Sam can see lights and movement up ahead and the music’s getting more intense, but Dean stops him at a fire door hidden in an alcove, and Sam wonders how Dean even found it.
Dean shoves the door open but Sam stops at the threshold, trying to clear his head, to remember why they came in here in the first place. "Wait.”
“What now?”
Something. Something important.
“We don't know where they sleep," Sam says, trying to break through Dean’s indifference.
"I do," Dean says.
That throws him for a second. “How…?”
“Does it matter? I know. We’re out of here.” Sam grabs his arms when he turns to go.
“Look, they know things. Things about me. What I can do.”
Sam watches Dean’s cold mask shatter.
“So you want to stay here and party? Tie me up again? Maybe fuck me for your new friends?”
Sam’s not sure which hurts more, the sarcasm or the pain in Dean’s voice. “I’m going to kill them all,” he whispers. “They’re going to die in pain and blood and fire, I swear it. But, Dean.” He has to make his brother understand. “This might be the only chance I have to get some answers.”
“Christ, Sam.” Dean looks away, and reaches up to rub a bruise on his neck that Sam doesn’t remember making. Then his face changes and he rubs harder. “What the hell did you do to me?” he asks.
“I didn’t –“ Sam starts, stepping closer to look.
I didn’t do that, Sam wants to say, but he can’t. Can’t speak, can’t move, can’t breathe – can only stare at the blood.
On Dean’s fingertips. And on the puncture wounds at the base of Dean’s neck.
End
To part 4, Bitten
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