Sam/Dean, John/Dean. NC-17. D/s tones. ~2400 words.
He’s lost count of how many time he’s seen his family bleed over him.
All Dean hears is the sound of his own harsh breath and the slick noise of a dick in his mouth. All he knows is the strong, thick-fingered hand heavy on his head, guiding and gentle, insistent only when he flicks his tongue just right. That grip tightens and for one perfect frozen moment, he’s shoved face-first in his father’s lap, coarse black hair rough on his lips, hot flesh bruising the tenderness of his throat. It’s impossible to breathe past how good it feels, even after Dad’s pulled him off with a wet, filthy pop.
“Son,” Dad rasps, gravel-rough. Shivers skitter under Dean’s skin, tighten the muscles between his shoulder blades. He lifts his gaze, expectant, but Dad isn’t looking down at him.
Dread chips at the edges of Dean’s warm haze. He knows before he moves. He’s been sickly anticipating it, hot and cold all at once, thought about it before, knew in his guts that it would happen sooner than later. John’s knees bracket his chest as he twists to meet Sam’s shock-eyed stare.
The thud of Sam’s backpack hitting the floor reverberates straight into Dean’s bones. Sam tears down the hall, sneakers slapping hard on the cheap linoleum. The screen door hits the wall with a crunch and bangs shut.
Swallowing hard, fine tremors skating down his arms to make his hands shake against Dad’s wide-spread thighs, Dean looks up.
There’s a crack in the plaster behind the back door. Sam’s just outside, hands strained and spread, knuckles white as frost on the car’s slick black hood. Blood shows bleak red around a fresh rip in his jeans. A brighter streak marks the sharp, cracked edge of the bumper.
At the sound of Dean on the stairs, Sam draws off and slams one foot right in the middle of the grille. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, the spring air cold on his teeth, and can’t think of a single thing to say.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Sam grates, staring straight ahead. One hand curls into a tight fist on the metal. “What- How could- Dean.”
The heavy, desperate way Sam says the last churns up his stomach into something hot and roiling. He can’t handle this right now (ever), not with Dad’s sweat still sharp on his tongue.
“Sammy,” he tries.
“Don’t. Just. What the hell is the matter with you? Why’re you letting him-” Sam breaks off when his voice cracks. He lets out a frustrated growl, smashing his knuckles into the hood again.
A sharp bark jumps out of Dean’s throat. There’s blood on Sam’s hand this time. He’s lost count of how many time he’s seen his family bleed over him. “Not letting him do a damn thing.”
Sam’s shoulders hunch up around his ears, as if that’s going to keep him from hearing anything that comes spilling out of Dean’s mouth.
“Maybe it’s me,” Dean pushes. He’s got no choice, it’s that or back off, and if he stops now, nothing’s going to keep Sam from running. His heart struggles inside his chest, torn between racing and grinding to a raw, aching stop. “Nothing but me, Sammy, you think about that?”
“It’s sick!” Sam explodes. “I can’t- Are you that fucking desperate for his approval? Are you that screwed in the head that you think-” Again, Sam stops flat, giving up on words and using his fists to speak for him.
“Lay off the car, Sam.”
Dean doesn’t know how to handle this at all. Even with how many times he’s imagined (fantasised, with their father’s come warm on his lips) here and now, he can’t rescue a single thought from the buzzing in his head. The shaking in his fingertips run back up into his arms.
“The fucking car!” Sam whips around, wild and seething, makes a move to smash in a headlight and Dean lunges.
The sound, single loud crack, registers before the pain. Gingerly, Dean presses the back of his wrist to his split lip. Mud squishes between the fingers of his other hand. Looking up, he can barely see Sam through the blur of light layered over his vision.
“That what you want?” Sam shouts, arms flung wide, bigger than life. Everything’s always huge with Sam, endless and apocalyptic. Dad’s still inside, they both know he can hear everything. But Sam doesn’t care and maybe Dad’s not just listening. “You want him to use you? Hurt you? ‘Cause that’s what he’s doing, whether you see it or not.”
That’s not it. That’s not it at all. Sam’s got to understand. It’s not like that, never will be, but Dean’s pulse is spiked, his world askew like he’s on this drunken high, and he can’t get a word past his heart thumping in his throat.
