![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beansideSince most of y'all wanted to see these, we figured we'd start posting them. This one is a fucked up little piece that we started not long after finishing "Of Bastard Saints." We wanted to explore more of what Dean is to his family, and what life would be like for them without Dean. Also, since we kinda felt like Sam gets the shaft in some of our other stories, this one is pretty Sam centric in a lot of ways, which means that we fucked his shit up big time.
Title: Know Me Broken
Rating: MC-17
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Disclaimer: We don't own them, we just play with them as long as Kripke will let us.
Warnings: violence, mental illness, and paternal and fraternal incest.
A/N: AU.
4 AM.
The broadcast signal cut shadows across the living room, carving stripes on Sam's outstretched legs. He wrapped both hands around the battered old mug that was more whiskey than coffee, trying to leech the last of the warmth out of it, and stared despairingly at the notebook open in front of him. It was April, but Blue Earth only grudgingly gave up its winters. Sam had been shoveling the driveway last week.
April 13th. Another year. Six now.
He had an 8 o'clock class. Two papers due. An appointment with his internship advisor at noon. He had reasons not to sit on the couch and stare at the pattern of the shadows while his brain tried to find signal in the noise. His attendance record was shot for the semester and his professors had already given him the 'you have so much potential, but' speech.
Sam hadn't slept in three damned days.
The house creaked softly around Sam. He tightened his grip on the mug and resisted the itch to check the windows and locks again. There was gun oil on his notes, the family collection of weaponry spread out around him cleaned and sharpened and honed. It had quieted the ghosts for an hour or so.
Sam was safe here. Safe as could be expected, anyway.
He could hear his own breathing, stagger-quick in the darkness. The air felt too close. He wanted to press his fingers to the walls just to be sure, to know for certain that they were cool stone instead of oven-hot metal. He wanted-
Dean, where the hell are you? Why is there blood on your hands?
Moving carefully, Sam uncurled his fingers from the mug and rose stiffly from the couch. He walked through the house like he was on the hunt, like there were watchers in the shadows and threats other than the ones living inside his head.
His nightly ritual, checking the appliances, the salt lines and the locks took another minute, gave his thoughts time to settle. This had been a bad week, memories of fire and pain riding close to the surface.
The door at the end of the hall was always, always open. Even on the worst nights, Sam had that. He'd known that he might catch stray aggression if he went in, but he could go if he needed...
It wasn't about thought; it was about the nights he was too caught up to ask himself about normal or sane or right.
Sam stood inside the doorway for a long few minutes, just listening to the steady rhythm of breathing. It was an old game. Finally, he shifted his weight and moved into the bedroom.
Like clockwork, the bedspread was lifted up so Sam could slide under. Sam curled up on the edge of the bed, close enough that the heat of skin and the scent of gunpowder rolled over him. Apparently he wasn't the only one who hadn't slept; he could feel it in the tension of the silence.
So. It was John tonight.
Not Dad; this wasn't the man who bitched at him to do his damn homework or to bring the car back with gas next time, for fuck's sake. This was different.
"Nightmare?" came the low question. John watched him through half-open eyes, deceptively sleepy.
Sam swallowed and closed his eyes. "Three days ago."
"Should've come to me then." When Sam was silent, John sighed. "Stubborn little bastard. All right. Give."
"It wasn't anything."
Quiet. Sam expected the usual static, John to point out (with that irritating sense he had when it wasn't John's issues up for debate) that it was something enough to keep Sam from sleeping for the next three days.
Then strong, callused hands reached across the distance between them. John caught Sam up, pulled him against his chest. His skin was startlingly hot under the thin Marine Corps t-shirt. His voice was more vibration than sound, the comforting rumble of the road beneath Sam's ear. "Tell me anyway."
And that was so much worse than an argument.
Sam drew in air to argue and felt the breath catch. He exhaled slowly, carefully, keeping it controlled. The words flowed like poison from a wound. "Beach. Looked like maybe Maine. Sharp rocks. Dark water. I saw him from the back. He didn't turn around. There was blood everywhere, all over him."
John didn't have to ask who ‘he’ was. "The blood's new."
"It, um." Sam swallowed to wet his dry throat. "It wasn't his blood."
"No." There was grim humor in John's voice. "Suppose it wouldn't be. Didn’t raise either of you like that.”
Like victims.
There was so much wrong with that, and so much Sam couldn’t really argue with. He’d felt the same quiet, traitorous pulse of contempt when he heard his classmates planning to break into abandoned asylums or to climb cemetery walls.
They always saved the idiots anyway.
The sheets whispered as Sam shifted so their legs intertwined. He knew he was too heavy for the position to be strictly comfortable, but their angles fit together like puzzle pieces. He braced one hand on John’s hip, where the t-shirt didn’t quite meet the pants and Sam could feel bare skin, and the other to his ribs to feel him breathe.
