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Entry tags:
Fic: Night Moves, Sam/Dean, R
Title: Night Moves
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~960
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Contains watersports, sort of. Think pre-cursor.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I'm just playing with them. All rights, etc., belong to Kripke, et al.
A/N: One of my bulletproof kinks is one guy having to help the other to the bathroom (for whatever reason - injury, sickness, etc) and then lending a hand. So to speak. And I was rewatching some S1 eps today, and pondering how often one or the other gets hurt, etc., and one thing led to another…and here's this ficlet kind of pushing to get out of my head. So. Here 'tis. Hope y'all enjoy. :)
You wake up to a dark room, blinding white pain flashing against your eyelids when you try to move.
The warm weight against your back shifts, and Sam mumbles your name in a voice rough and hoarse with sleep, inflection making it a question.
"Need to take a leak," you mutter, biting back the groan that wants out. God, it hurts. You hurt. Aches everywhere, but the bright heat streaking through you and lighting your nerves on fire is centered in your abdomen, like you got--
Oh, yeah. Clawed. You got clawed, four deep gouges across your belly. It comes back to you now as you fumble awkwardly toward the side of the bed, the poltergeist that manifested itself with long, metal spikes for fingers. Reaching out for you, grasping you, digging into you. Sam's shout, a roar of anger that deafened you, his sharp pleas for you to stay awake, stay with me, dammit, Dean! as he set new speed records back to the hotel while you bled through your t-shirt, overshirt, and two old towels.
You need an emergency room, he'd said, panic threading through the words.
No hospital, too risky, fucking FBI, you'd hissed back, fingers tacky with drying blood. You don't remember much after that; Sam hit a bump in the road and when you came to again, it was to his face, pale and concerned, lips drawn tight as he stitched you up.
Every one of those stitches -- dozens, it feels like -- burns and pulls as you shift slowly upright. The movement makes your head pound, and you feel your heartbeat throbbing deep in your belly, in the stitches pulling tight, in your too-full bladder. You don't think you make any noise, but between one breath and the next Sam's right there, huge hands gentle as he pulls you to your feet.
"I can do it." You protest half-heartedly, vaguely reminded of your brother when he was little, never wanting any help, always wanting to do it himself.
"Come on," he says, voice low and gentle. "Idiot." The warmth in his words takes away any sting; makes needing his help a little less humiliating. Makes it a little easier to let him steer you slowly toward the bathroom.
The only light is the fuzzy streetlight filtering in around thin curtains, and you want to keep it that way. Everything hurts right now; you don't need to burn out your eyeballs, too. "No light," you manage, when Sam reaches toward the wall.
He hums in agreement and nudges you forward, large and solid against your back, fingers skimming over bare skin when he slides them carefully beneath the elastic of your shorts.
"Sam--" Your face feels hot, sudden rush of warmth all through you that has nothing to do with pain.
"I gotcha." He works your shorts down slowly, deftly avoiding the swath of bandages over your stitches, freeing your dick. Sam cups you briefly, strokes downward once. Every inch of your skin prickles with heat, a slow, steady flush that increases when he leans in closer and nuzzles you, holding your dick for you. "It's okay, Dean. Let it go. I got you."
You feel ten different kinds of awkward right now, brain fuzzy with sleep and pain, body pulsing with the need to let go, like Sam said but unable to because of all that awkwardness.
You're not sure what the problem is; you and Sam are more than intimately acquainted with each other's bodies, and even if you weren't, this is hardly the first time you've helped the other out like this. But tonight…tonight feels different. Intimate in a way that scorches through you.
"Sam. I."
"Shh." He breathes the word, sound, out against your ear. "Just let go, Dean. It's okay." He's holding you, holding on to you, and everywhere Sam touches you don't feel anything but Sam. No pain, nothing. Just warmth and love, a tenderness that makes you ache deep inside.
You close your eyes, ignoring the heat prickling behind them, and concentrate, pushing outward. The feeling of relief that sweeps through you when do let go, let the piss come, makes you lightheaded.
Sam splays his left hand -- the one not holding you, not directing the stream -- over your stomach. It's careful -- he's nowhere near your injuries -- but possessive. You shiver once and lean back into him, lightheadedness increasing when he strokes you once after you finish pissing, fingers catching the last couple drops and rubbing them into your skin. Against your back, Sam's getting hard, erection pressing just against the cleft of your ass.
Arousal slipslides through you, there and gone in an instant, leaving behind a splash of heat of an entirely different kind. You're not worried; it'll be back in force when you're not tired and injured, and drugged out on pain meds.
It only seems to take a minute or two longer before Sam has your shorts back in place and you back in bed, though you think it really is longer than that; you can't quite hold anything in focus right now.
"Sam," you whisper, once he's curled up against you again, holding you close.
"Hmm?"
You think of hands, gentle but sure, touching you. Guiding. The pleasure of letting go, the feel of warm liquid against your skin. "I wanna do that again--sometime."
Sam presses a kiss to the back of your neck; when he answers, his voice is low and thick with sleep -- and pleasure. "Me, too."
He rocks his hips forward and back slowly, letting you feel him, and you drift back to sleep thinking that sometime might be sooner than either of you think.
