Fic: Honey (2/3)
Dec. 24th, 2006 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Honey (2/3)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: Season 1 spoilers, but only if you read between the lines. (Sort of) non-con, UST.
Word Count: 1,983
Disclaimer: Do I look like I'm making money from this? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Notes: The first part was meant to be a standalone PWP but I may have run a little too far with the UST and decided to tie it up with a happy ending. C'mon it's the holidays, I thought I'd give the boys a break :P Beta-ed by the lovelymooyoo, thanks babe! *smoochies*
Summary: Sam harbors a secret desire for his older brother. When Dean is hit with demon-aphrodasiac, Sam has to decide whether or not he should take advantage of his big brother.
Previous part
A blur of lashes, the crinkling of sleep-studded eyes, a groggy swipe over his face and Sam was awake. He sat up in bed, feeling a bone-deep ache thrum through his body at the movement. He slowly recalled the night before; Dean killing the demon, the ensuing explosion that had coated the older Winchester from head to toe in seemingly harmless, purple sludge. Sam winced at how that substance had been anything but harmless. Memories flooded in, sensory memories of hurt, deep, burn, good, Dean’s glazed eyes and the sheer horror in them when he came to. Sam put his head in his hands and his muscles groaned.
Dean, he thought with a start. Sam looked over at his brother’s bed.
Covers neatly made, pillows fluffed, comforter pulled back. It looked like it hadn’t even been slept in. Dean’s belongings were nowhere to be seen.
Fuck. Sam threw his own sheets off and ignored the bite of cool air that stripped the warmth from his skin. A quick glance at the red-lit numbers on the nightstand told him it was half past noon. Dean could be anywhere by now.
Fuck, Dean, don’t do this to me. Sam bolted out of bed and dashed to his yawning duffel bag, ripped out the topmost pair of pants and a faded hoodie and shimmied into them as he tripped towards the front door.
He was desperately fiddling with the zipper of his jeans and swiping at the nightstand for keys when the green, peeling door casually swung open.
A cough. Sam looked up in panic.
“Going somewhere?” Dean’s voice sounded rough around the edges, like gravel under a tire. He cleared his throat.
“No, just,” Sam said and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His fly was still undone. “Just about to go look for you.”
Dean scratched his head and studied the chair next to his little brother. “Well, I’m here.”
Sam took a deep breath. He hadn’t thought anything through yet, hadn’t formulated a decent apology yet, but he had to say something. “Dean—“
“I picked up a couple newspapers, haven’t had a chance to look at them yet though.” Dean tossed one over and Sam automatically caught it. Dean’s eyes roamed uncomfortably, settling on the carpet, clock, and nightstand; anywhere but on his younger brother.
Sam wanted to say something, anything. So now you know, or I’m sorry I loved it when you fucked me or Pleasepleaseplease again. Instead he felt his bladder swell in complaint and he suddenly really needed to pee. Sam turned around and strode towards the bathroom, determined to keep any discomfort, any hint that last night he’d been ridden to the moon twice over, out of his gait.
He felt Dean’s eyes on his back.
-----
Dean couldn’t sleep. 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 flicked by emotionlessly and Dean wanted to bang his head against the wall. Wanted to do anything that could possibly budge the burning images from behind his eyes, anything that could keep him from seeing Sammy on the floor like that.
Seeing Sammy, freshly raped by his older brother. Tears and blood and come mingled with a palpable fear and Dean wanted to retch all over again. Instead he got out of bed and packed his duffel bag. Quietly and methodically, something structured and familiar that he could lean on while thinking about what the fuck he could conceivably do to make this better. When all his belongings were picked up, he stalled for time by straightening up the bed, tucking in sheets as his mind bounced between thoughts of feigning ignorance, groveling on his knees, or maybe just plain offing himself.
Dean looked back at the digital clock. 5:42 AM. His eyes leaned over and rested on Sam’s form, hidden beneath layers of blankets. Self-loathing shuddered through his body.
This was the plan. Dean would leave, he would leave Sam alone and hitch a ride somewhere, didn’t matter where, and he would hunt. He would hunt and maim and exorcise until he dreamed in Latin, and if he saved enough lives or smiled at enough grateful faces and families, then maybe he could atone. If he hurt enough, bled enough, maybe he could break even.
Dean left the room.
He found a ride easily enough and hour forty-two minutes out, he politely asked the truck driver to pull over and got out of the passenger seat.
