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Nov. 10th, 2006 10:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecatevariAfter talking to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nymeria, and in an effort to SHAME my ficwife into finally FUCKING FINISHING THIS DAMN THING, I'm going to post this here. Y'all know she stalks my LJs, so if you want us to get off our asses and finish this, SAY SO. *coughs* Because, OMG, it's so good. Or it would be if we'd FINISH IT. This is SO rough and ridiculously, drafty, though. Be warned. Like, sloppy POV shifts and IM convos and random notes...ROUGH.
But.
Sex Pollen, y'all. Just saying.
me: So..I'm thinking about when it all wears off. And they have to actually FACE what they did.
3:33 PM Mona: You took the thoughts right out of my brain.
me: :) OUR brain, thank you!
Mona: When SAM, oh holy jesus, has to face what he did.
Well that's taken as given
Because Dean's going to be ashamed.
But SAM'S going to be horrified.
me: And Dean thinks that it's over now. That Sam will just...walk away from him. After he gave him EVERYTHING.
3:34 PM Mona: And Sam is SO HORRIFIED that he can't even like SPEAK. He thinks he RAPED DEAN.
me: And Dean...it was such a tease. The demon couldn't have done anything worse to him. Because it was everything. It was EVERYTHING he wanted. And...it was just the pollen. It wasn't real.
Mona: Because it's all hazy and he knows exactly what they did but has a real hard time remembering how much Dean was THERE with him. How much he actually wanted it, even if it was rough and TAKEN.
3:35 PM *nod nod enthusiastic*
me: *nodsnods back*
Mona: :D
me: ;^)
Mona: Dude, we're INSANE
me: Well. Yes.
Is that so wrong?
3:36 PM Mona: (and we can't just EVAR leave it at the porn, can we?)
me: NO! *outraged*
Mona: (this is how EBT started. i'm just stating that for the record)
me: *snorts* STFU.
Mona: Just sayin' *spreads hands*
3:37 PM me: I'm not hearing that noise. Not...yet.
Fuck. No. Not hearing it.
Mona: *sniffs, resolute* Yes.
Me neither.
me: WHY COULDN'T WE JUST LEAVE IT AT FUN SEXY SEX POLLEN?
Mona: BECAUSE WE ARE ENORMOUS GEEKS
3:38 PM WE MUST HAVE BACKSTORY AND CONSEQUENCES
me: *HEADDESKS*
Mona: It can STILL be That Kinky Series We Did
me: Do you REALLY (bare assed naked) think so?
3:39 PM AND...!
Mona: Because, hey, for Sam to get over this shit - once Dean finishes his initial freak-out and realizes how Sam really thinks he did this UNFORGIVABLE THING, he has to go and tie Sam up in his sleep and do all kinds of shit to him.
I mean, you know, of course.
me: More importantly...DO YOU WANT IT TO?
Oooh. Yes.
Mona: And then Sam can GET it and do The Bad Things to Dean again and they can be in a happily perverse and pornographic incestuous relationship with one another and live kinkily ever after.
3:40 PM me: I now have visions of Dean fucking Sam and instead of saying "Mine", he's saying "Yours". FORCING Sam to claim him...
Lazy mornings.
Sam likes lazy mornings; the ones where you wake all slow and melty, feeling all right with the world. The ones where it feels like your whole body is thick, heavy and slow and your morning hard cock is cradled snugly by warm willing flesh; a body that sighs sleepily and pushes back when you rock experimentally into it, not even all the way awake, eyes still closed.
Sam shifts and slips deeper, unconscious of much more than yes and mmm and good, more than the feel of wet hot warmth against his tip, soft and delicate, touching him like a mouth. A kiss.
Yes.
And like a mouth, it opens for him as his hips rock forward again, accepting him into a tight moistness that feels even better, languid pleasure lapping through him like sunlight on his skin, like the tiny licks of the incoming tide. The noise that accompanies it, sleepy and moaning is unbelievably erotic, currents of heat and ohyesmore pulsing like the relaxed beat of his heart.
Sam's hips slide in flat, slow arcs, working deeper. Not really fucking, not really, but more like easing home. It feels so good, so exquisitely good that he wishes he could hover here forever, in this pink and gold afterglow of wonderful and never quite wake up at all.
Because if he does...
Sam frowns and feels it already start to slip from his fingers...
If he does...
Then the body in his arm snuggles back again, heat and warmth and ohgodsotight and Sam sighs a name. But rather than the name he expects, breathing over his lips, instead of Jess, what comes out on that broken exhale is "Dean..."
Dean?
Cold—ice coldness—sweeps through Sam, obliterating all the lazy warmth, shredding the last clinging vestiges of protective sleep, ripping it away from him to expose the full horror of what he did, what he...oh God...what he's still doing. What he's doing right now.
Sam jerks away from Dean—sweet merciful Christ, Dean—so fast, Dean is pulled back a little with him, making a quiet, wounded noise as Sam's cock (godgodgod) pulls out of him abruptly. They're naked. They're both naked and he... He was...
Well. There's not much room for prevarication here, is there?
Not when you're pulling your dick out of your brother's ass, loose and wet and hot. Not when you know it's because you've fucked him so hard and long that there's nothing he can be but loose, wet and hot, swollen red. Not when the same brother is leopard spotted in fingerprints of blue-black and bites of smeary crimson-mauve. Ones that you left on him.
The thing is, Sam remembers. Not all of it, hazy and sloppy and half-melted (and gorgeous, don't forget gorgeous), but enough. Enough to know what he did. What he enjoyed doing, long after the honeyed poison of LeChard's pollen had faded from killing urgency to simple and unmitigated self-motivated lust.
He doesn't know if he ever thought of Dean like this before he'd been shoving his tongue, his fingers, his cock into Dean's mouth.
He doesn't know if he's going to be able to think of Dean any other way ever again.
Oh God. Oh God.
"Sam?" Dean's voice is raspy and ragged, broken by hours—hours—of moaning, of…talking, begging. Dean turns onto his back and—still more than half-hard—Sam's cock gives a twitch at the sight of him, sprawled and fuddled, his mouth swollen and pinked up, wearing the marks of Sam's hands and teeth all over. "Sam, do you…?" Dean's hand falls loosely on Sam's thigh and Sam's muscles tremble. "Again?"
Oh God. Oh God.
Sam almost breaks a leg scrambling out of the bed. He trips over the low headboard and goes stumbling, scraping his palms and knees on the floor.
"Sam?" Dean asks again. He sits up. It's a several stage motion. Sam's watched Dean through enough pains and injuries to know how Dean moves when. He's hurting.
There aren't even words for what Sam's feeling, seeing that. His stomach lurches rottenly, hot bile splashing up in the back of his throat. Dean. He raped Dean. He raped Dean.
Dean doesn't quite know what happened.
Or… That's not it exactly. He knows what happened, for God's sake; he's got the dried come and bite marks and the ache deep inside him to brilliantly fucking illustrate what happened. But somewhere in between the lines of oh God, Sammy's whacked out on love pollen, "Dean, I need this; I need…",, and please, Sammy, I'm yours, I'm yours just don't stop, something in Dean shattered. Just…broke the fuck down. Broke him the fuck down, uncovering something… Something he'd never seen in himself before. Something he'd never even known was there, more than sex, more than incest; a monumental need, to be held, to be bid, to be possessed and…and owned. Belonging. Belonging to someone. Belonging to Sam, which is different than anything and anyone he's ever known.
