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spn_springflingTitle: somewhere else, transformed, transfigured
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: S9 spoilers, bondage
**
“Drop it,” Sam says, words sharp, decisive, cutting through the haze like a knife.
Dean’s hand seems to open of its own accord. The blade drops to the ground with what must be a clatter, but all Dean can hear is his blood pounding in his ears, that dull, pervasive, humming noise he gets when he’s like this, beating in sync to the heat from the mark on his forearm.
He feels Sam lean down more than sees him. Picking up the blade, saying Dean’s name with increasing severity until Dean fully snaps out, looks over at Sam.
“We need to leave,” Sam says quietly, eyes steady with Dean’s own, that open, urgent look pulling Dean’s attention like a hook. Swiftly bringing him to surface. Whatever talk that’s coming his way will be saved for later, somewhere safe. Somewhere without two bodies growing rigid on the ground, and a spreading pool of blood coalescing to the middle. An abandoned warehouse in the middle of the industrial district was always good for these sorts of things. Hauntings and Winchesters. Hand in hand. Or rather, one after the other.
“Dean.”
Sam’s hand wrapping around Dean’s shoulder, right where his thumb can press into Dean’s neck. Shakes him like an errant dog.
“I said, let’s go.”
**
“Keys,” Sam says outside. Dean gives them up without a protest. The warehouse is a spreading beacon of fire and smoke behind them, and they’ve got a lot of distance to eat up tonight. The trunk slams shut as he wedges himself into the passenger side. He’s wet all down his front to the top of his jeans. Sticky and uncomfortable. Sam starts the car and veers out of the empty parking lot.
Sam waits a few minutes until they’re on the freeway to speak. One street light after another, pale yellow splotches of light that move through the interior like ghosts. Dean’s out of his top layer, balls it up and throws it to the footwell between his legs. He peels the shirt underneath off, nose scrunching up in distaste, uses the dry bits to get the rest of the blood off his stomach, his face, his neck. He snatches glances over at Sam, long fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, stretching out then back in. He’s looking straight ahead, mouth a thin line of worry. Disapproval. Dean’s got an excuse for about ten different opening lines.
I did what I had to do. We’re so close. They killed people, Sammy. I’m handling it. I’m still in control.
“This has to stop,” is all Sam says. Eyes steady straight ahead, his hand worrying at the wheel.
The first few times, Sam’s line had been, What was that about? He’d wanted to talk it out, make sure everything was alright with Dean. That he wasn’t losing it.
Then the coping mechanisms came. He learned how to stop Dean when he was going too far, how to get through to him, a stern reprimand, a firm touch. Dean lashed out a few times. He didn’t tell Sam about the dreams where he lopped Magnus’ head off time and time again. Then it was Sam’s head, fury and red rage and that mark burning so hot he thought it was eating a hole right through skin and muscle and bone. He told Sam to fuck off instead. Tried a few hunts by himself, left a few more voicemails like some crazy ex to the King of Hell.
Dean reaches for the duffle in the back and pulls out a clean shirt. Curls his arm up against the window and rests his head, the mark turned somewhere against his hair. He can always feel it these days, like some honing device embedded in his skin. He makes a fist and presses against it until he feels it flare up again, then closes his eyes to the passing miles.
**
They stop for the night somewhere near Tucson. Sam checks them in then leaves to refuel the Impala. Dean takes first shower. The place may be a dump but the hot water’s working just fine, and that’s all Dean wants for the moment. He feels ready to split apart, vibrating with hunger and rage and restless energy. Like he’s full to the brim and a little bit more, has to hold himself careful and still before everything goes spilling over. Torn down to basics, the foundation of his own individual hierarchy of needs.
He towels down efficiently, ignores his reflection in the fogged up mirror, an unrecognizable blur. When he steps back into the room, Sam’s waiting for him on the bed closest to the bathroom. He’s turned away from Dean, so Dean has to step in the space between the two beds, right up to the open vee of Sam’s legs. Sam’s got that look on his face like everything’s gone quiet inside. Centered. Like he could wait for Dean like this forever.
Something ugly snakes up inside him and Dean pushes Sam back with both hands, flat against Sam’s chest. He’s got a few choice words too, which get lost when Sam reacts lightning fast; twisting Dean down onto the bed with his whole body, using the momentum to pin him fast against the mattress. Arms behind his back, Sam’s big hand holding him at his wrists, one against the back of his neck. Dean curses. Laughs.
