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beansideTitle: Sweet Dreams
Rating: Nc-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don't own characters of Dean and Sam Winchester. No infringement or offense is intended.
Warnings: Incest.
Sweet Dreams
Sam doesn’t remember the last time he slept well with Dean in the room. It was long before the visions, long before Jess. He thinks it was the night he woke up to find Dean quietly cleaning off a blood-stained knife in the middle of the night.
He didn’t ask what kind of blood it was. He never did. Just like with their father, sometimes, it was better not to know.
The woman at the roadside stand had looked at him with pity, when they’d stopped for directions outside of Santa Fe. She’d handed him a small doll, a kachina. She told him that the eagle would give him strength, and to carry his dreams to heaven.
He didn’t bother to tell her that was the last place he wanted them to go.
Dean, as expected, had rolled his eyes at the tiny doll. Dean had faith in his gun, and his Supersoaker of holy water, but not much else.
Sam, on the other hand, was getting so desperate for a decent night’s sleep, he was willing to try anything. He was getting sloppy, making mistakes. So far, they’d been lucky. They were still alive despite his screwups. Luck wouldn’t hold forever. It never did.
So, ignoring Dean’s derisive snort, he tucked it under his pillow next to the silver knife, and curled up.
Maybe it was just the placebo effect, but almost at once, he felt drowsy, suffused with warmth and safety. He fell asleep to the tinny sound of Dean’s walkman—the old cassette kind, loud enough that he could make out the lyrics even through the headphones.
The dreams came quickly, Jess’ frozen face staring as the flames licked towards him like a lover. Just as quickly, though, it shifted. He still laid on his bed, sprawled out after a shower, a towel tied at his hips.
Dean stared down at him, bloody knife held loosely at his side.
“What?” Sam asked.
Dean didn’t answer, just laying the knife at the foot of the bed and kneeling on the edge.
“Dean?” Sam asked cautiously. “Say something.”
He’d never appreciated his brother’s grace, or speed before, Sam thought idly, watching him crawl forward. On the too-soft bed, it should have looked awkward, but somehow, on Dean, it looked…perfect.
Sensual.
Sam’s eyes widened, both at the thought, and at Dean, who’d moved again.
This time, it was just his hand. With the speed of a striking snake his hand shot out, snagging the edge of the towel and tugging.
“Dean, what the hell-“ Sam cursed, sitting up.
Dean moved again, that same explosive grace, pressing him back onto the bed. “Ssh.” His lips found Sam’s, tongue brushing over his lower lip.
“Dean! What are you-“ His voice broke as strong, callused fingers curled around his cock, stroking its length.
Dean lifted his head enough to smirk, then bent, lips teasing his throat, teeth grazing along the pulse. His hand moved slowly, finding a tortuous rhythm.
Against his will, Sam felt his cock harden, heat settling low in his stomach. “Dean, you’re my brother,” he whispered hoarsely.
Dean bit his earlobe lightly, seeming to enjoy the shudder it pulled from Sam. “Just a dream, Sammy. No harm in that,” he purred. “Let me take care of you.”
“God,” Sam groaned. “I can’t-“
Dean slid down, pausing to tease a nipple, then lower. “Then stop me, Sammy,” he taunted. His hand slid away from Sam’s cock, sliding back to tease at his entrance.
“Dean!”
“Just let me help you,” Dean murmured. “I know you feel lost, Sammy. Lost up here,” he added, tapping his head.
“I-“
“It’s okay. I know the way. Let me show you,” he whispered.
Sam closed his eyes, not wanting to see the raw emotion in Dean’s.
Dean took it as consent, and bent lower.
Sam shivered, feeling Dean’s breath on him, steeling himself for the first touch. It came quickly, soft lips brushing along his length, a wet tongue spiraling over the head.
This wasn’t the first time Dean had done this, Sam realized. He was too good.
Sam moaned low in his throat, hoarse and desperate. Pleasure like fire was streaking through him, centered on that mouth. Jesus. Suddenly, Dean’s popularity with women made so much more sense.
“That’s it, Sammy, let go,” Dean mumbled.
The knife’s edge of pleasure tightened, until his fingers were knotted in the rough sheets, his breath coming in short gasps. “Dean-“
Whatever he’d been about to add was lost to incoherence. He arched as the pleasure sharpened, shattering through him until there was nothing but Dean’s mouth, and the amazing pleasure that rode the edge of too much, too intense, until another second would surely break him.
Then, nothingness. Sweet oblivion.
“Just the beast under your bed, in your closet, in your head…”
Sam groaned, pulling the covers over his head as Dean obliviously warbled on out of key. He might have a mouth like a hoover, but—
Oh, shit. He sat up, looking around wildly.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asked, glancing up from the newspaper he was reading.
Sam looked around. The bed was a shambles, no shock there. “Fuck. Yeah. Just a dream.”
Dean’s lips curled. “I told you the doll was a bunch of crap.”
“Yeah.”
“You want some breakfast? I hit the vending machine.”
Sam shook his head. “Nah, I need a shower.” He slid out of bed, scratching his ass idly. A thump made him jump, and he spun, staring at the blood-stained knife that had fallen off the foot of the bed.
~End.
Rating: Nc-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don't own characters of Dean and Sam Winchester. No infringement or offense is intended.