He'd liked it. It seems like such a simple thing to think and yet it goes down to the flawed core of him like lightning, illuminating…everything. He liked it.
Sitting on the edge of LaChard's bed, Dean looks at the heavy blackened rings of bruises on his arms and wrists. They hurt every time he moves, every shift of the tendon or muscle. And yet all his can think of is that other people will see these bruises. They'll know he's marked. That someone—that Sam—put his hands on him and left these signs there to be read later. Everyone will see, and know.
Dean's never been ashamed of his injuries before. They were well earned and honest. But he's never felt pride in them either. He feels a glow when he looks at these, warm and comforting, and a part of him wishes they would never fade.
Because it's over now. Sam's freak-out has already started; he's pacing and muttering, throwing on his clothes all helter-skelter and let's face it—Dean's luck has never been that good. He figures it's just about par for the course that all out of the blue he'd be given everything he hadn't even known he wanted, only to lose it before he'd even had time to wrap his brain around it.
He feels naked. He's never felt naked without his clothes, but he feels naked now.
Dean has a plan.
He's well aware that most of his plans are total shit but goddammit he's not going to just let this go. He knows Sam was there with him, pollen or not, he knows it from the way Sam hasn't tossed him away, hasn't called it "sick" and "wrong" and he's horrified, yeah. Sam's totally horrified but his horror has all been focused on how he thinks he did this to Dean, that he did something Dean didn't want. But he's never felt pride in them either. He feels a glow when he looks at these, warm and comforting, and a part of him wishes they would never fade. Dean. Dean wants it all.
So he's going to make Sam listen. And so he has a plan.
It involved some involuntary tying up but that's just them, isn't it? They're both such stubborn bastards but Dean is going to show Sam. Show him how much he wants this, how much he wants Sam.
Because it can't really get much worse than it already is, can it?
And okay, sure, Dean slipped a little pain killer into Sam's beer when he wasn't looking but what's a little lortab among brothers? He just had to make sure Sam stayed asleep while he did this.
When Sam wakes up, he's expertly tied down to the bed, rope runs under the mattress so that when he shifts one hand the other gets pulled farther down.
Sam's cock is soft when Dean draws down his shorts. The skin is impossibly silky when Dean runs his lips over it, nuzzling. Christ, the feel of Sam expanding and hardening in Dean's mouth is beyond anything, beyond speech or coherent thought. Sam's quiet, sleepy moan fills Dean's heart up to overflowing and makes him suck harder, get Sam harder.
Yes.
He tastes hot and salty-sweet, a little bitter and flowered from the cheap motel soap he'd obviously tried to scrub right through his skin and inside to clean his soul. But Dean swabs it off with his tongue until all that's left is Sam Sammy Sam.
Dean is going to make him realize, make him see.
Sam's fully hard and his hips shift up. He groans, "Dean…" just once before jerking fully awake.
Me. He knows it's me. He likes that it's me.
Sam's eyes fly open, Dean is watching so he knows the second it happens. "Dean! What the fuck?!"
Dean pulls off and rubs his cheek against Sam's thigh, trails fingertips into the hollow of his hip. He licks his lips and looks up; Sam looks back, wide-eyed, and swallows hard. "Want this. I want you, Sammy. Let me. Please let me do this. I'll take care of you." He leans down to lick at the shiny-smooth head of Sam's cock and Sam's shudder wracks through his whole body.
"Dean. Dean, you don't. Oh god, I…this is. Dean just…slow down and let me think or…Jesus..."
Dean does. He does just what Sam says and slows down, pulls his lips free and moves one hand over Sam instead. Strokes him slow and long and sucks wet, open-mouthed kisses onto his thighs and hips and stomach, makes Sam whimper and groan with his mouth and hands.
Dean starts whispering against Sam's browned skin before he can help himself, saying shit he never thought he'd be able to say out loud but it's Sam so he doesn't stop. "I don't care, Sammy. I don't care if it's wrong. I don't care if you're my brother. Not anymore. Not after all this, not when you're all I have. I need you, I need this. Please Sam. God, please."
Dean's the one drugged this time. With the taste and feel and scent of Sam all around him. The only person he's ever loved. He moves the fingers of his other hand under Sam's balls and lifts, strokes and rolls them up for a minute then puts those two fingers into his mouth and slicks them with spit, gets them nice and wet because he's going to show Sam exactly how good Dean can make him feel.
He's gotta make Sam feel.
So he slides his wet fingers up and between the cleft of Sam's ass. Circling up and rubbing, just stroking against Sam's hole and listening to the broken, choked whimper Sam makes that sounds a little bit like Dean's name. His fingers slip in. Slowly. Gently.
Dean watches Sam's face. Watches it crumple and twist, watches his mouth go slack, watches him gasp for air and pant Dean's name. This feels like power. Giving Sam this pleasure feels like the greatest power Dean has ever known.
"Dean…Dean. Oh… It's so good. You feel so good. I just can't… I don't know if you… God, Dean. You've got to stop. I can't think, I have to think. You have to stop. Dean! Fuck. Stop!"
And so Dean stops. Because he's showing Sam. He's going to show him just how good he can be. Show him what he can do if Sam just lets him. He's got to make Sam let him.
And then, finally, when he can't pretend any more,
And Dean is all, "this this, dammit. I want this. I want this with you. It's the only thing I've ever wanted."
Sam's protests, "Dean. Dean. No, you don't...you don't want this. Look at what I did to you..."
And Dean screams at him, just...screams: "YOU MADE ME YOURS!"
Sam feels like the skin is peeled off of him with the force of that shout, the force of the emotion behind it, so far beyond anything he might have guessed…or even hoped. His. For a moment he's speechless.
"Don't you get that? You made me yours and..." Dean's voice drops to a whisper, husking and scraped. "I liked… I loved it, Sammy."
He loved it? He loved it? It's got to be the pollen. Sam's hallucinating. "No...no...Dean... I was... We were..."
Dean says, "You're the only one I could ever belong to. Sam, you're the only one I want to belong to." His voice lowers, turns into an almost shamed mumble. "Always wanted it, just didn't know."
"Oh fuck, oh Dean..." Sam's head falls back on the pillow. He doesn't even want to contemplate how Dean's words made his heart skip like a scratched record. This can't be real. "I...are you sure? I mean...are you sure?" What is he thinking? No. No. "You can barely walk. And...and I did that. I did that to you. I hurt you, Dean. I never wanted to do anything to..."
"Yeah Sam, you hurt me. And it was fucking amazing, okay?! Jesus, I fucking loved it, is that what you need to hear? How many times you gonna make me repeat that? You said I was good—" Dean bites down on the words, cutting himself off.
He remembers that. Remembers, his hand curled around Dean's spent and sticky cock while Dean sobbed pleasure/pain into his neck. Remembers…so many things, all softened and beautified by the gilded gorgeousness of the pollen. "Oh God. Dean..." It's not easy being honest. Not about...something as hideously wrong as this. So monumentally wrong. Not about something that he… No. "I... Dean, you were good. You are." His stomach and cock roll and heat with the memory of how good, buried to the balls while Dean writhed and mewled. "I... I hate that I'm like this, don't you get it? I hate that I'm willing to just...take you and have you and not think and not even consider... You should have better. You shouldn't just be... God. I don't even know what I'm trying to say here. But Dean, you don't want me. Because...when it comes to you, I am...a demanding, evil, greedy possessive fuck."