There’s a pause, then, Sam’s breath ghosting against Dean’s cheek.
“Ready?” he asks.
Dean gives a valiant effort to free himself. For the record.
“You crazy fuck,” he spits out. Laughs again. Blood’s already rushing south. His breath puffs out against the scratchy bedspread in ragged pants. Sam’s hold on his wrists unmoving, until Dean screws his eyes shut and nods his head.
“Yes. Okay? I’m ready.”
**
Sam secures Dean’s wrists first with rope. The kind that stays stashed at the bottom of their duffel. The kind they don’t use on hunts. He does everything quick and precise, and with the ease of familiarity. Sticks two fingers between Dean’s skin and the ropes, tests the space between. Tucks his hands under Dean’s arms and hauls him up, then pushes him back down so he lands with a bounce on the bed. Sam must anticipates the kick before it lands, catches Dean’s ankle with one hand and pulls, Dean’s whole body slipping right across the mattress until he’s about to fall off the edge.
Dean curses and tries again. Sam’s one step ahead of him, using most of his weight to hold that leg down, while his fingers tie the other calf to thigh, nimble and quick while Dean tries to twist away, cursing, chest heaving. Once he’s got both done, Sam steps back to survey his work. Dean tests his bonds slowly, his wrists beneath him, his legs tied tight and immobile. He can feel his heels digging into the backs of his thighs, and the angle makes it so that they fall open, everything laid out and bare for Sam to see.
“You said you couldn’t help it,” Sam says finally.
The only thing Dean can hear is his own breathing harsh in the silence, and Sam’s voice. Calm, steady. Dean’s head is angled up so all he can see is yellowing stucco ceiling, one water damaged corner. He can feel Sam’s gaze on his skin like a touch, surveying him, impersonal and terrifying all at once. He’s beyond words now, slipping away and into that place where he doesn’t have to have an answer. Where all he has to do is let his body respond for him, let Sam do whatever he wants. Put him to use.
“How does this feel now?”
**
Sam puts him dead center in the middle of the bed like the main course at a banquet table. Trussed up, compact, a lot less like Dean and a whole lot like something else. He lets his breathing even out, his mind shutter blank, as Sam preps himself first, then Dean. He concentrates on the sound of a bottle clicking shut, the wet slide of Sam’s hand on himself, the cold of two slick fingers pressing between Dean’s open legs, down to his entrance. Dean wriggles briefly against the feeling, then forces himself to settle down as Sam teases him there. He pushes his head back against the mattress, then cranes his neck so he can look, unsure of what he wants to see. To be aware of. He’s only a spectator to some script where the cues are hidden from view. An object to be moved, manipulated. He concentrates on Sam before him, his bare chest, the thick veins of his arm, his hand between Dean’s legs, disappearing where Dean can’t see it. Sam’s face is turned away, looking where his fingers are starting to push inside Dean. A line marring his forehead, the same way he frowns at an indecipherable piece of text, a clue he’s investigating on a hunt.
Sam turns to watch Dean’s reaction. A hot flush that spreads from his chest to his neck, the way his cock thickens in response as Sam presses inside. All Dean feels is a growing need coiling in his belly, the ache between his legs where Sam isn’t touching him, rubbing and pressing against that spot inside him. Like a wind-up toy, Dean thinks. Press enough and he’ll go off, that’s how this game goes.
Dean lets his head fall back down, can’t look Sam in the eyes even if Sam was interested, working him relentlessly, the inside of him. He groans helplessly as the pressure builds, which only spurs Sam on, Dean’s hips twitching, sparks beneath his eyelids.
Dean lets out a breathy, “Fuck,” and Sam kicks into action. He stuffs a pillow underneath the small of Dean’s back, which tilts him up enough so Sam can line himself up with Dean. He must look fucking ridiculous, Dean thinks, which only serves to send a wave of hot shame coursing through him. The first time, Sam had asked how Dean’s arms were feeling, and Dean had responded by headbutting Sam’s chin, enough to nearly knock a tooth loose. Tonight’s a little different than their usual. Most of the time Sam likes Dean on his stomach, spread eagle, their only point of contact being Sam dicking him down. Dean likes it on his knees with Sam’s cock jammed down his throat. He likes the rug burn the next day, his voice hoarse, evidence he can’t hide from anyone. He likes picturing himself from Sam’s perspective with his mouth stretched wide, his eyes tearing up. Mostly he likes the moments when Sam holds him by the back of his neck and fucks into his mouth, the moments where Dean can’t breathe right, when it’s Sam’s pleasure outweighing Dean’s ability to take in a lungful. Now that was exciting.