He could smell the strong black tea John had mainlined ever since his doctors told him to lay off the coffee, mingling with soap and gun oil. The scent was comfort.
John laid a warm, rough hand on the back of Sam's neck. The steady pressure of it brought their foreheads together, skin on skin. It'd been a bad night all around; John only did that if he was feeling torn up. His eyes were closed, the lashes startlingly soft against the harder lines and angles of his face. His fingertips drew shivery patterns on the nape of Sam's neck. Protection sigils; John didn't waste an opportunity to mark Sam as ‘do not touch’.
"I hate this," Sam said finally. "Gets worse every year."
There was no answer. Sam hadn't expected one.
Six years since the Cult of Apep. Six years since the last time Sam saw his brother's face, since Dean was anything but a footnote in stolen documentation, an empty bedroom littered with John's notes and the single duffel that contained Dean's life.
There were pictures. T-shirts. Tapes. Sam didn't really remember what Dean's smile looked like.
Sam kept hunting, but it had nothing to do with hope. He believed because he had to, because there was no other option. They'd find Dean, even if it was only to bury him.
Or, the nightmare whispered, to burn and salt-
Growl rumbling low in his throat, Sam brought his head up and pressed their mouths together.
It never started easy. They were too alike, sharp edges grinding and wearing each other down. Tonight, though, John met his violence with a steady hand on his back, slowing the kiss until it was lazy, devastating. Sam’s fingers tightened on John’s arms until he heard a soft hiss, a murmured assent against his mouth.
The shiver crept up on Sam. His hips shifted slow against the solid line of John’s thigh between his own. John’s hand slid up, cupped the back of Sam’s head, kissed him deeper and messy. Sam bit his lower lip and hooked his thumb under the waistband of John’s sweatpants, tugging and squirming to try to get them down far enough to touch.
Sam was on his back before he really knew what happened, pinned by John’s heavier body. For a second, Sam fought to get out on sheer bull-headed instinct. There might’ve been pride in the look John gave him before shifting his weight to get better leverage on him, to pin Sam’s wrists to the bed.
With a groan, Sam let his head fall back and settled for wrapping his legs around John, grinding up into him. He could feel the hard line of John’s cock riding in the dip of his belly, so close through the thin layer of sweatpants.
John’s smile was dark as he bent, nuzzling at Sam’s throat. His eyes stayed on Sam, always on Sam, as he bit at the vulnerable place where Sam’s throat met his shoulder. He squeezed Sam’s wrists, pressed them into the bed and let go.
“Fuck,” Sam breathed, his voice harsh in the dark. “Yeah. Please, I-“ He kept his wrist there, his body arching towards John, trying to get closer. Couldn’t, because there was no room between them. John’s body was a hard, spare line of muscle and heat against Sam’s. “I need-“
“I know.”
And damned if that wasn’t what it all bled down to: John knew what he’d been through, knew the story behind every scar and the landscape of every nightmare. That common thread was blessing and curse, and it bound them together every time.
John bit his throat, his shoulder, his chest. There’d be bruises in the morning, raw spots worn by stubble and teeth and fingernails. Sam wasn’t complaining.
Once he’d wanted normal. This wasn’t even close. It was fucked up, wrong in so many ways that he’d lost count. And it was the only thing that kept them both sane.
It had taken the damned cult to drive a fundamental understanding home for Sam. They weren’t normal. Now, it was enough to feel safe. To find comfort where they could.
John slid down, tongue and teeth tracing a path to his stomach, and Sam stopped thinking.
Stubble scraped over his hipbone, then a wet swipe of a tongue. Sam sucked in a breath, waiting for the sting of teeth, but John just traced the line inwards.
For a moment, it felt like time stood still. Somehow, no matter how long it had been, how often they’d done this dance, there was always that moment, a heartbeat before the storm, where the world held its breath. Waiting, Sam guessed, to see if they were fucked up enough to forge another link in the twisted chain that held them together.
It never failed. They always were, because you could never underestimate the fucked-up nature of Winchesters.
John’s lips closed over the head of his cock, tongue teasing little circles. Sam bit his lip, fingers twisting in the sheets as he fought to hold still. John watched him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.
Sam met his eyes, licking his lips desperately. “Just, c’mon,” he breathed.
John lifted his head, and Sam nearly whimpered at the loss. “Easy,” John growled, comfort and warning at once. “I’m driving tonight.”
With a panting, unsteady laugh, Sam let his head drop back on the pillow. “Idling. On neutral. You-“
He should’ve known, after years of quietly sadistic training exercises, that it was never safe to take his eyes off John. Ever.