Dean Winchester may have been a sick pervert and an unforgivable brother. He may have been a lot of terrible things, but he wasn’t and had never been a coward. He owed Sam that much at least.
Dean hoisted the strap of his duffel bag up on his shoulder and started walking back the way he came.
-----
Sam wanted to scream. It’d been a week, then two weeks of pure, non-stop hunting and through it all Dean hadn’t touched him once, said a sentence to him that didn’t start or end in “demon” or “poltergeist”, hadn’t even looked at him in the eyes in two. Full. Weeks.
Oh, Sam had tried. Tried to bring up That Night again, tried to apologize for taking advantage of Dean during his short-lived frenzy. Sam had cursed himself to hell and back, wondering why he hadn’t just locked Dean in the bathroom and left him alone until the dementia had worn off. Wondered why he had to crumble so easily, had to give in to the sick pangs of want. Wondered why he had to go and fuck up the last good thing in his life.
Sam wanted scream. He could handle Dean hating him (maybe), could handle Dean disgusted at him (perhaps), but he couldn’t handle Dean pretending like everything was alright when it was so excruciatingly not.
It was just after a brawl with a nemean beast when Sam was cleaning the deep gashes on Dean’s back with antiseptic. He’d only been allowed to do so because Dean couldn’t sew up the wounds himself and Sam had insisted. When he’d placed a palm on Dean’s bare shoulder the older man shuddered, and Sam unthinkingly spoke aloud.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, wretchedly. “I’m sorry Dean, I’m so, so sorry.”
Dean stilled. Muttered back behind clenched teeth, “What the hell are you going on about?”
“I—“ Sam stuttered, taken aback that he was actually being given a chance to talk about the incident. He focused his thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t try and stop you. I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Dean didn’t say anything for a long time. Sam gave up on getting a response and dipped the cotton swab back in the hydrogen peroxide.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said and Sam stopped what he was doing. “But I’m the one who…fuck, I’m the one who should be apologizing. What I did…”
Sam waited patiently. This happened so rarely, he didn’t want to miss a single word out of Dean’s mouth.
“I’m the one who… did that to you,” Dean bit out. “Fuck. I don’t even know what to do anymore.”
Wait. Sam struggled to make sense of Dean’s broken words. He thinks he forced me. One look at Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the bed sheets painted the rest of the story and suddenly, Sam felt like an ass for not noticing sooner.
It’s not me he’s mad at, it’s himself. He wanted to laugh. All he needed to do was convince Dean that he was okay and this whole matter would be behind them. Nobody needed to find out that Sam... that he, well. Nobody needed to know.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” Sam said, unable to hide the grin that suffused his face. “It’s okay, I swear.”
“It’s not okay,” Dean growled and Sam’s smile evaporated. “Don’t say it wasn’t my fault, because it was.” Layers of grief colored Dean’s voice and Sam was startled from the intensity of it, trembled as Dean’s shoulders bunched up and split open one set of stitches.
“Stop it Dean, you’re hurting yourself.”
“I—I saw it all, I watched it all and couldn’t do a fucking thing,” Dean hunched over and scrubbed his face with his hands. A second fresh set of stitches ripped and began to bleed as Sam quickly grabbed a cloth and pressed it against Dean’s shaking back.
“C’mon, man, it wasn’t your fault. Stop ruining my handiwork,” Sam lightly joked as he anxiously staunched the blood.
“You don’t know, Sam,” Dean stated, distant and empty. Sam was tempted to protest but the defeat in Dean’s posture made him keep his mouth closed. “You don’t know what I did, Sam.”
“I was kind of there,” he replied. “I know it wasn’t your fault. It was that purple stuff.”
Dean didn’t move, only exhaled slowly and tightly.
“Dean,” Sam pleaded.
The older man eventually straightened up, put his hands back onto his knees. “What are you waiting for?”
Sam quickly peeled the stained washcloth back, placed it beside him and reached for a needle and thread.
-----
The brothers spent the next week equally studious in their hunting, but the dynamics had changed. No longer was Sam wallowing in remorse; he was now a man with a mission and he passed the days trying to show Dean how okay he was through humor and jokes, or attempting to convince him that the incident was nobody’s fault.
But it wasn’t working. And as the days wore on and Dean’s mood worsened, Sam found himself nearly belligerent with worry—bitter retorts and angry pleas became his weapons of choice, as Dean continued to brave any psychological onslaught his little brother could dream up.
On a Thursday afternoon when Dean was out picking up pizza, Sam had his laptop open and was reading up on their latest case. When he took a break and checked his e-mail, he was pleasantly surprised to find a particular message in his inbox.