“What’s the matter with you!” A couple quick, jerky steps bring him close to tower over Dean. Dean shakes his head, not sure how the hell he’d explain it even if he could. His silence isn’t good enough for Sam–nothing is–and Sam grabs him by two handfuls of his shirt to haul him to his knees in the dirt.
He’s not proud of the noise he makes but he can’t hold it back (Say it boy, let me hear you). The fog in his head swirls thick, tar-black viscous thrill dripping down his spine. It’s too soon after- He didn’t get a chance to-
And Sam is glaring down at him like he knows exactly what sort of need is twisting him up inside.
The cracks in his voice lay it all bare, but Dean says, “Always gotta be about you, huh, Sammy.” He licks his lips and tastes blood and grit. The split stings as his mouth stretches, fresh blood welling to run down to the point of his chin. “So fuckin’ greedy all the time.”
Sam’s hissing breath adds another spark to the urge smouldering deep in Dean’s gut. He drags in his own lungful of air, imagining that’s the smell of Sam on winter-stale air.
“You think of it just now?” Dean asks. “Or were you wishin’ it was your dick shoved down my throat as soon as you walked in?”
“Jesus Christ,” Sam whispers.
“I can make it good.” The moan that creeps into Dean’s voice isn’t at all faked. The look on Sam’s face says he knows it, too. “You think he’d want it if I couldn’t?” Fear of being smacked away keeps Dean cautious as he reaches out, hooks his fingers in Sam’s front pocket. Sam’s chest shudders on a long breath, his pupils blacking out. Dean’s thumb brushes over the metal stud in the denim. “Afraid you’re just like him?”
“Fuck you.” Adrenaline rockets through Dean’s veins, hits the haze head-on when Sam’s long fingers curl around his wrist. For a split-second, he’s lost, floating out in space with no one to anchor him down (never been there before, fucking terrifying, Sammy’s gonna say no), but Sam says, “I can fuck you up too, Dean. Dad’s not coming out here to finish what you started, you want me to be him for you now, too?”
No, Dean thinks, but he says, “Sam,” fucked-out and absolutely wrecked even to his own ears.
Glass-sharp, Sam says, “Do it.”
Dean goes stock-still, unsure, a minefield stretched out in every direction around him. Sam’s got to know he can’t take being jerked around like this. Dad’s already broke him open, sent him out here naked and raw, and if Sam gives up on him now-
Sam’s hand curls against the side of his neck (smoother skin, smaller palm, fingers stretched just that little bit further past the thin bruises he can already feel). “I said, do it. Pull my dick out.”
It’s like a freight-train slams straight into Dean’s chest. His eyes slip shut but he opens them before Sam can snap the order–anticipating, not missing a twitch because Dean is good at this, he’s good at it. Eagerness turns his fingers clumsy and he murmurs Sam’s name under his breath, using the familiar dip and curl of it to force himself to do it right.
Sam’s fuller in his hand than he thought–seventeen now, wide-shouldered and lanky, so fuckin’ tall. He takes his time, breaths shivering and shallow, to lift Sam’s balls out too, push his jeans away and bare it all. The jerk of Sam’s hips when he touches the pad of his thumb to the head curves his lips in a smile. Sam wants this. Wants him.
“I’ll be good,” Dean whispers, lips barely brushing the shaft, learning the path of blood that makes Sam throb heavier in his grip. All he wants to do is suck Sam deep but he waits, drags it out, watches Sam spiral slowly higher before he gives in and licks away the precome clinging to Sam’s slit.
Sam grates, “Fuck,” and Dean echoes it, adds, “Oh, fuck, you taste like him, Sam, you-”
The thumb grazing Dean’s chin edges up, presses in and drags down, pulling Dean’s mouth wide. Nostrils flaring on a deep breath full of Sam, Dean waits. Saliva gathers, threatens to spill over his lips and he’ll beg, Christ, he’ll beg for it if that’s what Sam wants, loud and shameless for the whole goddamn world to hear.
“I’m not him.”
Dean says, “Sam-” roughly cut off when Sam’s thumb shoves into his mouth, nail catching the ridges along the roof. Dean’s first instinct is to suck, prove that he’s not a waste of time, but Sam pins his tongue, wrenches his mouth open wider. The taste of salt-sweat spreading through his mouth drags a groan straight up from the pit of his stomach.
“I’m not him,” Sam repeats. “Don’t you dare pretend I’m him.”
Tentatively, Dean wriggles his tongue, relief flooding as sweet as the taste of Sam’s skin when the pressure eases enough for him to learn the lines and whorls of Sam’s thumbprint.
“Say it,” Sam hisses.
“Not him,” Dean groans back. The mud has soaked through his jeans, clammy and cold, but he’s burning up, focus crisp and clear, all for Sam. “Tell me what you want from me, I’ll do it, Sam. I will. Just tell me.”
And Sam understands. Dean can see it in his eyes. Never should have doubted it, Sam’s his fucking brother, nobody’ll ever have the chance to know him like Sam. Nothing’s closer than family.
“I want you to get me off.” Sam’s quivering, pulsing harder in Dean’s hand than his own heartbeat. Holding back for him. “Make your mouth wet for me. Soft,” he says, and Dean hears, Show me how much you love me.
Tongue soft and flat and spit-slick, Dean slowly fills his mouth with Sam’s cock, hyper-aware to every breath Sam takes, every twitch-flex of the fingers sliding back into the hair at the nape of his neck. His own dick aches, swollen hard and leaking in sympathy with each drop of precome that squeezes from Sam’s slit.
He lets the heady feeling get away with him for just one second, only one, and his teeth scrape delicate flesh. Breath freezing in his lungs, he darts a quick look up. After a moment that stretches too long, Sam says, “Don’t do it again,” thumb stroking the soft skin beneath Dean’s ear, and means, It’s okay, I forgive you, I’ll still love you if you only try to be perfect.
In a scalding rush, Dean wants Sam to fuck his mouth. Not slow, not gentle, just fuck it, fast and brutal for Dean to carry the ache with him for weeks. How bad he wants it creeps out of him in wordless noise, muffled and slurred around Sam’s dick, in the way he clutches rumpled handfuls of Sam’s jeans and sucks, cheeks hollowed and hungry.
He won’t ask for it. This is what Sam wants, what Sam needs. He offers it up with a heavy look and his jaw gone slack, and when Sam takes it, starts to fuck his throat raw and voiceless, cradles his head in both hands to pull him all the way down, it’s because just this once, he’s good enough to deserve it.
“Dean,” Sam says, a warning, and the pride caged up carefully in Dean’s chest unfurls, spreads warm and wonderful out along his limbs to the very tips. He takes the whole length of Sam straight down and holds there, shaking and smothering, using the desperate clutch of his throat to give Sam every last thing he can.
He doesn’t notice the blackness eating at the edges of his vision until Sam pulls him free and curses, says in a voice as thoroughly fucked as Dean feels, “Breathe.”
Dazed and reeling, barely aware of the sticky warmth spilled inside his own clothes, Dean feels Sam drop to the ground, gather him close in a lax, lazy heap. He burrows into the warmth, floating again but safe this time. Dimly, he registers Dad’s heavy tread on the step.
Maybe he didn’t finish what they’d started, but he still did what their father wanted. Sam gets it now, Dean’s sure. He has to.
Dad says, “Sam,” and Sam shifts slightly, still careful to keep as much of himself touching Dean as possible. “You know you can’t leave him now.”
“Dad,” Sam says, harsh in Dean’s ear. Half-heartedly, Dean tries to twist to see what’s going on but Sam holds tighter. That’s all Dean needs to quiet again.
“If you break him, you put him back together,” Dad says. “That’s the way it works, son.” Another step, the scrape of a boot on peeling paint. The weight of his approval settles as warm and welcome as newest responsibility he’s placed on Dean’s shoulders (still take care of Sam, just different now). “He’s your brother.”
The night he breaks into Sam’s apartment, frozen at the threshold to soak in the desperately familiar feeling of Sam that’s seeped into the walls themselves, Dean thinks, Just until they find Dad.
He reminds himself of that promise when he’s flat on his back staring up at Sam’s sleep-creased face, when he’s smiling widely at the person Sam wants more than him, when he’s flying high all the way to Jericho with Sam sprawled happy and careless, warm and real and almost his, in the passenger seat.
Just until they find Dad.