Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~1300 words. Dubcon. A pinch hit for ayan_desu on spn_j2_xmas, with help from ponderosa121.
It started with Sam’s smile carved into the meat of Dean’s heart.

It started with Sam’s smile carved into the meat of Dean’s heart.


The scene is the same: Cruddy motel off the interstate, neon bright on the wet blacktop, a pillow that smells like an institution. A key in the lock while Dean lays awake in the dark is the puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

The door opens, a chill skittering inside before it closes with a hush. Sam’s key scrapes the tabletop and the lights stay off. The glaring red numbers on the alarm clock say last call was over an hour ago.

The rustle of Sam’s jacket flung over the back of a chair follows the soft thump of his boots beside the door. Each step across the thin carpet is careful, precise. The sharp smell of liquor and smoke seeps into the room.

Dean breathes steady and deep to give Sam the privacy to put himself to bed. Switching roles isn’t enough to throw their rhythm when they’ve done this so many times before.

Midway between the bathroom and his empty bed, Sam stops.


Sam’s smile which never meant what Dean thought it did.


“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” The mattress dips slightly near Dean’s head and the smell of whiskey grows stronger. “After you were gone, it was supposed to get better.”

There’re too many confessions between them now. It’s cowardly but Dean keeps up the pretence of sleep. If Sam needs to be drunk to say it then Dean needs to be able to pretend it never happened.

Sam breathes in slowly. “It didn’t. I’d walk into a diner and see one of those waitresses, the soft kind you like. It’d just get worse.”

The heat of Sam’s hand hovers close to Dean’s face. Sober, Sam would never believe the charade.

“When you left the bar, this guy came up to me. He said, ‘Man, your buddy’s lucky. Cynthia, she’s picky. Real picky.’ I laughed in his face.”

The image builds itself in Dean’s mind: Dark pool table corners, juke by the door that ate his quarters, the gnarled guy behind the counter who’d given them the stink-eye when they drifted to the cues.

“It was so stupid. He didn’t mean a thing to me but I couldn’t sit there listening to him go on and on about what a time you were in for. Lucky, lucky you. He had no idea, no fucking idea-”

Sam’s voice breaks. The silence stretches on. When Sam speaks again, his voice is hushed, crackling with rough heat. “You went to hell for me but she’s the lucky one. God, I can still smell her on you.”

A pause, then a bitter laugh. “I broke his nose. Got into a brawl in the parking lot with him when I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to see if she was still here.”

Warm fingertips skim the line of Dean’s jaw. “I know you’re awake.”


Which shouldn’t have meant anything at all.


Dean’s heart kicks at his ribs and his eyes snap open. The darkness is absolute until he adjusts to the thin slivers of light seeping through the blinds. Sam’s tucked into a crouch between their beds, his eyes glinting dully.

“You’re drunk, Sammy,” he says, whisper-soft. “Go to bed, okay? You’re just drunk.”

“Were you lucky tonight? Did you fuck some of that pain you feel into her?”

The few inches of distance sitting up puts between them isn’t nearly enough. “This isn’t like you, Sam. You don’t do shit like this.”

Sam telegraphs his surge up onto the bed long before his knees bracket Dean’s hips. His fingers close vise-like on Dean’s forearms, his weight thrust forward to shove Dean flat to the mattress.

“You never say no to them.” Sam’s grip loosens as his hands slide up. Gun calluses are rough at the bases of his fingers. He leans closer, palms pressed to Dean’s shoulders. His gaze lifts from Dean’s mouth. “Don’t say no to me now.”

Sam tastes like the warm dregs at the bottom of a bottle. There’s a sharp metal tang to it. His lips are hot and dry, the jagged split in his bottom lip rough on Dean’s own.

Fisting the front of Sam’s shirt, Dean jerks away. His mouth stings from the harsh scrape of Sam’s teeth. “Stop it, Sam.”

“No.” One of Sam’s hands comes up to grip his throat. Sam’s fingers are long enough the tips to curl over the hinge of his jaw, dig in. “You don’t mean it.”


“I know you don’t mean it.”

Leaning close again, Sam’s mouth brushes his, light and careful. Sam’s lips are damp when they touch his chin. The grip on his neck slips free, making way for Sam’s soft, open-mouthed kiss, the warm touch of Sam’s tongue to the hollow of his throat. Heat prickles icy cold on his skin in Sam’s wake.


In the bright morning sun it pours.


Shallow breaths squeeze into Dean’s lungs. Sam’s weight is heavy on his chest. His fingers curl in the back of Sam’s jeans, knuckles brushing his brother’s bare thighs. A shiver ripples beneath Sam’s skin.

Sam rises up to his knees, straddles Dean’s shoulders. He pulls his cock out, holds it thick in his hand, and braces himself against the headboard with the other. His gaze jumps from Dean’s mouth to eyes, back again.

The tip, when it touches Dean’s lips, is slicked wet. Dean sucks a sharp breath in through his nose and tightens his hold on Sam’s jeans until the rivets bite into his flesh.

“Open your mouth for me,” Sam says, fingers curling near the head to thumb at his lips. “Please, don’t- Don’t.”

Dean slowly ducks his head, his lips parting. Precome smears his chin. The flared ridge bumps over his bottom lip, into his mouth, and Sam’s breath hitches, echoing the hard trip of his heartbeat.

Sam lets go of his cock to run a hand over Dean’s chest. His nails are short and blunt, his palm wide, thumb and fingers spanning from the centre of Dean’s chest to the curve of his armpit. Lower, to the very edge of the blanket. As far as Sam can reach without his dick slipping from Dean’s mouth.

“I knew,” Sam says, “god, I knew you wouldn’t say no to me. Can’t ever say no to me and I wanted-”

A quick, hard thrust cuts off Dean’s air. Just a second, two. Sam’s cock drags over the flat of Dean’s tongue and it doesn’t matter anyway. He can’t breathe through Sam’s salt-bitter taste.

Sam’s hands frame his face, fill his nose with the smell of Sam’s skin. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his little brother fuck sloppily into his mouth until his jaw is sore, his lips raw. He’s dizzy with the things Sam says, the slurred, breathless praise injected slick and black as old blood into his veins.

Sam comes moaning his name. Fingers skim through the saliva at the corners of his mouth, push in alongside Sam’s cock to feel the warmth sitting cloyingly on Dean’s tongue.

Dean’s stomach twists tight as his heart as the slippery mess starts to creep into the back of his throat. He pants heavily through his nose when Sam’s cock slips free, mattress shifting as Sam’s weight settles over him again, long line of his body pinning Dean’s.

Long fingers stroke Dean’s throat. Sam says, “For me, Dean, please.”

When Sam kisses him again, there’s nothing on his tongue to lick clean.


Pours across the acres of battered leather seat between them.


One Response to “Disconnect”

  1. JenIsaks Says:

    wow messed up sammy, good work.

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