"Sam...fuck. Don't you..?" Dean sighs. "Don't you remember? 'Cause I remember everything, and you kept asking, you kept asking at every turn and I said yes, every fucking time. Yes. It doesn't matter if...it doesn't matter whether you were able to stop or not. I said yes. I... fuck, Sammy... You don't even know." Dean doesn't want to say how hard he started to get when Sam said "greedy", greedy for *him*, for *Dean*.
When Sam said "posesssive".
"Sam you made sure... You didn't have to make it so good for me, don't you get it? The pollen didn't make you want to make it so good for me."
No. No that hadn't been the pollen. Because the pollen couldn't put something there that wasn't there in the first place. It could make you fuck, but it couldn't make you feel. Not like he'd felt with Dean under him. "But Dean... I mean...of course I did. I..." Oh fuck. "You think...you think this was all the pollen? That I had to? I mean, maybe I did, but that doesn't mean…that...that I didn't want this for...Jesus. Forever?"
*Dean is speechless*
"The pollen... Dean. The pollen wore off hours ago. Long before…long before we…before I stopped. But…" Sam spreads his hands as wide as the ropes will allow. "You're Dean. You're my whole fucking world."
Dean turns his face away, comes apart with his face turned away b/c he can't stand to have Sam see him this way again. Not if... He can't. He's shamed and hard and...*
"How could I not want you? How could I..." Dean turns his face away and Sam feels panic flutter up in his chest like a bird breaking itself on a window. "Fuck. Untie me. Untie. Me. Come here." Shit. And here he goes again. Ordering Dean around. But...but he can't let Dean wriggle his way out of this one. He can't let Dean keep thinking...well, something hideously fucked up, undoubtedly. Because Dean never fucking sees. "You wanna be mine? You want... Dean, you gotta be sure. You... Just be sure. Because... Because I will own your ass. You get it? I will own you." Dean's face is still tilted away from his, sharp chin, sharp nose, long girly lashes…Fuck. Sam needs to focus. His mouth and throat are so dry. "No more women, no more other men… Mine." Dean's eyelashes are fluttering; too far, he's gone too far. Sam wants to laugh. Like they aren't already light years beyond too far. "Dean, come on. Let me at least see you, man."
Dean's eyes come up from the screen of his lashes and Sam can't read a damn thing in them. Then he reaches forward, the length of his body sprawled out over Sam's and starts to undo the knots on the ropes. Sam can't help it. He tips his head back and takes a mouthful of Dean's skin, between collarbone and pectoral, biting down.
Dean stills. Just goes perfectly immobile, except for a long body shiver, his breath hissing out in a slow leak. The new bite bisects an older one; after a moment Sam tastes blood, sweet-sour and metallic. Sam's tongue traces the breaks he's left in Dean's skin, taking the blood on the pointed tip and leaving behind his scent, his saliva.
Mine. Sam-the-Thoroughly-Nice is having a panic attack in the corner of his brain, but he'd be lying if he said the rest of him didn't like—didn't love—the idea.
Despite years of trying, he'd never really understood Dean, frustrating and exasperating by turns because Sam liked (needed) to understand things. He thought of Dean like one of those jigsaws he'd pick up for a dime in thrift stores; there'd always been pieces missing, even though you could sort of make out what the overall picture was without them. But the possibility of those missing pieces had been almost better than whatever mundane picture he was putting together. The potentiality for something there to be hidden, something that changes his entire perception of the whole.
Sam feels his perception shifting.
"Do…" He tips his head up and Dean hunkers back a little on his heels, hands fallen away from the ropes. "Is this what you really want?"
Dean still won't look at him. His voice is stumbling, stifled. "Not…not all the time, but, I mean don't get any bright ideas when we're on the hunt, Sammy, you're not in charge. I'm still your big brother, I'm still gonna make sure nothing happens to you. But. When we're like this. If we do this. When it's…I want to. Please Sam, I want you to….so bad."
Sam can't help it; his hips buck up and his breath races out of his mouth. It's obscene. How much Sam likes hearing those words from Dean's lips, how much he wants to take him at his word. "You want me to what?" he asks. He almost doesn't recognize his own voice, rough and urgent, nothing like the person he likes to imagine he is.
Dean's head comes up and there's a look in his eyes, layered and complicated. Wariness, distrust, caution…but in the back, Sam thinks he sees the distant glimmer of hope too. "Sam…"
"No. You want this, you tell me. Lay it out for me, Dean; you want me to what?"
Dean inhales, and for a moment, Sam thinks he's pushed Dean too far; that he was wrong. Then: "O…own me."
"Come here." It's crazy, how calm he sounds. Inside, he's shaking, the voice of Sam-the-Really-Nice-Guy demanding what the fuck he thinks he's doing?. Like he even fucking knows. "Straddle my legs." He doesn't expect Dean to obey. Dean doesn't do obey. But he can't help the savage spike of satisfaction when Dean does, shuffling up the mattress and throwing his leg over Sam's so that his knees bracket Sam's hips. "Now," Sam says, as if he'd known all the time that Dean would listen. "What do you want me to do?"
"Please…" Dean's voice breaks. He licks his lips—God, those fucking lips—and tries again. "I want to be yours. I want… Keep me. Own me. I can be…whatever you want me to be."
God he was hard. He was so hard, and there was no way that Dean couldn't notice, both of them naked as anything and Sam's erection framed by the vee of Dean's thighs on either side. Sam flexes against the ropes, sliding a few inches down and forward, ignoring the twinge in his shoulders as he does so. He rubs his cock along Dean's and watches Dean's eyes close, watches his brother shudder and quiver. "You want to be mine?"
Dean's eyes snap open, as if they're on springs. Pain. So much pain. "Yes."
Sam inhales thickly. "Show me," he says.
Dean hisses when the blunt wet head of Sam's cock slides over him. Sam can feel the swollen red heat of Dean's ass; he remembers how deep, how hard, how much it's been abused. It's bad, it's wrong how much he wants to do it again, just spear through that tight crimsoned bud and fuck home. "Dean-- Dean, we don't have to..."
Dean's eyes open. The pollen had magnified everything, giving Sam insights into Dean's face he'd never had before and he can still see them; behind the irritation in Dean's eyes, Sam sees the fear. "I can do it," Dean insists, rolling and wriggling until the muscle opens, grudgingly accepting Sam's tip. "I can…"
Sam can't breathe for a moment, overwhelmed by the ohmygodtighthotsmooth feel of Dean around him and even more by Dean's willingness. By his want. And Sam likes. He more than likes it. God, he thinks. God. It could be a prayer. Or maybe not. He lifts his head. What he says is, "Yeah. Yeah, c'mon. Work yourself down. C'mon. Take it in you. That's my boy." His skin tingles, somewhere between exhilaration and terror. He's not sure he should have this power, not sure Dean should give it to him, no strings, no controls.
And yet…isn't that how Dean gives everything? Heedless, reckless, regardless of the consequence? He gives with his whole heart and doesn't ask for anything in return. Not even not to be chewed up and cast aside. It's a level of trust, of love, that Sam can't quite fathom. It scares the shit out of him.
