Fic: Don't Let's Start (1/3)
Aug. 26th, 2007 11:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Don't Let's Start (1/3)
Characters: Sam/Dean
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con (of sorts)
Word Count: 1,422 (5,523 total)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Smutty fic inspired by some meta posted (here) some months back bymona1347 that I found incredibly fascinating. So I wanted to explore Dean's role as a beta dog through AlphaDog!Sam porn. Not that this hasn't been done already-- poisontaster and mona1347 nailed it with their Sex Pollen 'verse, but I wanted to try it out for myself :D Title taken from the They Might Be Giants song. Beta-ed by the lovely jewels667. Thanks hon!
Summary: Dean refuses to acknowledge his feelings towards his little brother and Sam doesn't know how, but somehow because of it, they're caught up in a web of wrong that he can't seem to untangle.
“Dean,” Sam whispers. “I don’t want to do this. Don’t make me do this.”
Dean’s eyes are closed, his lashes in shadow—they flutter involuntarily, braced for a blow. Sam’s gut roils uncomfortably as he leans forward and steadily places his hands on the table, near Dean’s half-eaten plate, and repeats emphatically, “I won’t do it.”
Dean’s eyes open suddenly, the bright irises jolting Sam backwards until he’s fully seated on his booth again, hands back behind the salt pepper and ketchup barrier between them. Shit, Sam thinks. Shit, it’s over. It’s all over now.
Dean gets up from his seat, knees knocking against his brother’s until he’s standing at full height. He shrugs his jacket on, slaps down one of the many credit cards spilling out of his wallet, and turns to leave. The bells jangle loudly on the front door as Dean pushes outside.
None of the other customers seem to notice as Sam slumps, shoulders rounded and chin buried into his own chest. Conversation and metallic scrapes against ceramic continue to clutter the airspace of the small diner, and the sound of a defeated sigh is easily swallowed up by the casual din.
Sam looks down. In his lap are his hands, and in his hand lies a smooth, thick ring of metal— a cock ring. It’s an unobtrusive thing, really, and Sam idly rolls it between his palms as he thinks, I should have just let him wear it.
After all, Dean had asked so sweetly, embarrassed and unable to make eye contact as he’d pressed the warm metal down into Sam’s clammy palm. “In the bathroom,” his brother had said throatily. “Before the check gets here.”
Looking outside through greasy glass doors, Sam can see Dean in the seat of the Impala. The engine’s already on, headlights lit despite the brightening morning sky, and his brother’s impatiently fiddling with something on the dashboard.
Sam clenches his fist, the unforgiving metal spreading his knuckles apart.
He should’ve just let Dean wear the damned thing.
-----
Six months, give or take— the time it takes for Sam to come apart, unraveled and insane with everything he feels so severely.
He thinks back to when it started, back to one hazy day… some unimportant day out of the hundreds that the Winchesters speed through, like so much road and mileage. He’d been itchy and hot, blistering in his own body as the cheap vinyl upholstery threatened to meld with his skin.
To top it off, the air conditioning had been on the fritz since the last exorcism. With the windows rolled down, Sam’s forearm hung outside, though he was careful not to rest it against the scalding metal of the door. Dry, roasted air blustered in and out of the cabin, and Sam watched his skin bake in the sun.
“Fuck,” he swore, feeling warm sweat running down his back and soaking his thin undershirt through. It was uncomfortable and gross, and it felt like a rash starting between his shoulder blades.
Dean was zoned out, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that kept slipping down the bridge of his nose. But when Sam crossly yanked his undershirt off, ripping seams in the process, Dean’s head turned.
Sam tossed the drenched fabric into the backseat and squarely met his brother’s stare. “What?”
Dean faced front. “Nothin’, man.”
But for the rest of the car ride, Dean’s gaze inexorably slid over to Sam, chin tipping down ever-so-slightly as he took in the sight of gleaming sweat against his brother’s smooth, browned skin.
Times like this, when Dean was too exhausted or inebriated to carefully fold his… problem into himself, he wandered into dangerous waters. And unfortunately, Dean had been too exhausted or too inebriated around Sam more often than he could count. Too often to keep anything hidden from his little brother, really.