~fin~
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~960
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Contains watersports, sort of. Think pre-cursor.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I'm just playing with them. All rights, etc., belong to Kripke, et al.
A/N: One of my bulletproof kinks is one guy having to help the other to the bathroom (for whatever reason - injury, sickness, etc) and then lending a hand. So to speak. And I was rewatching some S1 eps today, and pondering how often one or the other gets hurt, etc., and one thing led to another…and here's this ficlet kind of pushing to get out of my head. So. Here 'tis. Hope y'all enjoy. :)
You wake up to a dark room, blinding white pain flashing against your eyelids when you try to move.
The warm weight against your back shifts, and Sam mumbles your name in a voice rough and hoarse with sleep, inflection making it a question.
"Need to take a leak," you mutter, biting back the groan that wants out. God, it hurts. You hurt. Aches everywhere, but the bright heat streaking through you and lighting your nerves on fire is centered in your abdomen, like you got--
Oh, yeah. Clawed. You got clawed, four deep gouges across your belly. It comes back to you now as you fumble awkwardly toward the side of the bed, the poltergeist that manifested itself with long, metal spikes for fingers. Reaching out for you, grasping you, digging into you. Sam's shout, a roar of anger that deafened you, his sharp pleas for you to stay awake, stay with me, dammit, Dean! as he set new speed records back to the hotel while you bled through your t-shirt, overshirt, and two old towels.
You need an emergency room, he'd said, panic threading through the words.
No hospital, too risky, fucking FBI, you'd hissed back, fingers tacky with drying blood. You don't remember much after that; Sam hit a bump in the road and when you came to again, it was to his face, pale and concerned, lips drawn tight as he stitched you up.
Every one of those stitches -- dozens, it feels like -- burns and pulls as you shift slowly upright. The movement makes your head pound, and you feel your heartbeat throbbing deep in your belly, in the stitches pulling tight, in your too-full bladder. You don't think you make any noise, but between one breath and the next Sam's right there, huge hands gentle as he pulls you to your feet.
"I can do it." You protest half-heartedly, vaguely reminded of your brother when he was little, never wanting any help, always wanting to do it himself.
"Come on," he says, voice low and gentle. "Idiot." The warmth in his words takes away any sting; makes needing his help a little less humiliating. Makes it a little easier to let him steer you slowly toward the bathroom.
The only light is the fuzzy streetlight filtering in around thin curtains, and you want to keep it that way. Everything hurts right now; you don't need to burn out your eyeballs, too. "No light," you manage, when Sam reaches toward the wall.
He hums in agreement and nudges you forward, large and solid against your back, fingers skimming over bare skin when he slides them carefully beneath the elastic of your shorts.
"Sam--" Your face feels hot, sudden rush of warmth all through you that has nothing to do with pain.
"I gotcha." He works your shorts down slowly, deftly avoiding the swath of bandages over your stitches, freeing your dick. Sam cups you briefly, strokes downward once. Every inch of your skin prickles with heat, a slow, steady flush that increases when he leans in closer and nuzzles you, holding your dick for you. "It's okay, Dean. Let it go. I got you."
You feel ten different kinds of awkward right now, brain fuzzy with sleep and pain, body pulsing with the need to let go, like Sam said but unable to because of all that awkwardness.
You're not sure what the problem is; you and Sam are more than intimately acquainted with each other's bodies, and even if you weren't, this is hardly the first time you've helped the other out like this. But tonight…tonight feels different. Intimate in a way that scorches through you.
"Sam. I."
"Shh." He breathes the word, sound, out against your ear. "Just let go, Dean. It's okay." He's holding you, holding on to you, and everywhere Sam touches you don't feel anything but Sam. No pain, nothing. Just warmth and love, a tenderness that makes you ache deep inside.
You close your eyes, ignoring the heat prickling behind them, and concentrate, pushing outward. The feeling of relief that sweeps through you when do let go, let the piss come, makes you lightheaded.
Sam splays his left hand -- the one not holding you, not directing the stream -- over your stomach. It's careful -- he's nowhere near your injuries -- but possessive. You shiver once and lean back into him, lightheadedness increasing when he strokes you once after you finish pissing, fingers catching the last couple drops and rubbing them into your skin. Against your back, Sam's getting hard, erection pressing just against the cleft of your ass.
Arousal slipslides through you, there and gone in an instant, leaving behind a splash of heat of an entirely different kind. You're not worried; it'll be back in force when you're not tired and injured, and drugged out on pain meds.
It only seems to take a minute or two longer before Sam has your shorts back in place and you back in bed, though you think it really is longer than that; you can't quite hold anything in focus right now.
"Sam," you whisper, once he's curled up against you again, holding you close.
"Hmm?"
You think of hands, gentle but sure, touching you. Guiding. The pleasure of letting go, the feel of warm liquid against your skin. "I wanna do that again--sometime."
Sam presses a kiss to the back of your neck; when he answers, his voice is low and thick with sleep -- and pleasure. "Me, too."
He rocks his hips forward and back slowly, letting you feel him, and you drift back to sleep thinking that sometime might be sooner than either of you think.
~fin~