Even in bed.
Hell, especially in bed.
The slick touch at Sam’s entrance made his breath catch. John didn’t wait for him to relax before pressing a finger inside, twisting with ruthless efficiency, curling just right. Sam shuddered, choking on a groan as he tried to move into John’s hand, tried to fuck himself on the long callused fingers that had patched his wounds and steadied his gun arm.
John easily kept Sam’s hips pinned flat to the bed, his mouth curving. Then, he bent again, taking Sam into his mouth, sucking lightly while his finger brushed that spot that made Sam’s breath stop.
“Fuck,” Sam moaned, hips bucking. “Oh, fuck.”
John growled low in his throat, the vibration going through Sam like a shot.
Sam started to grab for his shoulders, his hair, anything to hold onto, and caught himself just short. His hands slapped sharply back down on the bed, scrabbling blindly as John eased a second finger in beside the first. And fuck, it still burned. John almost never gave him this, not even fingers, not after that first time.
John didn’t give the burn a chance to ease up before he was crooking his fingers, stretching him, sucking harder until Sam was dizzy and panting for breath.
“God, I-“ Yeah. Three years of debate team, straight down the tubes. Sam’s words kept tripping all over each other, catching in his throat. “Fuck me,” he gasped finally, “please, fuck-“
Dragging himself back, John murmured, “Don’t have to beg.” There was a feral light in his eyes that said he really hadn’t minded. He pressed himself up, lean muscle flexing under his shirt, and Sam had to touch him.
Tugging the shirt, Sam rasped, “Off.”
John nodded, sitting up to peel the shirt off and toss it aside. Helpfully, Sam reached down and tugged at the waistband of John’s sweatpants. He’d felt John’s cock against his calf, but it was gratifying to see how hard he was. How much he wanted this, too. Sam cupped John in his hand, wrapping his fingers around him and touching the slick tip. Watched the shudder slide up John, watched his eyes go even darker.
Exhaling through his teeth, John reached over to the nightstand and tossed Sam a tube of lubricant. Sam grinned, upcapping the tube one-handed to drench his fingers and John’s cock. Messy, but it worked, let Sam jerk him slow and tight.
John held still for once, letting Sam give, letting himself take. There was a fine tremor in the long muscles of his back, a hitch to his breathing. Then he swatted Sam’s hand away, smirking at the nearly subvocal growl that slid from Sam’s throat.
The smile made something familiar ache deep in Sam’s chest. There was an echo of Dean’s smile in that cocky curve of John’s lips. And that simple, that complicated, the pain loosened a little.
Sam wouldn’t forget. Not as long as they had each other. For better or worse, Dean would always be there in the silences between them.
Without a word, John moved, pressing Sam back to the pillows, shifting up to cover him, skin to skin. John pressed a kiss to Sam’s lips, a chaste brush that made Sam’s breath catch in his throat.
“Please,” Sam said, his voice so thin he barely recognized it. “God, I need-“
Before he could finish, there was a gentle pressure at his entrance. Sam choked into silence as John’s hips rocked forward, sinking inside before Sam had a moment to think, to tense.
It was never comfortable. Never quite painless, no matter how well John prepared him for it. They just didn’t do this often. Certainly not enough for it to have become rote. Sam thought that was appropriate. They were Winchesters, after all. And Winchesters weren’t easy. They were blood, and fire, and pain.
And right now, the pain was telling him what it always did. Still alive. Still fighting. Still together.
Sam’s breath hissed out as John finally was pressed against him, hipbones sharp (too sharp, getting skinny again) against Sam’s thighs. When Sam looked up, he could see the blood welling slick on John’s lower lip, where he’d bitten through.
One more drop of pain. Another offering at the altar of their loss.
Sam reached up, fingers stroking over the smear of red on John’s lip, and let his eyes shut. It was too much like his last glance of Dean, slumped and dazed on the dirty floor of the cult’s compound. They’d tasered him until he’d stopped fighting, and Sam had to squint through blurry eyes to see him breathe-
A rough hand touched Sam’s cheek. Sam forced the memory away, opened his eyes. John looked down, a silent question that Sam understood. It was funny sometimes, how they could go days without even needing to say a word. Good in the field, but it was hell on Sam’s attempts to remember what normal even was.
With a soft hiss, Sam let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and nodded. His arms looped loosely around John’s neck, spreading his fingers on John’s shoulders, tracing the scars that Sam could find blind.
With an almost fond smile, John tilted his chin and rubbed one sandpaper cheek briefly over Sam’s arm. Sam had to grin back at him. Nine months ago, he wouldn’t have put money on John Winchester being the nuzzling type.