Sam knew.
Sam knew already, and even if he didn’t, the blatant way Dean feasted on Sam’s naked torso was enough to give up the game. And you know, Sam had had it. He’d had it. It was a thousand fucking degrees in this metal junk bucket, too thick with heat even without the sexual tension suffocating him, and Dean just wouldn’t. Stop. Checking him out.
With Dean’s eyes halfway from the road to Sam’s swallowing throat, Sam choked out, “Stop it.”
Dean snapped to attention, their gazes locked and tense. “Stop what?” he dared.
Everything the brothers had carefully bottled up all these years threatened to break loose, to crash down around their ears, and it would be so easy to do it; so easy to just say the word and let them fall. (Later on Sam would say that the heat urged him, the dizziness compelled him). He said, “Stop the car, Dean,” and they both knew exactly what that meant. This was the farthest they’d ever gotten.
Still, in Sam’s wording lurked an implicit chance to back out— if their intents were unspoken, if they never said it, it didn’t exist. Just Sam and Dean, and the way they looked at each other. In Sam’s wording (“Stop the car, Dean”) was the chance that Dean could hold himself back just one more time. Because Sam, with his brother’s eyes on him like physical heat, couldn’t be trusted to stay on this side of propriety. It was up to Dean to decide.
Dean stopped the car.
Only, when they were parked on the side of the desolate road with Sam leaning in, eyes fixed on Dean’s mouth, Dean shoved him away.
After a confused pause, Sam said, “What the fuck?”
Dean wouldn’t look him in the eye. He tried to play it off, asking “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what the—“ Sam started, but then he saw it. Peered closer, and saw it in Dean’s eyes, Dean’s body language, and he thought of Dean, and it made sense.
It made sense that it would start like this, Dean wanting but unwilling to voice it. Sam got that. He got Dean, so he crushed forward and crowded his brother against the side of the car, satisfaction in his brother’s surprised hiss, and forced his mouth on Dean’s teeth.
“Sam—“ Dean protested against mashed lips, and Sam read this as “more”. Dean’s knee in his gut felt like “closer” and the frantic shoves at his shoulders screamed “yes.” Yes.
It wasn’t until he was sucking the sweat off his brother’s stomach that he paused, unsure. Dean’s hands were pushing at his head, trying to pry him off, and Dean’s soft breaths sounded suspiciously like “no.” Sam backed up enough to see finger-shaped bruises on Dean’s hips, crescents from where his blunt nails had stubbornly dug into his older brother’s skin.
Dean bucked up and threw Sam off, who frowned and settled back at a respectable distance. Sam asked, “Do you want this or not?”
“No,” Dean said, eyes lowered and inscrutable.
Which would’ve been the end of that had Dean not been hard, the bulge in the inseam of his pant leg giving him away. Sam narrowed his eyes as Dean tried to subtly adjust himself, hips rising off his seat as he tugged at his sweat-damp jeans with difficulty.
Oh, so we’re playing like that, Sam growled inwardly. Fuck, he should’ve known that Dean would never let himself go, would never just let himself feel. These weak and easily overcome protests were the closest Sam would ever get to a simple “yes” from his brother, so he was damned well going to take what he could. Demand it, even.
He surged forward, once again shoving Dean up against the door of the cramped cabin, and oh, he demanded— demanded with his tongue on Dean’s mouth, sunburned ear, neck; he claimed Dean’s collarbone and his dark, oval nipples with roving teeth, stopping only to relish his brother’s bitten-off moans and choked sobs.
The whole time, Dean chanted, “No, god—so fucked up—Stop, Sammy.” Over and over again. But Sam knew, Dean wanted it.
You could blame a thousand things on Sam Winchester, but you could never accuse him of not knowing what made his brother Dean tick. And this, everything they started, Dean had wanted it.
This is what Sam’s told himself for the past six months.