It was from Karen, a girl he knew from Stanford. A couple weeks ago Sam had been researching the demon aphrodisiac but he had found scant information on its kind; even less on the violet-colored entrails or its properties. However, he’d run across one site that seemed to be pretty good on information, the only drawback being that it was written entirely in Portuguese. So Sam had copied the link and e-mailed it to Karen, a friend of his who was conveniently part-Portuguese and fluent in her mother’s native tongue.
Her reply read:
Sam—
Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you, I just got back from New York yesterday. Anyway I took a look at the site and translated it as best I could. It was kind of tough, had a whole bunch of words I didn’t recognize but you’ll just have to make do! Honestly, I don’t know why you read this stuff. Gives me the heebie jeebies.
Karen
“The Mohrashty are drawn to death and spread it to feed corpses to their young. Blue-skinned or greyish in appearance, they instigate death by emitting a thick fluid from glands in their throat that causes human hormones to surge to extremely high levels. Upon contact with this viscous fluid, usually violet-colored along with their blood, it will cause a human to act upon any whim in a passionate, violent frenzy.
It is commonly thought that the fluid is poisonous to humans; on the contrary, it simply takes whatever its victim desires and multiplies the feeling a thousandfold. This usually occurs in a violent reaction and is sufficient in creating enough feed for the Mohrashty young.”
Sam read the translation. He stopped at the end, went back to the beginning and read it again. And again. But the words never changed.
Whatever its victim desires.
Sam leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the plywood tabletop.
Well, damn.
Next
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:
aeroport_artRating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: Season 1 spoilers, but only if you read between the lines. (Sort of) non-con, UST.
Word Count: 1,983
Disclaimer: Do I look like I'm making money from this? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Notes: The first part was meant to be a standalone PWP but I may have run a little too far with the UST and decided to tie it up with a happy ending. C'mon it's the holidays, I thought I'd give the boys a break :P Beta-ed by the lovely
mooyoo, thanks babe! *smoochies*Summary: Sam harbors a secret desire for his older brother. When Dean is hit with demon-aphrodasiac, Sam has to decide whether or not he should take advantage of his big brother.
Previous part
A blur of lashes, the crinkling of sleep-studded eyes, a groggy swipe over his face and Sam was awake. He sat up in bed, feeling a bone-deep ache thrum through his body at the movement. He slowly recalled the night before; Dean killing the demon, the ensuing explosion that had coated the older Winchester from head to toe in seemingly harmless, purple sludge. Sam winced at how that substance had been anything but harmless. Memories flooded in, sensory memories of hurt, deep, burn, good, Dean’s glazed eyes and the sheer horror in them when he came to. Sam put his head in his hands and his muscles groaned.
Dean, he thought with a start. Sam looked over at his brother’s bed.
Covers neatly made, pillows fluffed, comforter pulled back. It looked like it hadn’t even been slept in. Dean’s belongings were nowhere to be seen.
Fuck. Sam threw his own sheets off and ignored the bite of cool air that stripped the warmth from his skin. A quick glance at the red-lit numbers on the nightstand told him it was half past noon. Dean could be anywhere by now.
Fuck, Dean, don’t do this to me. Sam bolted out of bed and dashed to his yawning duffel bag, ripped out the topmost pair of pants and a faded hoodie and shimmied into them as he tripped towards the front door.
He was desperately fiddling with the zipper of his jeans and swiping at the nightstand for keys when the green, peeling door casually swung open.
A cough. Sam looked up in panic.
“Going somewhere?” Dean’s voice sounded rough around the edges, like gravel under a tire. He cleared his throat.
“No, just,” Sam said and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His fly was still undone. “Just about to go look for you.”
Dean scratched his head and studied the chair next to his little brother. “Well, I’m here.”
Sam took a deep breath. He hadn’t thought anything through yet, hadn’t formulated a decent apology yet, but he had to say something. “Dean—“
“I picked up a couple newspapers, haven’t had a chance to look at them yet though.” Dean tossed one over and Sam automatically caught it. Dean’s eyes roamed uncomfortably, settling on the carpet, clock, and nightstand; anywhere but on his younger brother.
Sam wanted to say something, anything. So now you know, or I’m sorry I loved it when you fucked me or Pleasepleaseplease again. Instead he felt his bladder swell in complaint and he suddenly really needed to pee. Sam turned around and strode towards the bathroom, determined to keep any discomfort, any hint that last night he’d been ridden to the moon twice over, out of his gait.