"Yours," Dean whispers softly—almost too soft to be heard—as he writhes his bottom, sliding slowly down on Sam's cock. Dean braces himself with his hand over Sam's chest, Sam's heart beating strong and steady until Sam can't separate them—the sensation of Dean's fingers, the throb of his own heart.
He'd always wondered what Dean would be like broken; what lay beneath the brittle steel of his hard fought defenses. It seems weird and appropriate and ironic that it took something like this to do it. It seems amazing and unbelievable that what lay underneath is just a reflection of Sam himself, as Dean is repeated inside of Sam. This is Dean unmasked, laid naked in every sense of the word and Sam feels utterly humbled at the depths of Dean, so much more than he'd ever suspected.
"Yours," Dean says again, tightening around Sam, milking him tautly.
Sam cries out, thrusting up, his head falling back. "Mine," he agrees.
It shouldn't feel so good to say it. So right. Oh God.
Dean's breath goes out of him, caught somewhere between sob and moan and he rises and falls on the length of Sam's cock. Sam swears he can feel every curve and swell of Dean against his shaft, delicious, dizzying friction. "C'mon baby, fuck yourself down. Take all of me. I want…" Sam arches up as Dean twitches and jerks around him, pre-come spilling over Dean's dick to glisten shiny and beautiful. "I want you to take all of it. I want you to feel me."
Dean's eyes shut and Sam can see wetness shining on the lashes like beads of dew. Dean's tears. It shames him that he can take such pleasure in them, but his cock doesn't have any such compunction, swelling, tightening, driving his hips up into Dean harder and faster until tiny sounds—broken, hurting, wanting—fall out of Dean's mouth like those tears.
"You're so good, Dean. Oh God, God, you know you're mine now, right? You know… There's no going back after this. I keep what's mine, my good, good…oh, fuck, Dean…"
Sam thinks his spine might snap, it bows up so hard as his climax overtakes him, blindness, dumbness, deafness, everything, all senses rerouted into his dick and the shuddering clench of Dean around him. And yet, even with every other sound muted and damped and just plain gone, Sam swears he can still hear Dean, chanting like a prayer, yes, yes, yes.
Sam comes back to himself with Dean draped over his chest, hands reaching to undo the rope knots that hold Sam in place and his unsatisfied cock hot and sticky against Sam's belly. Sam's hands drop limply once freed; his fingers are half numb, his wrists abraded and bruised from where he fought the rope. He flexes the blood back into them then starts to shift Dean to the side.
Face hidden in the curve of Sam's neck, Dean makes a noise of protest, soft, as if he fully expects to be disregarded. And Sam knows he does. Because that's Dean too. "It's okay," Sam murmurs into Dean's skin, wriggling sideways until there's enough room between them for him to reach in. "I just want to touch you, baby. I just want to make you feel as good as you did me."
Dean stiffens when Sam's fingers slip between his legs, caressing, and then wrap around his cock. It's so swollen it has to hurt and Sam's hands are shaking a little as he starts to stroke it. Mine, he thinks, as Dean starts to shiver and pant, making squirmy breathless little pleasure noises against Sam's throat. This is mine and I can do anything with it. Anything I want. The wonder of that, the marvel, goes through him again and he pulls back a little more, so he can see Dean's face. So he can watch.
"This is mine," he says to Dean. Dean's eyes are closed, his mouth open, slack. "Open your eyes, Dean," he says, and simple as that, Dean does. His pupils are huge. Sam tightens his hand over Dean's cock, makes the stroke harder, rougher. Dean's breath hitches, but he doesn't look away, doesn't break eye contact, blinking hard and still shiny-eyed. "I can do what ever I want with this. With all of you."
"Yes." It's not even a sound, just the movement of Dean's lips. Those fuckable, wet, expectant lips.
"Okay." Sam wets his own lips, and Dean keens a little, thrusting harder into Sam's hand. "Okay. Do you know how good you feel, Dean, here in my hand? How much I like doing this to you, playing with you? You feel so good, Dean. And I want you to come. Can you do that for me? Can you…?"
Sam doesn't even get any further than that before Dean shudders hard, head and spine snapping back. He's coming in jetting spurts, grunting with every pulse and Sam leans in and takes Dean's mouth with his own, murmuring between thrusts of his tongue, "Yeah. Yeah. That's good, Dean. You did great. I love you so much."
When Dean is finally emptied and slack, Sam reaches up and smears his wet fingers over Dean's lips, paints over his freckles, pushes the tips into Dean's mouth and feels the tickling movement of Dean's tongue as it sucks and licks.
"Turn over," Sam says quietly, urging Dean onto his belly. He's hard again, and the languid determined way Dean struggles over is only making him harder. Sam circles his finger over Dean. Dean's still swollen, almost pouting, but he's lax and still lubed up inside. Dean moans when Sam's finger dips inside careful and exploratory, but it's not one of protest or even displeasure.
"Yes Sam; I'll be good for you, just for you, please…"
"Shhh," Sam says, shifting so his body covers Dean's, sliding a knee up between Dean's legs and lining himself up against Dean's hot, aching hole. Dean's unbelievably hot as Sam works into him, still tight around Sam's cock and slippery-smooth. "So good, Dean. My Dean." He tongues the curlicue of Dean's ear, thrusting slow and easy, holding Dean apart with both hands to go deeper, angle against the sweet pressure of Dean's prostate.
"Yours?" Dean's pushing back against him, flexing and tightening inside and Jesus fuck Sam understands why Dean's been in every bed from one side of the continent to the other. But no more, Sam thinks, savagely satisfied by that. Now it's me. Just me.
"Mine," he agrees, going faster now, harder. He wants Dean to remember this so there can be no question of reneging. Dean's half-hard again when Sam reaches under him; he whines softly as Sam's hand closes over his cock, stroking. "I know it hurts, baby," he murmurs, timing his hand against his thrust. "But it's gonna feel so good too; you feel so good. You want to do this for me, don't you? Come for me?"
Dean nods, panting, shifting on his knees to let Sam have better access. "Yes, Sam," he says. "Yes."
The naked acquiescence in Dean's voice is as good as the sweetness of his ass around Sam; his climax comes up on him without warning and he makes a surprised, hurting noise his face pressed against Dean's sweaty shoulder. He keeps his hand moving though, and a few moments later, Dean is flooding hot over his fingers and making sobbing noises of his own. Sam rubs it into Dean's softening cock, over his hard, shaking belly, the coarse hairs of his pubes.
Dean's shaking as Sam eases off to the side; Sam's hands roam Dean's overheated skin as he murmurs soothing nonsense into his ears. When he kisses Dean, deep and tender, Dean opens up to him, pliant, exhausted, but still with him.
"Open your eyes," Sam says softly and Dean does; dazzling with wetness and his pupils huge and shocked.
"Wherever I go, you're coming with me," Sam says, pulling Dean close again. Dean's halfway to asleep and Sam's not that far off himself. Dean tucks his head under Sam's chin again, malleable as Sam arranges them both to his liking. "You don't get to leave now. And I won't ever leave you behind. Because I don't let go of things that are mine. You know that, right?"