When it comes down to it, Dean supposes, his consciousness was an inconvenient fact. His body the conduit for some other goal. He didn’t need Sam drawing attention to it.
Sam presses in slowly, head down. He bites at his lip as he watches himself, and Dean lets out a low groan as he feels Sam’s cock filling him up. An inexorable push in as he lies helpless. Sam grips Dean’s calves and holds him even further open, starts up a rhythm, working Dean’s ass good and steady. Dean concentrates on breathing, shuts his eyes, let’s everything else drop and single down to the feeling of Sam fucking him, the rough drag of the rope against his thighs, the hot pull of muscle at his shoulders. He lets Sam dictate the pace, until the pressure inside him builds to a breaking point, and Sam holds Dean’s cock steady in one hand as he bucks up against him and shouts, shooting against his own stomach and chest.
Dean’s blissfully silent as Sam finishes inside him. Then Sam leans down and loosens the rope at Dean’s wrists. Sam massages Dean’s wrist gently before Dean pulls them free, his arms falling to his sides, letting Sam rest against him for the time being. It’s all silent inside. Peaceful. Whatever ledge he’s stepping off, Sam’s pulled him back a distance. Until the next time he needs it, Dean thinks, and the fog descends. Curtains pulling shut. Dean closes his eyes.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: S9 spoilers, bondage
**
“Drop it,” Sam says, words sharp, decisive, cutting through the haze like a knife.
Dean’s hand seems to open of its own accord. The blade drops to the ground with what must be a clatter, but all Dean can hear is his blood pounding in his ears, that dull, pervasive, humming noise he gets when he’s like this, beating in sync to the heat from the mark on his forearm.
He feels Sam lean down more than sees him. Picking up the blade, saying Dean’s name with increasing severity until Dean fully snaps out, looks over at Sam.
“We need to leave,” Sam says quietly, eyes steady with Dean’s own, that open, urgent look pulling Dean’s attention like a hook. Swiftly bringing him to surface. Whatever talk that’s coming his way will be saved for later, somewhere safe. Somewhere without two bodies growing rigid on the ground, and a spreading pool of blood coalescing to the middle. An abandoned warehouse in the middle of the industrial district was always good for these sorts of things. Hauntings and Winchesters. Hand in hand. Or rather, one after the other.
“Dean.”
Sam’s hand wrapping around Dean’s shoulder, right where his thumb can press into Dean’s neck. Shakes him like an errant dog.
“I said, let’s go.”
**
“Keys,” Sam says outside. Dean gives them up without a protest. The warehouse is a spreading beacon of fire and smoke behind them, and they’ve got a lot of distance to eat up tonight. The trunk slams shut as he wedges himself into the passenger side. He’s wet all down his front to the top of his jeans. Sticky and uncomfortable. Sam starts the car and veers out of the empty parking lot.
Sam waits a few minutes until they’re on the freeway to speak. One street light after another, pale yellow splotches of light that move through the interior like ghosts. Dean’s out of his top layer, balls it up and throws it to the footwell between his legs. He peels the shirt underneath off, nose scrunching up in distaste, uses the dry bits to get the rest of the blood off his stomach, his face, his neck. He snatches glances over at Sam, long fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, stretching out then back in. He’s looking straight ahead, mouth a thin line of worry. Disapproval. Dean’s got an excuse for about ten different opening lines.
I did what I had to do. We’re so close. They killed people, Sammy. I’m handling it. I’m still in control.
“This has to stop,” is all Sam says. Eyes steady straight ahead, his hand worrying at the wheel.
The first few times, Sam’s line had been, What was that about? He’d wanted to talk it out, make sure everything was alright with Dean. That he wasn’t losing it.
Then the coping mechanisms came. He learned how to stop Dean when he was going too far, how to get through to him, a stern reprimand, a firm touch. Dean lashed out a few times. He didn’t tell Sam about the dreams where he lopped Magnus’ head off time and time again. Then it was Sam’s head, fury and red rage and that mark burning so hot he thought it was eating a hole right through skin and muscle and bone. He told Sam to fuck off instead. Tried a few hunts by himself, left a few more voicemails like some crazy ex to the King of Hell.