Which was why Sam didn’t regret. Not really. The sex was great, but it was the small things, the little unexpected tender things that had taken years to achieve, that sealed the deal in his mind. It wasn’t much, but there was a million moments of laughter and tears and rage behind every kiss, every stray touch. It was in the uncontrolled shudder of breath as Sam took John in his mouth. It was in Sam reaching out in the dark and knowing that he’d find John there. It was in looking over the obits in the morning, John terrorizing his professors.
They were all each other had these days. If Sam had to lay any hope of being normal on that pyre, then God help him, he would. He’d do it every damned night.
John crooked an eyebrow. His expression was rock-steady, but Sam could feel the long muscles twitching in John’s thighs.
Sam shifted under John, his hips hitching, urging John on. With a slow breath out, John bent, barely rocking against Sam in maddening little movements. Tilting his head up for a kiss, Sam shuddered as John took him up on it, tongue skimming along the bow of Sam’s lips.
A strangled noise slid free. Sam opened for him, mouth and body, his legs coming up to lock around John’s hips. He could feel John’s lips curve against his, the bunch of the lean muscles in John’s arms the moment before he shifted back.
Sam swallowed, fighting the moan back as John pulled almost all the way out. With a growl, John pressed back in slowly- too damned slow, Sam thought. He needed- he wanted- God-
Which was, of course, John’s cue to settle in like he intended to stay there. So deep in Sam, so goddamn deep, that it felt like Sam could taste John’s pulse in the back of his throat.
The small noise tugged its way out of Sam. John bit his own lower lip and slid one hand down, gripping Sam’s hip and hitching him up into John like he weighed nothing. Shuddering, dizzy, Sam dug his nails into John’s back.
“Early for that,” John murmured, damnably level, and grunted softly as Sam tightened his legs around him.
“And,” Sam breathed, “your point would be?”
John shut him up with another hard kiss, tongue darting in and out slick and wet. His hips followed, picking up the same slow, easy rhythm.
After a moment, Sam tore his mouth from John’s, breath unsteady. “God, harder,” he gasped.
John’s only reply was to bite Sam’s throat, tongue soothing the brush of teeth. The pace never faltered, though. Lazy, long thrusts that never quite hit where Sam needed.
Begging wouldn’t work. God knew, he’d tried in the past. John would just quiet him with a kiss, soothe him until he relaxed. Only one thing left to do. “God, yeah. Feels so good,” Sam moaned, digging his fingers into John’s shoulders.
The next thrust was harder, John’s teeth tightening on his shoulder. “Jesus, Sam,” he growled.
“Please, c’mon. Want to feel it, so hard,” he whispered brokenly.
The slender thread of John’s control snapped, Sam swore he could hear it. Or maybe that was the broken growl that might have been a curse, might have been his name. John nuzzled at Sam’s throat, the soft touch in contrast to the sudden, hard movements of his hips, the hard hands on Sam’s waist, pulling him up, tilting him just so—
White sparks flared behind Sam’s eyes, breath sliding out on a soft near sob.
John’s hands slid down, pulling his thighs up. Sam took the hint, wrapping his legs, locking his ankles behind John’s back. The next thrust was harder, aimed true, and Sam let his head fall back onto the pillow.
“That what you want?” John growled.
Sam nodded, wordless, hands stroking frantically along John’s back, hands smoothing over bunched muscles, feeling them clench and ripple with each movement. It was perfect, the hard slide of John’s cock in him, hitting just right on every thrust until Sam’s hands were clenching in thick hair, pulling John closer.
He pressed John’s mouth to his throat, shuddering and moaning at the kiss of teeth, the slow, sucking heat, the slick glide of his cock over John’s lean stomach. It was exactly what he wanted; possession, a promise. It was them. Together.
John’s mouth moved at his throat, a barely breathed word against his skin.
“Mine.”
Teeth grazed his earlobe, and the pain wound up into the pleasure. Sam tensed, his breath catching, then sobbing out in a hard, dizzying rush.
Wet heat bloomed slick between their bellies. Sam watched John’s eyes darken, lips curling back in a smile that was more a baring of teeth as his strokes faltered.
It was barely a moment before John’s eyes closed, his body slamming one last time into Sam. Sam deliberately tightened around John, fingers stroking over John’s jaw. “Mine,” he whispered back, voice nowhere near steady.
The unrestrained noise that slid through John’s iron control was raw, somewhere between a growl and a sob. Sam met it with a hard kiss, holding John, petting him through his orgasm.
Once, John would have bolted from the bed, gone to get something to clean Sam of all traces of his scent, his sweat, his touch. John’d have showered, trying to wash away his own guilt. Now he just slid off Sam, tucked Sam against him and ran gentle hands along Sam’s sides.