"I know," Dean says, an exhalation like ghosts over Sam's skin and it feels like a benediction.
nymeria, and in an effort to SHAME my ficwife into finally FUCKING FINISHING THIS DAMN THING, I'm going to post this here. Y'all know she stalks my LJs, so if you want us to get off our asses and finish this, SAY SO. *coughs* Because, OMG, it's so good. Or it would be if we'd FINISH IT. This is SO rough and ridiculously, drafty, though. Be warned. Like, sloppy POV shifts and IM convos and random notes...ROUGH. But.
Sex Pollen, y'all. Just saying.
me: So..I'm thinking about when it all wears off. And they have to actually FACE what they did.
3:33 PM Mona: You took the thoughts right out of my brain.
me: :) OUR brain, thank you!
Mona: When SAM, oh holy jesus, has to face what he did.
Well that's taken as given
Because Dean's going to be ashamed.
But SAM'S going to be horrified.
me: And Dean thinks that it's over now. That Sam will just...walk away from him. After he gave him EVERYTHING.
3:34 PM Mona: And Sam is SO HORRIFIED that he can't even like SPEAK. He thinks he RAPED DEAN.
me: And Dean...it was such a tease. The demon couldn't have done anything worse to him. Because it was everything. It was EVERYTHING he wanted. And...it was just the pollen. It wasn't real.
Mona: Because it's all hazy and he knows exactly what they did but has a real hard time remembering how much Dean was THERE with him. How much he actually wanted it, even if it was rough and TAKEN.
3:35 PM *nod nod enthusiastic*
me: *nodsnods back*
Mona: :D
me: ;^)
Mona: Dude, we're INSANE
me: Well. Yes.
Is that so wrong?
3:36 PM Mona: (and we can't just EVAR leave it at the porn, can we?)
me: NO! *outraged*
Mona: (this is how EBT started. i'm just stating that for the record)
me: *snorts* STFU.
Mona: Just sayin' *spreads hands*
3:37 PM me: I'm not hearing that noise. Not...yet.
Fuck. No. Not hearing it.
Mona: *sniffs, resolute* Yes.
Me neither.
me: WHY COULDN'T WE JUST LEAVE IT AT FUN SEXY SEX POLLEN?
Mona: BECAUSE WE ARE ENORMOUS GEEKS
3:38 PM WE MUST HAVE BACKSTORY AND CONSEQUENCES
me: *HEADDESKS*
Mona: It can STILL be That Kinky Series We Did
me: Do you REALLY (bare assed naked) think so?
3:39 PM AND...!
Mona: Because, hey, for Sam to get over this shit - once Dean finishes his initial freak-out and realizes how Sam really thinks he did this UNFORGIVABLE THING, he has to go and tie Sam up in his sleep and do all kinds of shit to him.
I mean, you know, of course.
me: More importantly...DO YOU WANT IT TO?
Oooh. Yes.
Mona: And then Sam can GET it and do The Bad Things to Dean again and they can be in a happily perverse and pornographic incestuous relationship with one another and live kinkily ever after.
3:40 PM me: I now have visions of Dean fucking Sam and instead of saying "Mine", he's saying "Yours". FORCING Sam to claim him...
Lazy mornings.
Sam likes lazy mornings; the ones where you wake all slow and melty, feeling all right with the world. The ones where it feels like your whole body is thick, heavy and slow and your morning hard cock is cradled snugly by warm willing flesh; a body that sighs sleepily and pushes back when you rock experimentally into it, not even all the way awake, eyes still closed.
Sam shifts and slips deeper, unconscious of much more than yes and mmm and good, more than the feel of wet hot warmth against his tip, soft and delicate, touching him like a mouth. A kiss.
Yes.
And like a mouth, it opens for him as his hips rock forward again, accepting him into a tight moistness that feels even better, languid pleasure lapping through him like sunlight on his skin, like the tiny licks of the incoming tide. The noise that accompanies it, sleepy and moaning is unbelievably erotic, currents of heat and ohyesmore pulsing like the relaxed beat of his heart.
Sam's hips slide in flat, slow arcs, working deeper. Not really fucking, not really, but more like easing home. It feels so good, so exquisitely good that he wishes he could hover here forever, in this pink and gold afterglow of wonderful and never quite wake up at all.
Because if he does...
Sam frowns and feels it already start to slip from his fingers...
If he does...
Then the body in his arm snuggles back again, heat and warmth and ohgodsotight and Sam sighs a name. But rather than the name he expects, breathing over his lips, instead of Jess, what comes out on that broken exhale is "Dean..."
Dean?
Cold—ice coldness—sweeps through Sam, obliterating all the lazy warmth, shredding the last clinging vestiges of protective sleep, ripping it away from him to expose the full horror of what he did, what he...oh God...what he's still doing. What he's doing right now.
Sam jerks away from Dean—sweet merciful Christ, Dean—so fast, Dean is pulled back a little with him, making a quiet, wounded noise as Sam's cock (godgodgod) pulls out of him abruptly. They're naked. They're both naked and he... He was...
Well. There's not much room for prevarication here, is there?
Not when you're pulling your dick out of your brother's ass, loose and wet and hot. Not when you know it's because you've fucked him so hard and long that there's nothing he can be but loose, wet and hot, swollen red. Not when the same brother is leopard spotted in fingerprints of blue-black and bites of smeary crimson-mauve. Ones that you left on him.
The thing is, Sam remembers. Not all of it, hazy and sloppy and half-melted (and gorgeous, don't forget gorgeous), but enough. Enough to know what he did. What he enjoyed doing, long after the honeyed poison of LeChard's pollen had faded from killing urgency to simple and unmitigated self-motivated lust.
He doesn't know if he ever thought of Dean like this before he'd been shoving his tongue, his fingers, his cock into Dean's mouth.
He doesn't know if he's going to be able to think of Dean any other way ever again.
Oh God. Oh God.
"Sam?" Dean's voice is raspy and ragged, broken by hours—hours—of moaning, of…talking, begging. Dean turns onto his back and—still more than half-hard—Sam's cock gives a twitch at the sight of him, sprawled and fuddled, his mouth swollen and pinked up, wearing the marks of Sam's hands and teeth all over. "Sam, do you…?" Dean's hand falls loosely on Sam's thigh and Sam's muscles tremble. "Again?"
Oh God. Oh God.
Sam almost breaks a leg scrambling out of the bed. He trips over the low headboard and goes stumbling, scraping his palms and knees on the floor.
"Sam?" Dean asks again. He sits up. It's a several stage motion. Sam's watched Dean through enough pains and injuries to know how Dean moves when. He's hurting.
There aren't even words for what Sam's feeling, seeing that. His stomach lurches rottenly, hot bile splashing up in the back of his throat. Dean. He raped Dean. He raped Dean.
Dean doesn't quite know what happened.
Or… That's not it exactly. He knows what happened, for God's sake; he's got the dried come and bite marks and the ache deep inside him to brilliantly fucking illustrate what happened. But somewhere in between the lines of oh God, Sammy's whacked out on love pollen, "Dean, I need this; I need…",, and please, Sammy, I'm yours, I'm yours just don't stop, something in Dean shattered. Just…broke the fuck down. Broke him the fuck down, uncovering something… Something he'd never seen in himself before. Something he'd never even known was there, more than sex, more than incest; a monumental need, to be held, to be bid, to be possessed and…and owned. Belonging. Belonging to someone. Belonging to Sam, which is different than anything and anyone he's ever known.