Dean reaches for the duffle in the back and pulls out a clean shirt. Curls his arm up against the window and rests his head, the mark turned somewhere against his hair. He can always feel it these days, like some honing device embedded in his skin. He makes a fist and presses against it until he feels it flare up again, then closes his eyes to the passing miles.
**
They stop for the night somewhere near Tucson. Sam checks them in then leaves to refuel the Impala. Dean takes first shower. The place may be a dump but the hot water’s working just fine, and that’s all Dean wants for the moment. He feels ready to split apart, vibrating with hunger and rage and restless energy. Like he’s full to the brim and a little bit more, has to hold himself careful and still before everything goes spilling over. Torn down to basics, the foundation of his own individual hierarchy of needs.
He towels down efficiently, ignores his reflection in the fogged up mirror, an unrecognizable blur. When he steps back into the room, Sam’s waiting for him on the bed closest to the bathroom. He’s turned away from Dean, so Dean has to step in the space between the two beds, right up to the open vee of Sam’s legs. Sam’s got that look on his face like everything’s gone quiet inside. Centered. Like he could wait for Dean like this forever.
Something ugly snakes up inside him and Dean pushes Sam back with both hands, flat against Sam’s chest. He’s got a few choice words too, which get lost when Sam reacts lightning fast; twisting Dean down onto the bed with his whole body, using the momentum to pin him fast against the mattress. Arms behind his back, Sam’s big hand holding him at his wrists, one against the back of his neck. Dean curses. Laughs.
There’s a pause, then, Sam’s breath ghosting against Dean’s cheek.
“Ready?” he asks.
Dean gives a valiant effort to free himself. For the record.
“You crazy fuck,” he spits out. Laughs again. Blood’s already rushing south. His breath puffs out against the scratchy bedspread in ragged pants. Sam’s hold on his wrists unmoving, until Dean screws his eyes shut and nods his head.
“Yes. Okay? I’m ready.”
**
Sam secures Dean’s wrists first with rope. The kind that stays stashed at the bottom of their duffel. The kind they don’t use on hunts. He does everything quick and precise, and with the ease of familiarity. Sticks two fingers between Dean’s skin and the ropes, tests the space between. Tucks his hands under Dean’s arms and hauls him up, then pushes him back down so he lands with a bounce on the bed. Sam must anticipates the kick before it lands, catches Dean’s ankle with one hand and pulls, Dean’s whole body slipping right across the mattress until he’s about to fall off the edge.
Dean curses and tries again. Sam’s one step ahead of him, using most of his weight to hold that leg down, while his fingers tie the other calf to thigh, nimble and quick while Dean tries to twist away, cursing, chest heaving. Once he’s got both done, Sam steps back to survey his work. Dean tests his bonds slowly, his wrists beneath him, his legs tied tight and immobile. He can feel his heels digging into the backs of his thighs, and the angle makes it so that they fall open, everything laid out and bare for Sam to see.
“You said you couldn’t help it,” Sam says finally.
The only thing Dean can hear is his own breathing harsh in the silence, and Sam’s voice. Calm, steady. Dean’s head is angled up so all he can see is yellowing stucco ceiling, one water damaged corner. He can feel Sam’s gaze on his skin like a touch, surveying him, impersonal and terrifying all at once. He’s beyond words now, slipping away and into that place where he doesn’t have to have an answer. Where all he has to do is let his body respond for him, let Sam do whatever he wants. Put him to use.
“How does this feel now?”
**
Sam puts him dead center in the middle of the bed like the main course at a banquet table. Trussed up, compact, a lot less like Dean and a whole lot like something else. He lets his breathing even out, his mind shutter blank, as Sam preps himself first, then Dean. He concentrates on the sound of a bottle clicking shut, the wet slide of Sam’s hand on himself, the cold of two slick fingers pressing between Dean’s open legs, down to his entrance. Dean wriggles briefly against the feeling, then forces himself to settle down as Sam teases him there. He pushes his head back against the mattress, then cranes his neck so he can look, unsure of what he wants to see. To be aware of. He’s only a spectator to some script where the cues are hidden from view. An object to be moved, manipulated. He concentrates on Sam before him, his bare chest, the thick veins of his arm, his hand between Dean’s legs, disappearing where Dean can’t see it. Sam’s face is turned away, looking where his fingers are starting to push inside Dean. A line marring his forehead, the same way he frowns at an indecipherable piece of text, a clue he’s investigating on a hunt.