Sam felt boneless, his body sinking into the bed, into the safe haven of John’s arms. He squirmed for a moment, until his head rested on John’s bicep, bodies pressed together. With a soft, contented sigh, he let his eyes close, let the wave of sleep overtake him.
Title: Know Me Broken
Rating: MC-17
Authors:
nilchance and beansideDisclaimer: We don't own them, we just play with them as long as Kripke will let us.
Warnings: violence, mental illness, and paternal and fraternal incest.
A/N: AU.
4 AM.
The broadcast signal cut shadows across the living room, carving stripes on Sam's outstretched legs. He wrapped both hands around the battered old mug that was more whiskey than coffee, trying to leech the last of the warmth out of it, and stared despairingly at the notebook open in front of him. It was April, but Blue Earth only grudgingly gave up its winters. Sam had been shoveling the driveway last week.
April 13th. Another year. Six now.
He had an 8 o'clock class. Two papers due. An appointment with his internship advisor at noon. He had reasons not to sit on the couch and stare at the pattern of the shadows while his brain tried to find signal in the noise. His attendance record was shot for the semester and his professors had already given him the 'you have so much potential, but' speech.
Sam hadn't slept in three damned days.
The house creaked softly around Sam. He tightened his grip on the mug and resisted the itch to check the windows and locks again. There was gun oil on his notes, the family collection of weaponry spread out around him cleaned and sharpened and honed. It had quieted the ghosts for an hour or so.
Sam was safe here. Safe as could be expected, anyway.
He could hear his own breathing, stagger-quick in the darkness. The air felt too close. He wanted to press his fingers to the walls just to be sure, to know for certain that they were cool stone instead of oven-hot metal. He wanted-
Dean, where the hell are you? Why is there blood on your hands?
Moving carefully, Sam uncurled his fingers from the mug and rose stiffly from the couch. He walked through the house like he was on the hunt, like there were watchers in the shadows and threats other than the ones living inside his head.
His nightly ritual, checking the appliances, the salt lines and the locks took another minute, gave his thoughts time to settle. This had been a bad week, memories of fire and pain riding close to the surface.
The door at the end of the hall was always, always open. Even on the worst nights, Sam had that. He'd known that he might catch stray aggression if he went in, but he could go if he needed...
It wasn't about thought; it was about the nights he was too caught up to ask himself about normal or sane or right.
Sam stood inside the doorway for a long few minutes, just listening to the steady rhythm of breathing. It was an old game. Finally, he shifted his weight and moved into the bedroom.
Like clockwork, the bedspread was lifted up so Sam could slide under. Sam curled up on the edge of the bed, close enough that the heat of skin and the scent of gunpowder rolled over him. Apparently he wasn't the only one who hadn't slept; he could feel it in the tension of the silence.
So. It was John tonight.
Not Dad; this wasn't the man who bitched at him to do his damn homework or to bring the car back with gas next time, for fuck's sake. This was different.
"Nightmare?" came the low question. John watched him through half-open eyes, deceptively sleepy.
Sam swallowed and closed his eyes. "Three days ago."
"Should've come to me then." When Sam was silent, John sighed. "Stubborn little bastard. All right. Give."
"It wasn't anything."
Quiet. Sam expected the usual static, John to point out (with that irritating sense he had when it wasn't John's issues up for debate) that it was something enough to keep Sam from sleeping for the next three days.
Then strong, callused hands reached across the distance between them. John caught Sam up, pulled him against his chest. His skin was startlingly hot under the thin Marine Corps t-shirt. His voice was more vibration than sound, the comforting rumble of the road beneath Sam's ear. "Tell me anyway."
And that was so much worse than an argument.
Sam drew in air to argue and felt the breath catch. He exhaled slowly, carefully, keeping it controlled. The words flowed like poison from a wound. "Beach. Looked like maybe Maine. Sharp rocks. Dark water. I saw him from the back. He didn't turn around. There was blood everywhere, all over him."
John didn't have to ask who ‘he’ was. "The blood's new."
"It, um." Sam swallowed to wet his dry throat. "It wasn't his blood."
"No." There was grim humor in John's voice. "Suppose it wouldn't be. Didn’t raise either of you like that.”
Like victims.
There was so much wrong with that, and so much Sam couldn’t really argue with. He’d felt the same quiet, traitorous pulse of contempt when he heard his classmates planning to break into abandoned asylums or to climb cemetery walls.
They always saved the idiots anyway.
The sheets whispered as Sam shifted so their legs intertwined. He knew he was too heavy for the position to be strictly comfortable, but their angles fit together like puzzle pieces. He braced one hand on John’s hip, where the t-shirt didn’t quite meet the pants and Sam could feel bare skin, and the other to his ribs to feel him breathe.