He felt Dean’s eyes on his back.
-----
Dean couldn’t sleep. 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 flicked by emotionlessly and Dean wanted to bang his head against the wall. Wanted to do anything that could possibly budge the burning images from behind his eyes, anything that could keep him from seeing Sammy on the floor like that.
Seeing Sammy, freshly raped by his older brother. Tears and blood and come mingled with a palpable fear and Dean wanted to retch all over again. Instead he got out of bed and packed his duffel bag. Quietly and methodically, something structured and familiar that he could lean on while thinking about what the fuck he could conceivably do to make this better. When all his belongings were picked up, he stalled for time by straightening up the bed, tucking in sheets as his mind bounced between thoughts of feigning ignorance, groveling on his knees, or maybe just plain offing himself.
Dean looked back at the digital clock. 5:42 AM. His eyes leaned over and rested on Sam’s form, hidden beneath layers of blankets. Self-loathing shuddered through his body.
This was the plan. Dean would leave, he would leave Sam alone and hitch a ride somewhere, didn’t matter where, and he would hunt. He would hunt and maim and exorcise until he dreamed in Latin, and if he saved enough lives or smiled at enough grateful faces and families, then maybe he could atone. If he hurt enough, bled enough, maybe he could break even.
Dean left the room.
He found a ride easily enough and hour forty-two minutes out, he politely asked the truck driver to pull over and got out of the passenger seat.
Dean Winchester may have been a sick pervert and an unforgivable brother. He may have been a lot of terrible things, but he wasn’t and had never been a coward. He owed Sam that much at least.
Dean hoisted the strap of his duffel bag up on his shoulder and started walking back the way he came.
-----
Sam wanted to scream. It’d been a week, then two weeks of pure, non-stop hunting and through it all Dean hadn’t touched him once, said a sentence to him that didn’t start or end in “demon” or “poltergeist”, hadn’t even looked at him in the eyes in two. Full. Weeks.
Oh, Sam had tried. Tried to bring up That Night again, tried to apologize for taking advantage of Dean during his short-lived frenzy. Sam had cursed himself to hell and back, wondering why he hadn’t just locked Dean in the bathroom and left him alone until the dementia had worn off. Wondered why he had to crumble so easily, had to give in to the sick pangs of want. Wondered why he had to go and fuck up the last good thing in his life.
Sam wanted scream. He could handle Dean hating him (maybe), could handle Dean disgusted at him (perhaps), but he couldn’t handle Dean pretending like everything was alright when it was so excruciatingly not.
It was just after a brawl with a nemean beast when Sam was cleaning the deep gashes on Dean’s back with antiseptic. He’d only been allowed to do so because Dean couldn’t sew up the wounds himself and Sam had insisted. When he’d placed a palm on Dean’s bare shoulder the older man shuddered, and Sam unthinkingly spoke aloud.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, wretchedly. “I’m sorry Dean, I’m so, so sorry.”
Dean stilled. Muttered back behind clenched teeth, “What the hell are you going on about?”
“I—“ Sam stuttered, taken aback that he was actually being given a chance to talk about the incident. He focused his thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t try and stop you. I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Dean didn’t say anything for a long time. Sam gave up on getting a response and dipped the cotton swab back in the hydrogen peroxide.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said and Sam stopped what he was doing. “But I’m the one who…fuck, I’m the one who should be apologizing. What I did…”
Sam waited patiently. This happened so rarely, he didn’t want to miss a single word out of Dean’s mouth.
“I’m the one who… did that to you,” Dean bit out. “Fuck. I don’t even know what to do anymore.”
Wait. Sam struggled to make sense of Dean’s broken words. He thinks he forced me. One look at Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the bed sheets painted the rest of the story and suddenly, Sam felt like an ass for not noticing sooner.
It’s not me he’s mad at, it’s himself. He wanted to laugh. All he needed to do was convince Dean that he was okay and this whole matter would be behind them. Nobody needed to find out that Sam... that he, well. Nobody needed to know.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” Sam said, unable to hide the grin that suffused his face. “It’s okay, I swear.”
“It’s not okay,” Dean growled and Sam’s smile evaporated. “Don’t say it wasn’t my fault, because it was.” Layers of grief colored Dean’s voice and Sam was startled from the intensity of it, trembled as Dean’s shoulders bunched up and split open one set of stitches.
“Stop it Dean, you’re hurting yourself.”