Sam turns to watch Dean’s reaction. A hot flush that spreads from his chest to his neck, the way his cock thickens in response as Sam presses inside. All Dean feels is a growing need coiling in his belly, the ache between his legs where Sam isn’t touching him, rubbing and pressing against that spot inside him. Like a wind-up toy, Dean thinks. Press enough and he’ll go off, that’s how this game goes.
Dean lets his head fall back down, can’t look Sam in the eyes even if Sam was interested, working him relentlessly, the inside of him. He groans helplessly as the pressure builds, which only spurs Sam on, Dean’s hips twitching, sparks beneath his eyelids.
Dean lets out a breathy, “Fuck,” and Sam kicks into action. He stuffs a pillow underneath the small of Dean’s back, which tilts him up enough so Sam can line himself up with Dean. He must look fucking ridiculous, Dean thinks, which only serves to send a wave of hot shame coursing through him. The first time, Sam had asked how Dean’s arms were feeling, and Dean had responded by headbutting Sam’s chin, enough to nearly knock a tooth loose. Tonight’s a little different than their usual. Most of the time Sam likes Dean on his stomach, spread eagle, their only point of contact being Sam dicking him down. Dean likes it on his knees with Sam’s cock jammed down his throat. He likes the rug burn the next day, his voice hoarse, evidence he can’t hide from anyone. He likes picturing himself from Sam’s perspective with his mouth stretched wide, his eyes tearing up. Mostly he likes the moments when Sam holds him by the back of his neck and fucks into his mouth, the moments where Dean can’t breathe right, when it’s Sam’s pleasure outweighing Dean’s ability to take in a lungful. Now that was exciting.
When it comes down to it, Dean supposes, his consciousness was an inconvenient fact. His body the conduit for some other goal. He didn’t need Sam drawing attention to it.
Sam presses in slowly, head down. He bites at his lip as he watches himself, and Dean lets out a low groan as he feels Sam’s cock filling him up. An inexorable push in as he lies helpless. Sam grips Dean’s calves and holds him even further open, starts up a rhythm, working Dean’s ass good and steady. Dean concentrates on breathing, shuts his eyes, let’s everything else drop and single down to the feeling of Sam fucking him, the rough drag of the rope against his thighs, the hot pull of muscle at his shoulders. He lets Sam dictate the pace, until the pressure inside him builds to a breaking point, and Sam holds Dean’s cock steady in one hand as he bucks up against him and shouts, shooting against his own stomach and chest.
Dean’s blissfully silent as Sam finishes inside him. Then Sam leans down and loosens the rope at Dean’s wrists. Sam massages Dean’s wrist gently before Dean pulls them free, his arms falling to his sides, letting Sam rest against him for the time being. It’s all silent inside. Peaceful. Whatever ledge he’s stepping off, Sam’s pulled him back a distance. Until the next time he needs it, Dean thinks, and the fog descends. Curtains pulling shut. Dean closes his eyes.
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Date: 2014-04-10 03:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-10 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-10 10:21 am (UTC)I gotta tell you, I have a HUGE competency kink, especially when it comes to Sam Winchester, and that entire account of Sam trussing up Dean made me feel like I'd just sat down to Thanksgiving dinner or something. Love love LOVE Sam's efficiency, the way he has an answer for every move that Dean could even think to make and Dean knows it, still fights against it because he has to, but he knows it. It's everything I love about wincest--the claustrophobia, the familiarity, the desperation and the undeniable drive of it.
And GUH those last few lines. It’s all silent inside. Peaceful. Whatever ledge he’s stepping off, Sam’s pulled him back a distance. Wonderful, the way you took it all back to the heart of the matter, because sure, they fight and they're fucked up and to say they're maladjusted doesn't even come close to cutting it, but no matter what, they'll always pull each other back from the ledge. Such a fantastic gift. Thank you so much!
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Date: 2014-04-25 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-10 11:10 am (UTC)Beautiful fic!
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Date: 2014-04-25 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-13 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 05:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-28 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-27 12:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-28 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-02 03:45 am (UTC):)