He could smell the strong black tea John had mainlined ever since his doctors told him to lay off the coffee, mingling with soap and gun oil. The scent was comfort.
John laid a warm, rough hand on the back of Sam's neck. The steady pressure of it brought their foreheads together, skin on skin. It'd been a bad night all around; John only did that if he was feeling torn up. His eyes were closed, the lashes startlingly soft against the harder lines and angles of his face. His fingertips drew shivery patterns on the nape of Sam's neck. Protection sigils; John didn't waste an opportunity to mark Sam as ‘do not touch’.
"I hate this," Sam said finally. "Gets worse every year."
There was no answer. Sam hadn't expected one.
Six years since the Cult of Apep. Six years since the last time Sam saw his brother's face, since Dean was anything but a footnote in stolen documentation, an empty bedroom littered with John's notes and the single duffel that contained Dean's life.
There were pictures. T-shirts. Tapes. Sam didn't really remember what Dean's smile looked like.
Sam kept hunting, but it had nothing to do with hope. He believed because he had to, because there was no other option. They'd find Dean, even if it was only to bury him.
Or, the nightmare whispered, to burn and salt-
Growl rumbling low in his throat, Sam brought his head up and pressed their mouths together.
It never started easy. They were too alike, sharp edges grinding and wearing each other down. Tonight, though, John met his violence with a steady hand on his back, slowing the kiss until it was lazy, devastating. Sam’s fingers tightened on John’s arms until he heard a soft hiss, a murmured assent against his mouth.
The shiver crept up on Sam. His hips shifted slow against the solid line of John’s thigh between his own. John’s hand slid up, cupped the back of Sam’s head, kissed him deeper and messy. Sam bit his lower lip and hooked his thumb under the waistband of John’s sweatpants, tugging and squirming to try to get them down far enough to touch.
Sam was on his back before he really knew what happened, pinned by John’s heavier body. For a second, Sam fought to get out on sheer bull-headed instinct. There might’ve been pride in the look John gave him before shifting his weight to get better leverage on him, to pin Sam’s wrists to the bed.
With a groan, Sam let his head fall back and settled for wrapping his legs around John, grinding up into him. He could feel the hard line of John’s cock riding in the dip of his belly, so close through the thin layer of sweatpants.
John’s smile was dark as he bent, nuzzling at Sam’s throat. His eyes stayed on Sam, always on Sam, as he bit at the vulnerable place where Sam’s throat met his shoulder. He squeezed Sam’s wrists, pressed them into the bed and let go.
“Fuck,” Sam breathed, his voice harsh in the dark. “Yeah. Please, I-“ He kept his wrist there, his body arching towards John, trying to get closer. Couldn’t, because there was no room between them. John’s body was a hard, spare line of muscle and heat against Sam’s. “I need-“
“I know.”
And damned if that wasn’t what it all bled down to: John knew what he’d been through, knew the story behind every scar and the landscape of every nightmare. That common thread was blessing and curse, and it bound them together every time.
John bit his throat, his shoulder, his chest. There’d be bruises in the morning, raw spots worn by stubble and teeth and fingernails. Sam wasn’t complaining.
Once he’d wanted normal. This wasn’t even close. It was fucked up, wrong in so many ways that he’d lost count. And it was the only thing that kept them both sane.
It had taken the damned cult to drive a fundamental understanding home for Sam. They weren’t normal. Now, it was enough to feel safe. To find comfort where they could.
John slid down, tongue and teeth tracing a path to his stomach, and Sam stopped thinking.
Stubble scraped over his hipbone, then a wet swipe of a tongue. Sam sucked in a breath, waiting for the sting of teeth, but John just traced the line inwards.
For a moment, it felt like time stood still. Somehow, no matter how long it had been, how often they’d done this dance, there was always that moment, a heartbeat before the storm, where the world held its breath. Waiting, Sam guessed, to see if they were fucked up enough to forge another link in the twisted chain that held them together.
It never failed. They always were, because you could never underestimate the fucked-up nature of Winchesters.
John’s lips closed over the head of his cock, tongue teasing little circles. Sam bit his lip, fingers twisting in the sheets as he fought to hold still. John watched him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.
Sam met his eyes, licking his lips desperately. “Just, c’mon,” he breathed.
John lifted his head, and Sam nearly whimpered at the loss. “Easy,” John growled, comfort and warning at once. “I’m driving tonight.”
With a panting, unsteady laugh, Sam let his head drop back on the pillow. “Idling. On neutral. You-“
He should’ve known, after years of quietly sadistic training exercises, that it was never safe to take his eyes off John. Ever.
Even in bed.
Hell, especially in bed.