Next
Characters: Sam/Dean
Author:
aeroport_artRating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con (of sorts)
Word Count: 1,422 (5,523 total)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Smutty fic inspired by some meta posted (here) some months back by
mona1347 that I found incredibly fascinating. So I wanted to explore Dean's role as a beta dog through AlphaDog!Sam porn. Not that this hasn't been done already-- poisontaster and mona1347 nailed it with their Sex Pollen 'verse, but I wanted to try it out for myself :D Title taken from the They Might Be Giants song. Beta-ed by the lovely jewels667. Thanks hon!Summary: Dean refuses to acknowledge his feelings towards his little brother and Sam doesn't know how, but somehow because of it, they're caught up in a web of wrong that he can't seem to untangle.
“Dean,” Sam whispers. “I don’t want to do this. Don’t make me do this.”
Dean’s eyes are closed, his lashes in shadow—they flutter involuntarily, braced for a blow. Sam’s gut roils uncomfortably as he leans forward and steadily places his hands on the table, near Dean’s half-eaten plate, and repeats emphatically, “I won’t do it.”
Dean’s eyes open suddenly, the bright irises jolting Sam backwards until he’s fully seated on his booth again, hands back behind the salt pepper and ketchup barrier between them. Shit, Sam thinks. Shit, it’s over. It’s all over now.
Dean gets up from his seat, knees knocking against his brother’s until he’s standing at full height. He shrugs his jacket on, slaps down one of the many credit cards spilling out of his wallet, and turns to leave. The bells jangle loudly on the front door as Dean pushes outside.
None of the other customers seem to notice as Sam slumps, shoulders rounded and chin buried into his own chest. Conversation and metallic scrapes against ceramic continue to clutter the airspace of the small diner, and the sound of a defeated sigh is easily swallowed up by the casual din.
Sam looks down. In his lap are his hands, and in his hand lies a smooth, thick ring of metal— a cock ring. It’s an unobtrusive thing, really, and Sam idly rolls it between his palms as he thinks, I should have just let him wear it.
After all, Dean had asked so sweetly, embarrassed and unable to make eye contact as he’d pressed the warm metal down into Sam’s clammy palm. “In the bathroom,” his brother had said throatily. “Before the check gets here.”
Looking outside through greasy glass doors, Sam can see Dean in the seat of the Impala. The engine’s already on, headlights lit despite the brightening morning sky, and his brother’s impatiently fiddling with something on the dashboard.
Sam clenches his fist, the unforgiving metal spreading his knuckles apart.
He should’ve just let Dean wear the damned thing.
-----
Six months, give or take— the time it takes for Sam to come apart, unraveled and insane with everything he feels so severely.
He thinks back to when it started, back to one hazy day… some unimportant day out of the hundreds that the Winchesters speed through, like so much road and mileage. He’d been itchy and hot, blistering in his own body as the cheap vinyl upholstery threatened to meld with his skin.
To top it off, the air conditioning had been on the fritz since the last exorcism. With the windows rolled down, Sam’s forearm hung outside, though he was careful not to rest it against the scalding metal of the door. Dry, roasted air blustered in and out of the cabin, and Sam watched his skin bake in the sun.
“Fuck,” he swore, feeling warm sweat running down his back and soaking his thin undershirt through. It was uncomfortable and gross, and it felt like a rash starting between his shoulder blades.
Dean was zoned out, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that kept slipping down the bridge of his nose. But when Sam crossly yanked his undershirt off, ripping seams in the process, Dean’s head turned.
Sam tossed the drenched fabric into the backseat and squarely met his brother’s stare. “What?”
Dean faced front. “Nothin’, man.”
But for the rest of the car ride, Dean’s gaze inexorably slid over to Sam, chin tipping down ever-so-slightly as he took in the sight of gleaming sweat against his brother’s smooth, browned skin.
Times like this, when Dean was too exhausted or inebriated to carefully fold his… problem into himself, he wandered into dangerous waters. And unfortunately, Dean had been too exhausted or too inebriated around Sam more often than he could count. Too often to keep anything hidden from his little brother, really.
Sam knew.
Sam knew already, and even if he didn’t, the blatant way Dean feasted on Sam’s naked torso was enough to give up the game. And you know, Sam had had it. He’d had it. It was a thousand fucking degrees in this metal junk bucket, too thick with heat even without the sexual tension suffocating him, and Dean just wouldn’t. Stop. Checking him out.