“I—I saw it all, I watched it all and couldn’t do a fucking thing,” Dean hunched over and scrubbed his face with his hands. A second fresh set of stitches ripped and began to bleed as Sam quickly grabbed a cloth and pressed it against Dean’s shaking back.
“C’mon, man, it wasn’t your fault. Stop ruining my handiwork,” Sam lightly joked as he anxiously staunched the blood.
“You don’t know, Sam,” Dean stated, distant and empty. Sam was tempted to protest but the defeat in Dean’s posture made him keep his mouth closed. “You don’t know what I did, Sam.”
“I was kind of there,” he replied. “I know it wasn’t your fault. It was that purple stuff.”
Dean didn’t move, only exhaled slowly and tightly.
“Dean,” Sam pleaded.
The older man eventually straightened up, put his hands back onto his knees. “What are you waiting for?”
Sam quickly peeled the stained washcloth back, placed it beside him and reached for a needle and thread.
-----
The brothers spent the next week equally studious in their hunting, but the dynamics had changed. No longer was Sam wallowing in remorse; he was now a man with a mission and he passed the days trying to show Dean how okay he was through humor and jokes, or attempting to convince him that the incident was nobody’s fault.
But it wasn’t working. And as the days wore on and Dean’s mood worsened, Sam found himself nearly belligerent with worry—bitter retorts and angry pleas became his weapons of choice, as Dean continued to brave any psychological onslaught his little brother could dream up.
On a Thursday afternoon when Dean was out picking up pizza, Sam had his laptop open and was reading up on their latest case. When he took a break and checked his e-mail, he was pleasantly surprised to find a particular message in his inbox.
It was from Karen, a girl he knew from Stanford. A couple weeks ago Sam had been researching the demon aphrodisiac but he had found scant information on its kind; even less on the violet-colored entrails or its properties. However, he’d run across one site that seemed to be pretty good on information, the only drawback being that it was written entirely in Portuguese. So Sam had copied the link and e-mailed it to Karen, a friend of his who was conveniently part-Portuguese and fluent in her mother’s native tongue.
Her reply read:
Sam—
Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you, I just got back from New York yesterday. Anyway I took a look at the site and translated it as best I could. It was kind of tough, had a whole bunch of words I didn’t recognize but you’ll just have to make do! Honestly, I don’t know why you read this stuff. Gives me the heebie jeebies.
Karen
“The Mohrashty are drawn to death and spread it to feed corpses to their young. Blue-skinned or greyish in appearance, they instigate death by emitting a thick fluid from glands in their throat that causes human hormones to surge to extremely high levels. Upon contact with this viscous fluid, usually violet-colored along with their blood, it will cause a human to act upon any whim in a passionate, violent frenzy.
It is commonly thought that the fluid is poisonous to humans; on the contrary, it simply takes whatever its victim desires and multiplies the feeling a thousandfold. This usually occurs in a violent reaction and is sufficient in creating enough feed for the Mohrashty young.”
Sam read the translation. He stopped at the end, went back to the beginning and read it again. And again. But the words never changed.
Whatever its victim desires.
Sam leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the plywood tabletop.
Well, damn.
Next
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 06:45 am (UTC)"Well, Damn."
was PERFECT I LOVED it!!! *squee*
no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 07:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 07:53 am (UTC)thanks for continuing!
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 11:40 am (UTC)Ain't that the truth? Always, every day, he's just so Dean.
Lovely follow up to the first, darling, can't wait to see how you finish it :D
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 11:59 am (UTC)Please update soon!
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 01:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-25 08:33 pm (UTC)Sam leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the plywood tabletop.
Well, damn.
Awesome!!!
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 02:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 07:08 am (UTC)Sam leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the plywood tabletop.
Well, damn.
Well damn...my thoughts exactly. ;) I can't wait for the next part...
-C-
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 05:13 am (UTC)-C-
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 07:15 pm (UTC)I love your characterisation of Dean and with many others look forward to the next chapter of this.
Issy
no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 01:56 am (UTC)I love the whole afrodiziac-is-making-me-not-control-myself aspect.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 08:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 03:51 pm (UTC)Lovely fic. :]
no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-03 03:48 am (UTC)Love,
Julie-Rae
no subject
Date: 2007-01-03 06:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-16 01:05 pm (UTC)... Well, we all suspected as much!
(btw... UST... Unresolved Sexual Tension... *hehe* *a little slow*)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-16 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-21 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-18 11:12 pm (UTC)Torn stitches -- ouch!