Warnings: Incest.
Sweet Dreams
Sam doesn’t remember the last time he slept well with Dean in the room. It was long before the visions, long before Jess. He thinks it was the night he woke up to find Dean quietly cleaning off a blood-stained knife in the middle of the night.
He didn’t ask what kind of blood it was. He never did. Just like with their father, sometimes, it was better not to know.
The woman at the roadside stand had looked at him with pity, when they’d stopped for directions outside of Santa Fe. She’d handed him a small doll, a kachina. She told him that the eagle would give him strength, and to carry his dreams to heaven.
He didn’t bother to tell her that was the last place he wanted them to go.
Dean, as expected, had rolled his eyes at the tiny doll. Dean had faith in his gun, and his Supersoaker of holy water, but not much else.
Sam, on the other hand, was getting so desperate for a decent night’s sleep, he was willing to try anything. He was getting sloppy, making mistakes. So far, they’d been lucky. They were still alive despite his screwups. Luck wouldn’t hold forever. It never did.
So, ignoring Dean’s derisive snort, he tucked it under his pillow next to the silver knife, and curled up.
Maybe it was just the placebo effect, but almost at once, he felt drowsy, suffused with warmth and safety. He fell asleep to the tinny sound of Dean’s walkman—the old cassette kind, loud enough that he could make out the lyrics even through the headphones.
The dreams came quickly, Jess’ frozen face staring as the flames licked towards him like a lover. Just as quickly, though, it shifted. He still laid on his bed, sprawled out after a shower, a towel tied at his hips.
Dean stared down at him, bloody knife held loosely at his side.
“What?” Sam asked.
Dean didn’t answer, just laying the knife at the foot of the bed and kneeling on the edge.
“Dean?” Sam asked cautiously. “Say something.”
He’d never appreciated his brother’s grace, or speed before, Sam thought idly, watching him crawl forward. On the too-soft bed, it should have looked awkward, but somehow, on Dean, it looked…perfect.
Sensual.
Sam’s eyes widened, both at the thought, and at Dean, who’d moved again.
This time, it was just his hand. With the speed of a striking snake his hand shot out, snagging the edge of the towel and tugging.
“Dean, what the hell-“ Sam cursed, sitting up.
Dean moved again, that same explosive grace, pressing him back onto the bed. “Ssh.” His lips found Sam’s, tongue brushing over his lower lip.
“Dean! What are you-“ His voice broke as strong, callused fingers curled around his cock, stroking its length.
Dean lifted his head enough to smirk, then bent, lips teasing his throat, teeth grazing along the pulse. His hand moved slowly, finding a tortuous rhythm.
Against his will, Sam felt his cock harden, heat settling low in his stomach. “Dean, you’re my brother,” he whispered hoarsely.
Dean bit his earlobe lightly, seeming to enjoy the shudder it pulled from Sam. “Just a dream, Sammy. No harm in that,” he purred. “Let me take care of you.”
“God,” Sam groaned. “I can’t-“
Dean slid down, pausing to tease a nipple, then lower. “Then stop me, Sammy,” he taunted. His hand slid away from Sam’s cock, sliding back to tease at his entrance.
“Dean!”
“Just let me help you,” Dean murmured. “I know you feel lost, Sammy. Lost up here,” he added, tapping his head.
“I-“
“It’s okay. I know the way. Let me show you,” he whispered.
Sam closed his eyes, not wanting to see the raw emotion in Dean’s.
Dean took it as consent, and bent lower.
Sam shivered, feeling Dean’s breath on him, steeling himself for the first touch. It came quickly, soft lips brushing along his length, a wet tongue spiraling over the head.
This wasn’t the first time Dean had done this, Sam realized. He was too good.
Sam moaned low in his throat, hoarse and desperate. Pleasure like fire was streaking through him, centered on that mouth. Jesus. Suddenly, Dean’s popularity with women made so much more sense.
“That’s it, Sammy, let go,” Dean mumbled.
The knife’s edge of pleasure tightened, until his fingers were knotted in the rough sheets, his breath coming in short gasps. “Dean-“
Whatever he’d been about to add was lost to incoherence. He arched as the pleasure sharpened, shattering through him until there was nothing but Dean’s mouth, and the amazing pleasure that rode the edge of too much, too intense, until another second would surely break him.
Then, nothingness. Sweet oblivion.
“Just the beast under your bed, in your closet, in your head…”
Sam groaned, pulling the covers over his head as Dean obliviously warbled on out of key. He might have a mouth like a hoover, but—
Oh, shit. He sat up, looking around wildly.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asked, glancing up from the newspaper he was reading.
Sam looked around. The bed was a shambles, no shock there. “Fuck. Yeah. Just a dream.”
Dean’s lips curled. “I told you the doll was a bunch of crap.”
“Yeah.”
“You want some breakfast? I hit the vending machine.”
Sam shook his head. “Nah, I need a shower.” He slid out of bed, scratching his ass idly. A thump made him jump, and he spun, staring at the blood-stained knife that had fallen off the foot of the bed.
~End.
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-17 12:23 pm (UTC)And yeah, I always like the uncertain endings that leave something to the reader's imagination. It's fun that way.
Thanks! I'm happy you enjoyed it!