He'd liked it. It seems like such a simple thing to think and yet it goes down to the flawed core of him like lightning, illuminating…everything. He liked it.
Sitting on the edge of LaChard's bed, Dean looks at the heavy blackened rings of bruises on his arms and wrists. They hurt every time he moves, every shift of the tendon or muscle. And yet all his can think of is that other people will see these bruises. They'll know he's marked. That someone—that Sam—put his hands on him and left these signs there to be read later. Everyone will see, and know.
Dean's never been ashamed of his injuries before. They were well earned and honest. But he's never felt pride in them either. He feels a glow when he looks at these, warm and comforting, and a part of him wishes they would never fade.
Because it's over now. Sam's freak-out has already started; he's pacing and muttering, throwing on his clothes all helter-skelter and let's face it—Dean's luck has never been that good. He figures it's just about par for the course that all out of the blue he'd be given everything he hadn't even known he wanted, only to lose it before he'd even had time to wrap his brain around it.
He feels naked. He's never felt naked without his clothes, but he feels naked now.
Dean has a plan.
He's well aware that most of his plans are total shit but goddammit he's not going to just let this go. He knows Sam was there with him, pollen or not, he knows it from the way Sam hasn't tossed him away, hasn't called it "sick" and "wrong" and he's horrified, yeah. Sam's totally horrified but his horror has all been focused on how he thinks he did this to Dean, that he did something Dean didn't want. But he's never felt pride in them either. He feels a glow when he looks at these, warm and comforting, and a part of him wishes they would never fade. Dean. Dean wants it all.
So he's going to make Sam listen. And so he has a plan.
It involved some involuntary tying up but that's just them, isn't it? They're both such stubborn bastards but Dean is going to show Sam. Show him how much he wants this, how much he wants Sam.
Because it can't really get much worse than it already is, can it?
And okay, sure, Dean slipped a little pain killer into Sam's beer when he wasn't looking but what's a little lortab among brothers? He just had to make sure Sam stayed asleep while he did this.
When Sam wakes up, he's expertly tied down to the bed, rope runs under the mattress so that when he shifts one hand the other gets pulled farther down.
Sam's cock is soft when Dean draws down his shorts. The skin is impossibly silky when Dean runs his lips over it, nuzzling. Christ, the feel of Sam expanding and hardening in Dean's mouth is beyond anything, beyond speech or coherent thought. Sam's quiet, sleepy moan fills Dean's heart up to overflowing and makes him suck harder, get Sam harder.
Yes.
He tastes hot and salty-sweet, a little bitter and flowered from the cheap motel soap he'd obviously tried to scrub right through his skin and inside to clean his soul. But Dean swabs it off with his tongue until all that's left is Sam Sammy Sam.
Dean is going to make him realize, make him see.
Sam's fully hard and his hips shift up. He groans, "Dean…" just once before jerking fully awake.
Me. He knows it's me. He likes that it's me.
Sam's eyes fly open, Dean is watching so he knows the second it happens. "Dean! What the fuck?!"
Dean pulls off and rubs his cheek against Sam's thigh, trails fingertips into the hollow of his hip. He licks his lips and looks up; Sam looks back, wide-eyed, and swallows hard. "Want this. I want you, Sammy. Let me. Please let me do this. I'll take care of you." He leans down to lick at the shiny-smooth head of Sam's cock and Sam's shudder wracks through his whole body.
"Dean. Dean, you don't. Oh god, I…this is. Dean just…slow down and let me think or…Jesus..."
Dean does. He does just what Sam says and slows down, pulls his lips free and moves one hand over Sam instead. Strokes him slow and long and sucks wet, open-mouthed kisses onto his thighs and hips and stomach, makes Sam whimper and groan with his mouth and hands.
Dean starts whispering against Sam's browned skin before he can help himself, saying shit he never thought he'd be able to say out loud but it's Sam so he doesn't stop. "I don't care, Sammy. I don't care if it's wrong. I don't care if you're my brother. Not anymore. Not after all this, not when you're all I have. I need you, I need this. Please Sam. God, please."
Dean's the one drugged this time. With the taste and feel and scent of Sam all around him. The only person he's ever loved. He moves the fingers of his other hand under Sam's balls and lifts, strokes and rolls them up for a minute then puts those two fingers into his mouth and slicks them with spit, gets them nice and wet because he's going to show Sam exactly how good Dean can make him feel.
He's gotta make Sam feel.
So he slides his wet fingers up and between the cleft of Sam's ass. Circling up and rubbing, just stroking against Sam's hole and listening to the broken, choked whimper Sam makes that sounds a little bit like Dean's name. His fingers slip in. Slowly. Gently.
Dean watches Sam's face. Watches it crumple and twist, watches his mouth go slack, watches him gasp for air and pant Dean's name. This feels like power. Giving Sam this pleasure feels like the greatest power Dean has ever known.
"Dean…Dean. Oh… It's so good. You feel so good. I just can't… I don't know if you… God, Dean. You've got to stop. I can't think, I have to think. You have to stop. Dean! Fuck. Stop!"
And so Dean stops. Because he's showing Sam. He's going to show him just how good he can be. Show him what he can do if Sam just lets him. He's got to make Sam let him.
And then, finally, when he can't pretend any more,
And Dean is all, "this this, dammit. I want this. I want this with you. It's the only thing I've ever wanted."
Sam's protests, "Dean. Dean. No, you don't...you don't want this. Look at what I did to you..."
And Dean screams at him, just...screams: "YOU MADE ME YOURS!"
Sam feels like the skin is peeled off of him with the force of that shout, the force of the emotion behind it, so far beyond anything he might have guessed…or even hoped. His. For a moment he's speechless.
"Don't you get that? You made me yours and..." Dean's voice drops to a whisper, husking and scraped. "I liked… I loved it, Sammy."
He loved it? He loved it? It's got to be the pollen. Sam's hallucinating. "No...no...Dean... I was... We were..."
Dean says, "You're the only one I could ever belong to. Sam, you're the only one I want to belong to." His voice lowers, turns into an almost shamed mumble. "Always wanted it, just didn't know."
"Oh fuck, oh Dean..." Sam's head falls back on the pillow. He doesn't even want to contemplate how Dean's words made his heart skip like a scratched record. This can't be real. "I...are you sure? I mean...are you sure?" What is he thinking? No. No. "You can barely walk. And...and I did that. I did that to you. I hurt you, Dean. I never wanted to do anything to..."
"Yeah Sam, you hurt me. And it was fucking amazing, okay?! Jesus, I fucking loved it, is that what you need to hear? How many times you gonna make me repeat that? You said I was good—" Dean bites down on the words, cutting himself off.
He remembers that. Remembers, his hand curled around Dean's spent and sticky cock while Dean sobbed pleasure/pain into his neck. Remembers…so many things, all softened and beautified by the gilded gorgeousness of the pollen. "Oh God. Dean..." It's not easy being honest. Not about...something as hideously wrong as this. So monumentally wrong. Not about something that he… No. "I... Dean, you were good. You are." His stomach and cock roll and heat with the memory of how good, buried to the balls while Dean writhed and mewled. "I... I hate that I'm like this, don't you get it? I hate that I'm willing to just...take you and have you and not think and not even consider... You should have better. You shouldn't just be... God. I don't even know what I'm trying to say here. But Dean, you don't want me. Because...when it comes to you, I am...a demanding, evil, greedy possessive fuck."