The slick touch at Sam’s entrance made his breath catch. John didn’t wait for him to relax before pressing a finger inside, twisting with ruthless efficiency, curling just right. Sam shuddered, choking on a groan as he tried to move into John’s hand, tried to fuck himself on the long callused fingers that had patched his wounds and steadied his gun arm.
John easily kept Sam’s hips pinned flat to the bed, his mouth curving. Then, he bent again, taking Sam into his mouth, sucking lightly while his finger brushed that spot that made Sam’s breath stop.
“Fuck,” Sam moaned, hips bucking. “Oh, fuck.”
John growled low in his throat, the vibration going through Sam like a shot.
Sam started to grab for his shoulders, his hair, anything to hold onto, and caught himself just short. His hands slapped sharply back down on the bed, scrabbling blindly as John eased a second finger in beside the first. And fuck, it still burned. John almost never gave him this, not even fingers, not after that first time.
John didn’t give the burn a chance to ease up before he was crooking his fingers, stretching him, sucking harder until Sam was dizzy and panting for breath.
“God, I-“ Yeah. Three years of debate team, straight down the tubes. Sam’s words kept tripping all over each other, catching in his throat. “Fuck me,” he gasped finally, “please, fuck-“
Dragging himself back, John murmured, “Don’t have to beg.” There was a feral light in his eyes that said he really hadn’t minded. He pressed himself up, lean muscle flexing under his shirt, and Sam had to touch him.
Tugging the shirt, Sam rasped, “Off.”
John nodded, sitting up to peel the shirt off and toss it aside. Helpfully, Sam reached down and tugged at the waistband of John’s sweatpants. He’d felt John’s cock against his calf, but it was gratifying to see how hard he was. How much he wanted this, too. Sam cupped John in his hand, wrapping his fingers around him and touching the slick tip. Watched the shudder slide up John, watched his eyes go even darker.
Exhaling through his teeth, John reached over to the nightstand and tossed Sam a tube of lubricant. Sam grinned, upcapping the tube one-handed to drench his fingers and John’s cock. Messy, but it worked, let Sam jerk him slow and tight.
John held still for once, letting Sam give, letting himself take. There was a fine tremor in the long muscles of his back, a hitch to his breathing. Then he swatted Sam’s hand away, smirking at the nearly subvocal growl that slid from Sam’s throat.
The smile made something familiar ache deep in Sam’s chest. There was an echo of Dean’s smile in that cocky curve of John’s lips. And that simple, that complicated, the pain loosened a little.
Sam wouldn’t forget. Not as long as they had each other. For better or worse, Dean would always be there in the silences between them.
Without a word, John moved, pressing Sam back to the pillows, shifting up to cover him, skin to skin. John pressed a kiss to Sam’s lips, a chaste brush that made Sam’s breath catch in his throat.
“Please,” Sam said, his voice so thin he barely recognized it. “God, I need-“
Before he could finish, there was a gentle pressure at his entrance. Sam choked into silence as John’s hips rocked forward, sinking inside before Sam had a moment to think, to tense.
It was never comfortable. Never quite painless, no matter how well John prepared him for it. They just didn’t do this often. Certainly not enough for it to have become rote. Sam thought that was appropriate. They were Winchesters, after all. And Winchesters weren’t easy. They were blood, and fire, and pain.
And right now, the pain was telling him what it always did. Still alive. Still fighting. Still together.
Sam’s breath hissed out as John finally was pressed against him, hipbones sharp (too sharp, getting skinny again) against Sam’s thighs. When Sam looked up, he could see the blood welling slick on John’s lower lip, where he’d bitten through.
One more drop of pain. Another offering at the altar of their loss.
Sam reached up, fingers stroking over the smear of red on John’s lip, and let his eyes shut. It was too much like his last glance of Dean, slumped and dazed on the dirty floor of the cult’s compound. They’d tasered him until he’d stopped fighting, and Sam had to squint through blurry eyes to see him breathe-
A rough hand touched Sam’s cheek. Sam forced the memory away, opened his eyes. John looked down, a silent question that Sam understood. It was funny sometimes, how they could go days without even needing to say a word. Good in the field, but it was hell on Sam’s attempts to remember what normal even was.
With a soft hiss, Sam let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and nodded. His arms looped loosely around John’s neck, spreading his fingers on John’s shoulders, tracing the scars that Sam could find blind.
With an almost fond smile, John tilted his chin and rubbed one sandpaper cheek briefly over Sam’s arm. Sam had to grin back at him. Nine months ago, he wouldn’t have put money on John Winchester being the nuzzling type.
Which was why Sam didn’t regret. Not really. The sex was great, but it was the small things, the little unexpected tender things that had taken years to achieve, that sealed the deal in his mind. It wasn’t much, but there was a million moments of laughter and tears and rage behind every kiss, every stray touch. It was in the uncontrolled shudder of breath as Sam took John in his mouth. It was in Sam reaching out in the dark and knowing that he’d find John there. It was in looking over the obits in the morning, John terrorizing his professors.