With Dean’s eyes halfway from the road to Sam’s swallowing throat, Sam choked out, “Stop it.”
Dean snapped to attention, their gazes locked and tense. “Stop what?” he dared.
Everything the brothers had carefully bottled up all these years threatened to break loose, to crash down around their ears, and it would be so easy to do it; so easy to just say the word and let them fall. (Later on Sam would say that the heat urged him, the dizziness compelled him). He said, “Stop the car, Dean,” and they both knew exactly what that meant. This was the farthest they’d ever gotten.
Still, in Sam’s wording lurked an implicit chance to back out— if their intents were unspoken, if they never said it, it didn’t exist. Just Sam and Dean, and the way they looked at each other. In Sam’s wording (“Stop the car, Dean”) was the chance that Dean could hold himself back just one more time. Because Sam, with his brother’s eyes on him like physical heat, couldn’t be trusted to stay on this side of propriety. It was up to Dean to decide.
Dean stopped the car.
Only, when they were parked on the side of the desolate road with Sam leaning in, eyes fixed on Dean’s mouth, Dean shoved him away.
After a confused pause, Sam said, “What the fuck?”
Dean wouldn’t look him in the eye. He tried to play it off, asking “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what the—“ Sam started, but then he saw it. Peered closer, and saw it in Dean’s eyes, Dean’s body language, and he thought of Dean, and it made sense.
It made sense that it would start like this, Dean wanting but unwilling to voice it. Sam got that. He got Dean, so he crushed forward and crowded his brother against the side of the car, satisfaction in his brother’s surprised hiss, and forced his mouth on Dean’s teeth.
“Sam—“ Dean protested against mashed lips, and Sam read this as “more”. Dean’s knee in his gut felt like “closer” and the frantic shoves at his shoulders screamed “yes.” Yes.
It wasn’t until he was sucking the sweat off his brother’s stomach that he paused, unsure. Dean’s hands were pushing at his head, trying to pry him off, and Dean’s soft breaths sounded suspiciously like “no.” Sam backed up enough to see finger-shaped bruises on Dean’s hips, crescents from where his blunt nails had stubbornly dug into his older brother’s skin.
Dean bucked up and threw Sam off, who frowned and settled back at a respectable distance. Sam asked, “Do you want this or not?”
“No,” Dean said, eyes lowered and inscrutable.
Which would’ve been the end of that had Dean not been hard, the bulge in the inseam of his pant leg giving him away. Sam narrowed his eyes as Dean tried to subtly adjust himself, hips rising off his seat as he tugged at his sweat-damp jeans with difficulty.
Oh, so we’re playing like that, Sam growled inwardly. Fuck, he should’ve known that Dean would never let himself go, would never just let himself feel. These weak and easily overcome protests were the closest Sam would ever get to a simple “yes” from his brother, so he was damned well going to take what he could. Demand it, even.
He surged forward, once again shoving Dean up against the door of the cramped cabin, and oh, he demanded— demanded with his tongue on Dean’s mouth, sunburned ear, neck; he claimed Dean’s collarbone and his dark, oval nipples with roving teeth, stopping only to relish his brother’s bitten-off moans and choked sobs.
The whole time, Dean chanted, “No, god—so fucked up—Stop, Sammy.” Over and over again. But Sam knew, Dean wanted it.
You could blame a thousand things on Sam Winchester, but you could never accuse him of not knowing what made his brother Dean tick. And this, everything they started, Dean had wanted it.
This is what Sam’s told himself for the past six months.
Next
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-28 12:11 am (UTC)Because you're good at dirty and awesome in general, I would like to point you in the direction of
no subject
Date: 2007-08-28 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-01 06:59 am (UTC)Wow, really, I hated the sex pollen verse. I thought it made Sam seem completely heartless and Dean like the weakest, neediest thing in the world with both of them trapped in a relationship that brought out the absolute worst in each other. It was like the antithesis to everything I love about wincest.
no subject
Date: 2007-09-01 07:12 am (UTC)Aaaand I feel like I'm talking to thin air.