"Sam...fuck. Don't you..?" Dean sighs. "Don't you remember? 'Cause I remember everything, and you kept asking, you kept asking at every turn and I said yes, every fucking time. Yes. It doesn't matter if...it doesn't matter whether you were able to stop or not. I said yes. I... fuck, Sammy... You don't even know." Dean doesn't want to say how hard he started to get when Sam said "greedy", greedy for *him*, for *Dean*.
When Sam said "posesssive".
"Sam you made sure... You didn't have to make it so good for me, don't you get it? The pollen didn't make you want to make it so good for me."
No. No that hadn't been the pollen. Because the pollen couldn't put something there that wasn't there in the first place. It could make you fuck, but it couldn't make you feel. Not like he'd felt with Dean under him. "But Dean... I mean...of course I did. I..." Oh fuck. "You think...you think this was all the pollen? That I had to? I mean, maybe I did, but that doesn't mean…that...that I didn't want this for...Jesus. Forever?"
*Dean is speechless*
"The pollen... Dean. The pollen wore off hours ago. Long before…long before we…before I stopped. But…" Sam spreads his hands as wide as the ropes will allow. "You're Dean. You're my whole fucking world."
Dean turns his face away, comes apart with his face turned away b/c he can't stand to have Sam see him this way again. Not if... He can't. He's shamed and hard and...*
"How could I not want you? How could I..." Dean turns his face away and Sam feels panic flutter up in his chest like a bird breaking itself on a window. "Fuck. Untie me. Untie. Me. Come here." Shit. And here he goes again. Ordering Dean around. But...but he can't let Dean wriggle his way out of this one. He can't let Dean keep thinking...well, something hideously fucked up, undoubtedly. Because Dean never fucking sees. "You wanna be mine? You want... Dean, you gotta be sure. You... Just be sure. Because... Because I will own your ass. You get it? I will own you." Dean's face is still tilted away from his, sharp chin, sharp nose, long girly lashes…Fuck. Sam needs to focus. His mouth and throat are so dry. "No more women, no more other men… Mine." Dean's eyelashes are fluttering; too far, he's gone too far. Sam wants to laugh. Like they aren't already light years beyond too far. "Dean, come on. Let me at least see you, man."
Dean's eyes come up from the screen of his lashes and Sam can't read a damn thing in them. Then he reaches forward, the length of his body sprawled out over Sam's and starts to undo the knots on the ropes. Sam can't help it. He tips his head back and takes a mouthful of Dean's skin, between collarbone and pectoral, biting down.
Dean stills. Just goes perfectly immobile, except for a long body shiver, his breath hissing out in a slow leak. The new bite bisects an older one; after a moment Sam tastes blood, sweet-sour and metallic. Sam's tongue traces the breaks he's left in Dean's skin, taking the blood on the pointed tip and leaving behind his scent, his saliva.
Mine. Sam-the-Thoroughly-Nice is having a panic attack in the corner of his brain, but he'd be lying if he said the rest of him didn't like—didn't love—the idea.
Despite years of trying, he'd never really understood Dean, frustrating and exasperating by turns because Sam liked (needed) to understand things. He thought of Dean like one of those jigsaws he'd pick up for a dime in thrift stores; there'd always been pieces missing, even though you could sort of make out what the overall picture was without them. But the possibility of those missing pieces had been almost better than whatever mundane picture he was putting together. The potentiality for something there to be hidden, something that changes his entire perception of the whole.
Sam feels his perception shifting.
"Do…" He tips his head up and Dean hunkers back a little on his heels, hands fallen away from the ropes. "Is this what you really want?"
Dean still won't look at him. His voice is stumbling, stifled. "Not…not all the time, but, I mean don't get any bright ideas when we're on the hunt, Sammy, you're not in charge. I'm still your big brother, I'm still gonna make sure nothing happens to you. But. When we're like this. If we do this. When it's…I want to. Please Sam, I want you to….so bad."
Sam can't help it; his hips buck up and his breath races out of his mouth. It's obscene. How much Sam likes hearing those words from Dean's lips, how much he wants to take him at his word. "You want me to what?" he asks. He almost doesn't recognize his own voice, rough and urgent, nothing like the person he likes to imagine he is.
Dean's head comes up and there's a look in his eyes, layered and complicated. Wariness, distrust, caution…but in the back, Sam thinks he sees the distant glimmer of hope too. "Sam…"
"No. You want this, you tell me. Lay it out for me, Dean; you want me to what?"
Dean inhales, and for a moment, Sam thinks he's pushed Dean too far; that he was wrong. Then: "O…own me."
"Come here." It's crazy, how calm he sounds. Inside, he's shaking, the voice of Sam-the-Really-Nice-Guy demanding what the fuck he thinks he's doing?. Like he even fucking knows. "Straddle my legs." He doesn't expect Dean to obey. Dean doesn't do obey. But he can't help the savage spike of satisfaction when Dean does, shuffling up the mattress and throwing his leg over Sam's so that his knees bracket Sam's hips. "Now," Sam says, as if he'd known all the time that Dean would listen. "What do you want me to do?"
"Please…" Dean's voice breaks. He licks his lips—God, those fucking lips—and tries again. "I want to be yours. I want… Keep me. Own me. I can be…whatever you want me to be."
God he was hard. He was so hard, and there was no way that Dean couldn't notice, both of them naked as anything and Sam's erection framed by the vee of Dean's thighs on either side. Sam flexes against the ropes, sliding a few inches down and forward, ignoring the twinge in his shoulders as he does so. He rubs his cock along Dean's and watches Dean's eyes close, watches his brother shudder and quiver. "You want to be mine?"
Dean's eyes snap open, as if they're on springs. Pain. So much pain. "Yes."
Sam inhales thickly. "Show me," he says.
Dean hisses when the blunt wet head of Sam's cock slides over him. Sam can feel the swollen red heat of Dean's ass; he remembers how deep, how hard, how much it's been abused. It's bad, it's wrong how much he wants to do it again, just spear through that tight crimsoned bud and fuck home. "Dean-- Dean, we don't have to..."
Dean's eyes open. The pollen had magnified everything, giving Sam insights into Dean's face he'd never had before and he can still see them; behind the irritation in Dean's eyes, Sam sees the fear. "I can do it," Dean insists, rolling and wriggling until the muscle opens, grudgingly accepting Sam's tip. "I can…"
Sam can't breathe for a moment, overwhelmed by the ohmygodtighthotsmooth feel of Dean around him and even more by Dean's willingness. By his want. And Sam likes. He more than likes it. God, he thinks. God. It could be a prayer. Or maybe not. He lifts his head. What he says is, "Yeah. Yeah, c'mon. Work yourself down. C'mon. Take it in you. That's my boy." His skin tingles, somewhere between exhilaration and terror. He's not sure he should have this power, not sure Dean should give it to him, no strings, no controls.
And yet…isn't that how Dean gives everything? Heedless, reckless, regardless of the consequence? He gives with his whole heart and doesn't ask for anything in return. Not even not to be chewed up and cast aside. It's a level of trust, of love, that Sam can't quite fathom. It scares the shit out of him.