They were all each other had these days. If Sam had to lay any hope of being normal on that pyre, then God help him, he would. He’d do it every damned night.
John crooked an eyebrow. His expression was rock-steady, but Sam could feel the long muscles twitching in John’s thighs.
Sam shifted under John, his hips hitching, urging John on. With a slow breath out, John bent, barely rocking against Sam in maddening little movements. Tilting his head up for a kiss, Sam shuddered as John took him up on it, tongue skimming along the bow of Sam’s lips.
A strangled noise slid free. Sam opened for him, mouth and body, his legs coming up to lock around John’s hips. He could feel John’s lips curve against his, the bunch of the lean muscles in John’s arms the moment before he shifted back.
Sam swallowed, fighting the moan back as John pulled almost all the way out. With a growl, John pressed back in slowly- too damned slow, Sam thought. He needed- he wanted- God-
Which was, of course, John’s cue to settle in like he intended to stay there. So deep in Sam, so goddamn deep, that it felt like Sam could taste John’s pulse in the back of his throat.
The small noise tugged its way out of Sam. John bit his own lower lip and slid one hand down, gripping Sam’s hip and hitching him up into John like he weighed nothing. Shuddering, dizzy, Sam dug his nails into John’s back.
“Early for that,” John murmured, damnably level, and grunted softly as Sam tightened his legs around him.
“And,” Sam breathed, “your point would be?”
John shut him up with another hard kiss, tongue darting in and out slick and wet. His hips followed, picking up the same slow, easy rhythm.
After a moment, Sam tore his mouth from John’s, breath unsteady. “God, harder,” he gasped.
John’s only reply was to bite Sam’s throat, tongue soothing the brush of teeth. The pace never faltered, though. Lazy, long thrusts that never quite hit where Sam needed.
Begging wouldn’t work. God knew, he’d tried in the past. John would just quiet him with a kiss, soothe him until he relaxed. Only one thing left to do. “God, yeah. Feels so good,” Sam moaned, digging his fingers into John’s shoulders.
The next thrust was harder, John’s teeth tightening on his shoulder. “Jesus, Sam,” he growled.
“Please, c’mon. Want to feel it, so hard,” he whispered brokenly.
The slender thread of John’s control snapped, Sam swore he could hear it. Or maybe that was the broken growl that might have been a curse, might have been his name. John nuzzled at Sam’s throat, the soft touch in contrast to the sudden, hard movements of his hips, the hard hands on Sam’s waist, pulling him up, tilting him just so—
White sparks flared behind Sam’s eyes, breath sliding out on a soft near sob.
John’s hands slid down, pulling his thighs up. Sam took the hint, wrapping his legs, locking his ankles behind John’s back. The next thrust was harder, aimed true, and Sam let his head fall back onto the pillow.
“That what you want?” John growled.
Sam nodded, wordless, hands stroking frantically along John’s back, hands smoothing over bunched muscles, feeling them clench and ripple with each movement. It was perfect, the hard slide of John’s cock in him, hitting just right on every thrust until Sam’s hands were clenching in thick hair, pulling John closer.
He pressed John’s mouth to his throat, shuddering and moaning at the kiss of teeth, the slow, sucking heat, the slick glide of his cock over John’s lean stomach. It was exactly what he wanted; possession, a promise. It was them. Together.
John’s mouth moved at his throat, a barely breathed word against his skin.
“Mine.”
Teeth grazed his earlobe, and the pain wound up into the pleasure. Sam tensed, his breath catching, then sobbing out in a hard, dizzying rush.
Wet heat bloomed slick between their bellies. Sam watched John’s eyes darken, lips curling back in a smile that was more a baring of teeth as his strokes faltered.
It was barely a moment before John’s eyes closed, his body slamming one last time into Sam. Sam deliberately tightened around John, fingers stroking over John’s jaw. “Mine,” he whispered back, voice nowhere near steady.
The unrestrained noise that slid through John’s iron control was raw, somewhere between a growl and a sob. Sam met it with a hard kiss, holding John, petting him through his orgasm.
Once, John would have bolted from the bed, gone to get something to clean Sam of all traces of his scent, his sweat, his touch. John’d have showered, trying to wash away his own guilt. Now he just slid off Sam, tucked Sam against him and ran gentle hands along Sam’s sides.
Sam felt boneless, his body sinking into the bed, into the safe haven of John’s arms. He squirmed for a moment, until his head rested on John’s bicep, bodies pressed together. With a soft, contented sigh, he let his eyes close, let the wave of sleep overtake him.
Tags:
