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New Fic: [ Blood and Roses ] - SPN, Sam/Dean, NC-17
Title: Blood and Roses
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~2200
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Incest, mild bloodplay
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I'm not making any money off them. Sadly.
Notes: This is schmoopy porn, or porny schmoop, I'm not sure which. I started it the other night, wanting schmoop…and then it morphed. Then morphed again. Anyway, thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wendy and raynedanser for cheerleading and encouraging, as usual. Y'all have been good for my productivity :) Hope you enjoy the story. :)
Summary: Dean needs some help, and Sam's more than happy to give it.
"Fuck this noise," Dean mutters, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He scowls, hard, then turns his head and hollers, "Sammy?"
Sam pops his head around the door like a fucking jack-in-the-box -- which is the creepiest toy in the world, in Dean's opinion. "Yeah?"
"I can't--" Dean gestures toward his face and the sink. "Stupid broken arm. Stupid cast."
"Stupid you, thinking you're immortal or something," Sam says, slipping up behind Dean. "You're not supposed to go hand-to-hand with a werewolf, idiot."
"Jesus, it's not like I meant to." Dean scowls again, this time at Sam's reflection in the mirror. "You gonna help, or you gonna lecture?"
Sam snorts. "What, I can't do both?"
"No." The word comes out a little more growly than Dean intended, and in the mirror, when their eyes meet, Dean sees Sam's eyes darken. "You pervy fuck," he mutters, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. "Don't take much to get you all hot, does it?"
Because he hasn't known this for, what, years? Yeah.
"You should talk," Sam says, the words soft, but not. He lowers his head, and Dean watches until he has to close his eyes, Sam's mouth ghosting over his ear, down along his jaw. Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean's throat, then bites down. He sucks hard, pulling heat up to the surface, and Dean shivers at the sudden rush of hot prickles racing through him.
He doesn't open his eyes until Sam breaks the suction; when Dean looks in the mirror he sees a perfect blossom of purple-red on his neck and Sam's already moving in again, mouth open just enough for Dean
to see the flash of white teeth and pink tongue.
"You're supposed to be helping me shave," Dean manages, tilting his head sideways. Sam's laugh is more of a growl; it rumbles through Dean's bones and down into his dick.
"We'll get there." Sam bites him again, and Dean shudders. He wants to keep his eyes open this time; wants to watch Sam mark him. Hot, wet suction follows, then another bite. Harder suction, right over it, then biting again.
His neck throbs when Sam pulls back, and his dick throbs right along with it.
"Looks good," Sam says quietly, shifting around Dean. He presses a gentle kiss to the hot, tender skin, tongue flicking once against it.
The sound Dean makes is an awful lot like a whine. "Sam--"
"Shh. Let's get you shaved." Sam picks the razor up from the side of the sink where Dean dropped it, and the shiny blade catches the light from the bathroom lamp, splintering it into shards that glitter dizzily around Dean. Or maybe that's just from the hunger he sees when he looks at Sam.
It's a straight razor, the old-fashioned kind you sharpen with a leather strop. Delicate, but deadly; a lethal weapon or a useful tool. Dean learned to shave with a straight razor; taught Sam using the same one.
Dad always said safety razors and electric shavers were for pussies, which Dean isn't, and Sammy's always had a weird fixation for the sharp and pointy, so it all works out.
Of course, Dad probably didn't figure on some of the more inventive uses for a straight razor, when he was teaching Dean how to shave. Dean didn't really figure on them, either, when teaching Sam.
Those came later.
"Let me," Sam whispers, shifting. His breath is hot against Dean's throat; against the throbbing marks he left.
"Hell, Sam, yes," Dean growls, and tilts his head back, exposing the line of his throat to Sam's hungry eyes. He feels so exposed like this, so vulnerable, and it's a good thing he's not shaving himself, because his hand wouldn't be able to hold the razor.
He grips the edge of the sink with his good hand while Sam smoothes shaving cream over his throat and cheeks, arousal curling slowly through him with each touch.
The razor is cool, chill from laying on the sink. The blade is sharp, finely-honed, and for just the briefest moment, Sam presses it against Dean's throat. It's there, then gone, a bright, quick kiss that stings.
The first stroke over his skin is smooth, steady; Sam knows what he's doing and likes doing this. He'd probably do it every day, if Dean let him.
Since Dean wouldn't be able to survive long, doing that, he shaves himself. Usually.
"Pay attention," Sam says softly. Dean jerks his eyes back to the mirror, watches each slow, even stroke. Watches the blade slick through the cream, leaving smooth skin in its wake. Sam's hands are gentle but insistent, fingers pressing into soft skin, moving Dean's head this way and that way as he needs. "Back," Sam tells him, and Dean does; tips his head back further until he can't watch, can't see.
All he can do is feel.
Slicksharpbright slides over him, traces lightly over his Adam's apple; grazes it just enough for Dean to feel the burn. It's gone as soon as it registers, then back again, swirling and shifting. It makes Dean dizzy trying to follow the pattern, the pain.
He misses it -- the razor, the heat -- when Sam stops, turning the razor blunt edge down. It's cool, just below body temperature, and sleek as it moves up his throat, over his chin, presses against his mouth.
"Sam--" is all Dean manages to breathe, the cool non-taste of metal spreading over his tongue. He kisses the blade, then licks it; feels Sam shudder once, against him. Warm copper fills his mouth, his senses, and he licks at the blade one more time before Sam draws it away.
"I used to dream about this," Sam says, voice hoarse and raw. "When I was at school. Sometimes, I'd lay in bed, stroke my fingers up and down my throat, down over my chest. Would pretend it was you."
He matches actions with words, drawing the razor blade oh, so lightly down Dean's throat, down further, a shivery scroll written on Dean's flesh.
Dean tips his head back down, watches Sam trace around his nipples and across his sternum, moist, red lines springing up behind. It takes a moment or two after the red appears before Dean feels it; before the sting turns to a burn.
The burn becomes a fiery trail when Sam retraces the lines, cutting just a little deeper. Not enough to really wound, but enough that the moist lines spill over, droplets falling like bloody tears.
Dean lets his head fall back with a groan when Sam moves, leans in and licks the blood away, tongue leaving warm, wet trails where he laps it up.
"It's me now," Dean gasps, forcing his knees to lock so he doesn't fall over. Sam's moved again, down on his knees, turning Dean so he leans back against the sink. It's a relief to have something to brace against, to not have to worry about falling over. Especially when Sam looks up at him, pupils blown, dark with need. Dean threads the fingers of his good hand into Sam's hair, closing his eyes as silky strands twine around him. Silken bonds. He opens his eyes and the emotion in Sam's makes his heart stutter in his chest. "Sammy."
"Yeah," Sam breathes. He's so close, breath hot against Dean's belly, hot through the denim when he leans forward and nuzzles at Dean's erection. "God, Dean, yeah."
Dean watches Sam undo the button and zipper on his jeans; watches a slow flush spread over Sam's face. His hands are still steady, spreading Dean's jeans open before tugging them and his underwear down.
Just as far as his thighs, so Dean's doubly-caught, doubly-bound.
He wouldn't have it any other way, really.
He's so hard, dick curving up toward his belly, and Dean bites back a groan when Sam nuzzles again; his hair is a silken whip striking again and again until Dean's sure he's going to come before Sam ever puts his mouth on him.
"Please," he hisses, the word drawn out between his teeth.
"Dean," Sam mutters again, the word a puff of air over sensitive, aching flesh. He licks over the head of Dean's dick, tongue fluttering and stroking, before sliding his mouth down, down, swallowing Dean to the root, pulling up and off, and doing it again.
And again, and again, until Dean's head is swimming with the pleasure.
"Christ. Fuck, your mouth--" Dean loosens his grip on Sam's hair, tries to draw in a breath. He gets one, a gulp of air, before Sam slides his hands up Dean's torso, pressing and rubbing on the cuts he made earlier. Pain and pleasure slice hotly through him, blending into one before splintering apart again. They curl through him, then slide down his nerve endings, turning to brilliant heat that pools in his belly. "Sam, Sammy, Sa--"
That's all the warning Sam's gonna get, besides Dean tightening his grip on Sam's hair again. Sam presses harder, scratches his fingernails -- short, blunt, but tiny jagged spots catch and hold -- over the cuts, and heat explodes through Dean; a firestorm that sweeps up his body and back down, pulsing out of him in thick, hot spurts that Sam swallows down eagerly.
It takes a minute to catch his breath and by the time Dean's dropped to his knees beside Sam, Sam has his pants open and dick out, and he's jacking himself hard and fast. Dean knocks Sam's hand away, picks up the rhythm Sam started.
He's leaking, the tip of his dick wet with precome, and Dean twists his hand, brings his thumb up over the head to tease at the slit there, smearing the fluid around. Sam growls low in his throat and grabs Dean's wrist, gripping tightly as he shudders and comes, hot and sticky over Dean's fingers.
They rest there, kneeling on the floor of some no-name motel in the middle of nowhere, heads against each other, sharing breath. Dean's just about to move -- his knees are starting to hurt from the tile -- when Sam turns his head and kisses the side of his neck.
Dean blinks. "What--?"
"Marked you up pretty good," Sam says, breathing the words over Dean's skin. He feels it now, the throbbing bruises Sam left earlier. Actually, he feels every mark Sam's left on him, each one matching his heartbeat.
Dean…he's a realist. He's not a romantic guy, though once in a while he wishes he were, because Sam, he likes that stuff sometimes, and Dean would give Sam anything. Tries to give him anything.
What he can give him, what Dean loves to give him, is himself.
"Good," he says finally, the word coming out a little rough.
"Dean," Sam starts, and Dean shakes his head.
"Yeah, Sammy." He swallows any other words with a kiss, taking what Sam offers, gives, so freely. It's hot and slick, but sweet, and Sam's hands are big, warm, holding him while they kiss, giving it all back.
Sam helps Dean clean up afterward. Well, okay, Sam does all the clean up. Mostly because, between the pain meds for his arm (that he swallowed with some Jack, but he's not going to tell Sam), the endorphins from the cutting, and the mind-blowing sex, Dean's doing good to stay on his feet. The cuts itch already, and that's the only bad thing about playing around like this. Healing sucks, even if getting to that point was a whole lot of fun.
"Dude, take a nap," Sam says, coming back out of the bathroom. Dean's only half-awake anyway, eyes heavy and gritty.
"You got me flowers," he mutters, pressing his thumb to the sensitive, sore spot on his neck.
"What?" Sam looks amused, dimples peeking around his smile.
"Flowers. Here." He presses again at the bruises blooming around his throat and scratches at his chest.
Sam laughs. "Not too chick-flick for you?"
"Nah." Dean yawns, hugely, and reaches up to tug on Sam's arm. "C'mere. Gimme another."
Sam flops down beside him easily, and in the secret part of himself that Dean keeps locked away, he wishes it could be like this all the time: warm, easy, relaxed.
"Bossy. Go to sleep, Dean. You're wiped, man." Dean's expecting Sam to bite him; he doesn't expect the gentle kisses over each bruise, down the line of his throat, and back up to his mouth.
"Mmm." He turns toward Sam, opening his mouth for another kiss, just one more, for the sharp, sweet taste that belongs to Sam, and Sam alone.
Sam's kisses follow him down into dreams of blood, and roses, and shards of light glinting off shiny silver blades.
~fin~
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~2200
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Incest, mild bloodplay
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I'm not making any money off them. Sadly.
Notes: This is schmoopy porn, or porny schmoop, I'm not sure which. I started it the other night, wanting schmoop…and then it morphed. Then morphed again. Anyway, thank you to
wendy and raynedanser for cheerleading and encouraging, as usual. Y'all have been good for my productivity :) Hope you enjoy the story. :)Summary: Dean needs some help, and Sam's more than happy to give it.
"Fuck this noise," Dean mutters, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He scowls, hard, then turns his head and hollers, "Sammy?"
Sam pops his head around the door like a fucking jack-in-the-box -- which is the creepiest toy in the world, in Dean's opinion. "Yeah?"
"I can't--" Dean gestures toward his face and the sink. "Stupid broken arm. Stupid cast."
"Stupid you, thinking you're immortal or something," Sam says, slipping up behind Dean. "You're not supposed to go hand-to-hand with a werewolf, idiot."
"Jesus, it's not like I meant to." Dean scowls again, this time at Sam's reflection in the mirror. "You gonna help, or you gonna lecture?"
Sam snorts. "What, I can't do both?"
"No." The word comes out a little more growly than Dean intended, and in the mirror, when their eyes meet, Dean sees Sam's eyes darken. "You pervy fuck," he mutters, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. "Don't take much to get you all hot, does it?"
Because he hasn't known this for, what, years? Yeah.
"You should talk," Sam says, the words soft, but not. He lowers his head, and Dean watches until he has to close his eyes, Sam's mouth ghosting over his ear, down along his jaw. Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean's throat, then bites down. He sucks hard, pulling heat up to the surface, and Dean shivers at the sudden rush of hot prickles racing through him.
He doesn't open his eyes until Sam breaks the suction; when Dean looks in the mirror he sees a perfect blossom of purple-red on his neck and Sam's already moving in again, mouth open just enough for Dean
to see the flash of white teeth and pink tongue.
"You're supposed to be helping me shave," Dean manages, tilting his head sideways. Sam's laugh is more of a growl; it rumbles through Dean's bones and down into his dick.
"We'll get there." Sam bites him again, and Dean shudders. He wants to keep his eyes open this time; wants to watch Sam mark him. Hot, wet suction follows, then another bite. Harder suction, right over it, then biting again.
His neck throbs when Sam pulls back, and his dick throbs right along with it.
"Looks good," Sam says quietly, shifting around Dean. He presses a gentle kiss to the hot, tender skin, tongue flicking once against it.
The sound Dean makes is an awful lot like a whine. "Sam--"
"Shh. Let's get you shaved." Sam picks the razor up from the side of the sink where Dean dropped it, and the shiny blade catches the light from the bathroom lamp, splintering it into shards that glitter dizzily around Dean. Or maybe that's just from the hunger he sees when he looks at Sam.
It's a straight razor, the old-fashioned kind you sharpen with a leather strop. Delicate, but deadly; a lethal weapon or a useful tool. Dean learned to shave with a straight razor; taught Sam using the same one.
Dad always said safety razors and electric shavers were for pussies, which Dean isn't, and Sammy's always had a weird fixation for the sharp and pointy, so it all works out.
Of course, Dad probably didn't figure on some of the more inventive uses for a straight razor, when he was teaching Dean how to shave. Dean didn't really figure on them, either, when teaching Sam.
Those came later.
"Let me," Sam whispers, shifting. His breath is hot against Dean's throat; against the throbbing marks he left.
"Hell, Sam, yes," Dean growls, and tilts his head back, exposing the line of his throat to Sam's hungry eyes. He feels so exposed like this, so vulnerable, and it's a good thing he's not shaving himself, because his hand wouldn't be able to hold the razor.
He grips the edge of the sink with his good hand while Sam smoothes shaving cream over his throat and cheeks, arousal curling slowly through him with each touch.
The razor is cool, chill from laying on the sink. The blade is sharp, finely-honed, and for just the briefest moment, Sam presses it against Dean's throat. It's there, then gone, a bright, quick kiss that stings.
The first stroke over his skin is smooth, steady; Sam knows what he's doing and likes doing this. He'd probably do it every day, if Dean let him.
Since Dean wouldn't be able to survive long, doing that, he shaves himself. Usually.
"Pay attention," Sam says softly. Dean jerks his eyes back to the mirror, watches each slow, even stroke. Watches the blade slick through the cream, leaving smooth skin in its wake. Sam's hands are gentle but insistent, fingers pressing into soft skin, moving Dean's head this way and that way as he needs. "Back," Sam tells him, and Dean does; tips his head back further until he can't watch, can't see.
All he can do is feel.
Slicksharpbright slides over him, traces lightly over his Adam's apple; grazes it just enough for Dean to feel the burn. It's gone as soon as it registers, then back again, swirling and shifting. It makes Dean dizzy trying to follow the pattern, the pain.
He misses it -- the razor, the heat -- when Sam stops, turning the razor blunt edge down. It's cool, just below body temperature, and sleek as it moves up his throat, over his chin, presses against his mouth.
"Sam--" is all Dean manages to breathe, the cool non-taste of metal spreading over his tongue. He kisses the blade, then licks it; feels Sam shudder once, against him. Warm copper fills his mouth, his senses, and he licks at the blade one more time before Sam draws it away.
"I used to dream about this," Sam says, voice hoarse and raw. "When I was at school. Sometimes, I'd lay in bed, stroke my fingers up and down my throat, down over my chest. Would pretend it was you."
He matches actions with words, drawing the razor blade oh, so lightly down Dean's throat, down further, a shivery scroll written on Dean's flesh.
Dean tips his head back down, watches Sam trace around his nipples and across his sternum, moist, red lines springing up behind. It takes a moment or two after the red appears before Dean feels it; before the sting turns to a burn.
The burn becomes a fiery trail when Sam retraces the lines, cutting just a little deeper. Not enough to really wound, but enough that the moist lines spill over, droplets falling like bloody tears.
Dean lets his head fall back with a groan when Sam moves, leans in and licks the blood away, tongue leaving warm, wet trails where he laps it up.
"It's me now," Dean gasps, forcing his knees to lock so he doesn't fall over. Sam's moved again, down on his knees, turning Dean so he leans back against the sink. It's a relief to have something to brace against, to not have to worry about falling over. Especially when Sam looks up at him, pupils blown, dark with need. Dean threads the fingers of his good hand into Sam's hair, closing his eyes as silky strands twine around him. Silken bonds. He opens his eyes and the emotion in Sam's makes his heart stutter in his chest. "Sammy."
"Yeah," Sam breathes. He's so close, breath hot against Dean's belly, hot through the denim when he leans forward and nuzzles at Dean's erection. "God, Dean, yeah."
Dean watches Sam undo the button and zipper on his jeans; watches a slow flush spread over Sam's face. His hands are still steady, spreading Dean's jeans open before tugging them and his underwear down.
Just as far as his thighs, so Dean's doubly-caught, doubly-bound.
He wouldn't have it any other way, really.
He's so hard, dick curving up toward his belly, and Dean bites back a groan when Sam nuzzles again; his hair is a silken whip striking again and again until Dean's sure he's going to come before Sam ever puts his mouth on him.
"Please," he hisses, the word drawn out between his teeth.
"Dean," Sam mutters again, the word a puff of air over sensitive, aching flesh. He licks over the head of Dean's dick, tongue fluttering and stroking, before sliding his mouth down, down, swallowing Dean to the root, pulling up and off, and doing it again.
And again, and again, until Dean's head is swimming with the pleasure.
"Christ. Fuck, your mouth--" Dean loosens his grip on Sam's hair, tries to draw in a breath. He gets one, a gulp of air, before Sam slides his hands up Dean's torso, pressing and rubbing on the cuts he made earlier. Pain and pleasure slice hotly through him, blending into one before splintering apart again. They curl through him, then slide down his nerve endings, turning to brilliant heat that pools in his belly. "Sam, Sammy, Sa--"
That's all the warning Sam's gonna get, besides Dean tightening his grip on Sam's hair again. Sam presses harder, scratches his fingernails -- short, blunt, but tiny jagged spots catch and hold -- over the cuts, and heat explodes through Dean; a firestorm that sweeps up his body and back down, pulsing out of him in thick, hot spurts that Sam swallows down eagerly.
It takes a minute to catch his breath and by the time Dean's dropped to his knees beside Sam, Sam has his pants open and dick out, and he's jacking himself hard and fast. Dean knocks Sam's hand away, picks up the rhythm Sam started.
He's leaking, the tip of his dick wet with precome, and Dean twists his hand, brings his thumb up over the head to tease at the slit there, smearing the fluid around. Sam growls low in his throat and grabs Dean's wrist, gripping tightly as he shudders and comes, hot and sticky over Dean's fingers.
They rest there, kneeling on the floor of some no-name motel in the middle of nowhere, heads against each other, sharing breath. Dean's just about to move -- his knees are starting to hurt from the tile -- when Sam turns his head and kisses the side of his neck.
Dean blinks. "What--?"
"Marked you up pretty good," Sam says, breathing the words over Dean's skin. He feels it now, the throbbing bruises Sam left earlier. Actually, he feels every mark Sam's left on him, each one matching his heartbeat.
Dean…he's a realist. He's not a romantic guy, though once in a while he wishes he were, because Sam, he likes that stuff sometimes, and Dean would give Sam anything. Tries to give him anything.
What he can give him, what Dean loves to give him, is himself.
"Good," he says finally, the word coming out a little rough.
"Dean," Sam starts, and Dean shakes his head.
"Yeah, Sammy." He swallows any other words with a kiss, taking what Sam offers, gives, so freely. It's hot and slick, but sweet, and Sam's hands are big, warm, holding him while they kiss, giving it all back.
Sam helps Dean clean up afterward. Well, okay, Sam does all the clean up. Mostly because, between the pain meds for his arm (that he swallowed with some Jack, but he's not going to tell Sam), the endorphins from the cutting, and the mind-blowing sex, Dean's doing good to stay on his feet. The cuts itch already, and that's the only bad thing about playing around like this. Healing sucks, even if getting to that point was a whole lot of fun.
"Dude, take a nap," Sam says, coming back out of the bathroom. Dean's only half-awake anyway, eyes heavy and gritty.
"You got me flowers," he mutters, pressing his thumb to the sensitive, sore spot on his neck.
"What?" Sam looks amused, dimples peeking around his smile.
"Flowers. Here." He presses again at the bruises blooming around his throat and scratches at his chest.
Sam laughs. "Not too chick-flick for you?"
"Nah." Dean yawns, hugely, and reaches up to tug on Sam's arm. "C'mere. Gimme another."
Sam flops down beside him easily, and in the secret part of himself that Dean keeps locked away, he wishes it could be like this all the time: warm, easy, relaxed.
"Bossy. Go to sleep, Dean. You're wiped, man." Dean's expecting Sam to bite him; he doesn't expect the gentle kisses over each bruise, down the line of his throat, and back up to his mouth.
"Mmm." He turns toward Sam, opening his mouth for another kiss, just one more, for the sharp, sweet taste that belongs to Sam, and Sam alone.
Sam's kisses follow him down into dreams of blood, and roses, and shards of light glinting off shiny silver blades.
~fin~
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