"Yours," Dean whispers softly—almost too soft to be heard—as he writhes his bottom, sliding slowly down on Sam's cock. Dean braces himself with his hand over Sam's chest, Sam's heart beating strong and steady until Sam can't separate them—the sensation of Dean's fingers, the throb of his own heart.
He'd always wondered what Dean would be like broken; what lay beneath the brittle steel of his hard fought defenses. It seems weird and appropriate and ironic that it took something like this to do it. It seems amazing and unbelievable that what lay underneath is just a reflection of Sam himself, as Dean is repeated inside of Sam. This is Dean unmasked, laid naked in every sense of the word and Sam feels utterly humbled at the depths of Dean, so much more than he'd ever suspected.
"Yours," Dean says again, tightening around Sam, milking him tautly.
Sam cries out, thrusting up, his head falling back. "Mine," he agrees.
It shouldn't feel so good to say it. So right. Oh God.
Dean's breath goes out of him, caught somewhere between sob and moan and he rises and falls on the length of Sam's cock. Sam swears he can feel every curve and swell of Dean against his shaft, delicious, dizzying friction. "C'mon baby, fuck yourself down. Take all of me. I want…" Sam arches up as Dean twitches and jerks around him, pre-come spilling over Dean's dick to glisten shiny and beautiful. "I want you to take all of it. I want you to feel me."
Dean's eyes shut and Sam can see wetness shining on the lashes like beads of dew. Dean's tears. It shames him that he can take such pleasure in them, but his cock doesn't have any such compunction, swelling, tightening, driving his hips up into Dean harder and faster until tiny sounds—broken, hurting, wanting—fall out of Dean's mouth like those tears.
"You're so good, Dean. Oh God, God, you know you're mine now, right? You know… There's no going back after this. I keep what's mine, my good, good…oh, fuck, Dean…"
Sam thinks his spine might snap, it bows up so hard as his climax overtakes him, blindness, dumbness, deafness, everything, all senses rerouted into his dick and the shuddering clench of Dean around him. And yet, even with every other sound muted and damped and just plain gone, Sam swears he can still hear Dean, chanting like a prayer, yes, yes, yes.
Sam comes back to himself with Dean draped over his chest, hands reaching to undo the rope knots that hold Sam in place and his unsatisfied cock hot and sticky against Sam's belly. Sam's hands drop limply once freed; his fingers are half numb, his wrists abraded and bruised from where he fought the rope. He flexes the blood back into them then starts to shift Dean to the side.
Face hidden in the curve of Sam's neck, Dean makes a noise of protest, soft, as if he fully expects to be disregarded. And Sam knows he does. Because that's Dean too. "It's okay," Sam murmurs into Dean's skin, wriggling sideways until there's enough room between them for him to reach in. "I just want to touch you, baby. I just want to make you feel as good as you did me."
Dean stiffens when Sam's fingers slip between his legs, caressing, and then wrap around his cock. It's so swollen it has to hurt and Sam's hands are shaking a little as he starts to stroke it. Mine, he thinks, as Dean starts to shiver and pant, making squirmy breathless little pleasure noises against Sam's throat. This is mine and I can do anything with it. Anything I want. The wonder of that, the marvel, goes through him again and he pulls back a little more, so he can see Dean's face. So he can watch.
"This is mine," he says to Dean. Dean's eyes are closed, his mouth open, slack. "Open your eyes, Dean," he says, and simple as that, Dean does. His pupils are huge. Sam tightens his hand over Dean's cock, makes the stroke harder, rougher. Dean's breath hitches, but he doesn't look away, doesn't break eye contact, blinking hard and still shiny-eyed. "I can do what ever I want with this. With all of you."
"Yes." It's not even a sound, just the movement of Dean's lips. Those fuckable, wet, expectant lips.
"Okay." Sam wets his own lips, and Dean keens a little, thrusting harder into Sam's hand. "Okay. Do you know how good you feel, Dean, here in my hand? How much I like doing this to you, playing with you? You feel so good, Dean. And I want you to come. Can you do that for me? Can you…?"
Sam doesn't even get any further than that before Dean shudders hard, head and spine snapping back. He's coming in jetting spurts, grunting with every pulse and Sam leans in and takes Dean's mouth with his own, murmuring between thrusts of his tongue, "Yeah. Yeah. That's good, Dean. You did great. I love you so much."
When Dean is finally emptied and slack, Sam reaches up and smears his wet fingers over Dean's lips, paints over his freckles, pushes the tips into Dean's mouth and feels the tickling movement of Dean's tongue as it sucks and licks.
"Turn over," Sam says quietly, urging Dean onto his belly. He's hard again, and the languid determined way Dean struggles over is only making him harder. Sam circles his finger over Dean. Dean's still swollen, almost pouting, but he's lax and still lubed up inside. Dean moans when Sam's finger dips inside careful and exploratory, but it's not one of protest or even displeasure.
"Yes Sam; I'll be good for you, just for you, please…"
"Shhh," Sam says, shifting so his body covers Dean's, sliding a knee up between Dean's legs and lining himself up against Dean's hot, aching hole. Dean's unbelievably hot as Sam works into him, still tight around Sam's cock and slippery-smooth. "So good, Dean. My Dean." He tongues the curlicue of Dean's ear, thrusting slow and easy, holding Dean apart with both hands to go deeper, angle against the sweet pressure of Dean's prostate.
"Yours?" Dean's pushing back against him, flexing and tightening inside and Jesus fuck Sam understands why Dean's been in every bed from one side of the continent to the other. But no more, Sam thinks, savagely satisfied by that. Now it's me. Just me.
"Mine," he agrees, going faster now, harder. He wants Dean to remember this so there can be no question of reneging. Dean's half-hard again when Sam reaches under him; he whines softly as Sam's hand closes over his cock, stroking. "I know it hurts, baby," he murmurs, timing his hand against his thrust. "But it's gonna feel so good too; you feel so good. You want to do this for me, don't you? Come for me?"
Dean nods, panting, shifting on his knees to let Sam have better access. "Yes, Sam," he says. "Yes."
The naked acquiescence in Dean's voice is as good as the sweetness of his ass around Sam; his climax comes up on him without warning and he makes a surprised, hurting noise his face pressed against Dean's sweaty shoulder. He keeps his hand moving though, and a few moments later, Dean is flooding hot over his fingers and making sobbing noises of his own. Sam rubs it into Dean's softening cock, over his hard, shaking belly, the coarse hairs of his pubes.
Dean's shaking as Sam eases off to the side; Sam's hands roam Dean's overheated skin as he murmurs soothing nonsense into his ears. When he kisses Dean, deep and tender, Dean opens up to him, pliant, exhausted, but still with him.
"Open your eyes," Sam says softly and Dean does; dazzling with wetness and his pupils huge and shocked.
"Wherever I go, you're coming with me," Sam says, pulling Dean close again. Dean's halfway to asleep and Sam's not that far off himself. Dean tucks his head under Sam's chin again, malleable as Sam arranges them both to his liking. "You don't get to leave now. And I won't ever leave you behind. Because I don't let go of things that are mine. You know that, right?"
"I know," Dean says, an exhalation like ghosts over Sam's skin and it feels like a benediction.
