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Nothing Bad Will Ever Happen To You (Except Me) (Reply)
Nothing Bad Will Ever Happen To You (Except Me)
Title: Nothing Bad Will Ever Happen to You (Except Me)
Warnings: somniphilia, non-con
“Maybe it’s my turn to have something good,” Dean mutters to the sleeping figure on the bed. “Maybe it’s my turn to take what I want.”
A/N: Written for this Masquerade prompt:
Dean screws Sam when he's knocked out from a hunt (or whatever other scenario). Bonus if it's their first time and Dean feels tons of guilt, but does it anyway.
Migraines had never been a problem at Stanford, or even the first year or so after Sam started hunting again. But lately, they’d been coming on more and more frequently, and Dean could definitely tell the signs by now. When Sam winced at the afternoon sun and climbed in the back seat instead of shotgun at the gas station, Dean knew it was time to find someplace dark and quiet to hole up for a while.
It didn’t take long to find a cheap roadside motel. Sam didn’t say anything, just smiled gratefully when Dean dragged him into the shadowy room and pulled the blackout curtains.
“Here,” Dean said, digging out a bottle of pills that had originally been prescribed for Herman Munster. Dean was pretty sure they were still codeine--they were painkillers of some sort, that much he knew, and Sam wasn't allergic to any of them. “Take a couple of these with a shot of whiskey and get some rest. I’ll go find some dinner for later.” He knew it was bad when Sam didn’t offer even a token objection, just smiled painfully and mumbled
under his breath.
Dean closed the door gently on his way out, double checking the lock before taking a deep breath of cool air and ambling over to the Impala. It was still early for dinner, but they’d passed a dive on the way into town…he could spend an hour replenishing their cash supply—never knew when they’d need a little extra.
It was actually closer to two hours before Dean pulled back into the hotel parking lot. He’d had a run of luck that wouldn’t quit—all of it good. He’d taken the local bad boy for just over $500, garnered plenty of free drinks and a couple of phone numbers as well. Maybe if Sam felt up to it they’d celebrate, go someplace decent for dinner instead of the local grease factory. Dean’s dick twitched a little at the thought of Sam dressed up, hair falling in silky waves around his face as he smiled at Dean while licking salt off the rim of his glass. Maybe not the best idea...but Dean was definitely storing that scenario away for his shower the next morning.
Sam was still passed out when Dean unlocked the door. Dean didn't try to keep the noise down—usually Sam was good to go with a couple hours of sleep after a migraine, and Dean figured this night would be no different. But Sam was still in the same position as when Dean got back—facedown on the bed in t-shirt and boxers, hair spilling over his cheek onto the pillow. Dean watched him breathe for a few moments before carefully stroking the hair back off Sam’s face, savoring the slipslide of the silky strands over his fingers.
Sam didn’t stir, not even when Dean traced the delicate shell of his ear with one trembling finger before pulling back, shocked at his own daring. Dean knows this sickness he feels only goes one way, and he’s never tried to force his desires on Sam. But he rarely gets to see Sam like this, and it’s making him think thoughts he should never, ever think.
Dean grabs the bottle of whiskey off the nightstand and takes a healthy slug, never taking his eyes off Sam.
“Sam?” he says softly. “Hey, Sammy, wake up, man.” Dean rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder, a move normally guaranteed to bring his brother fully awake in seconds, alert and ready for whatever danger might be in the room. This time Sam doesn’t even stir, dead to the world if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Dean leaves his hand where it is as he takes another drink, enjoying the firm muscle just one thin layer of cloth away. “Never understood why you wear so many layers, Sammy,” he whispers, voice slurring a little. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” He lets his hand follow his eyes down Sam’s back, firm muscles leading to a narrow waist. He stops himself before his fingers reach the edge of Sam’s tshirt and the thin stripe of skin showing itself above the edge of his worn boxers, then lets them dance for a brief moment over the golden warmth.
“Fuck,” Dean whispers harshly, jerking his hand back. Then, reverently, “Sammy…” He hesitates an instant before flattening his hand over the warm skin, fingers curling and stroking. A shiver runs up Sam’s spine, but he doesn’t move beyond that, just a shiver and a sigh.
Dean doesn’t know what he’s thinking, can’t believe what he’s doing.
He falls to his knees next to the bed, now mostly empty bottle slipping from his fingers. He keeps one hand on Sam’s back, moving slowly back and forth, fingers growing bolder with each second that Sam remains asleep. He lowers his head slowly and breathes out gently over Sam’s skin, watches goosebumps run over the thin patch, feels the warmth blow back against his lips. He’s dizzy, drunk on far more than a few beers and a couple swallows of whiskey, intoxicated by the sight and smell and feel of his brother’s body.
Just one taste,
he thinks dizzily.
Just one and I’ll stop.
But he knows it's not true. Even as his lips graze Sam’s skin, tongue flicking out over smooth skin, even as he moans and palms his achingly hard cock through his jeans, he knows it’s not enough. The hand stroking Sam’s back slides lower, slipping over the firm muscles of Sam’s ass, massaging and kneading, fingers pressing into the cleft through the cloth. Sam whines softly in his sleep, hips pushing up into Dean’s hand, and Dean freezes, the enormity of what he’s doing striking him hard and fast.
“Dean,” Sam sighs, and pushes his hips into the mattress.
Dean stands up, staggering back away from his brother, but Sam doesn’t move or speak again. His breathing evens out again, and Dean eases closer, mind spinning crazily. He knows what he heard, knows what he wants it to mean, but what if he’s wrong? What if Sam won’t admit it, won’t accept what they both want?
The thought makes Dean a little crazy. He pushes everything else out of his mind as he kicks off his shoes and pops the button on his jeans, shoving them down. He groans a little in relief as the pressure on his aching cock eases a little, and he stares down at his brother, wondering how much he dares.
“Maybe it’s my turn to have something good,” Dean mutters to the sleeping figure on the bed. “Maybe it’s my turn to take what I want.” He laughs a little wildly, bitterly. “I’m already going to hell, right? I might as well make sure I deserve it.”
A quick search of Sam’s duffle turns up a half empty bottle of lube, more than enough for what Dean wants. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam, not even a little bit. If anything he wants Sam to think of this as a dream, maybe want it again. He tosses the bottle on the bed, hooks trembling fingers in the waistband of Sam’s boxers and tugs.
Inch after inch of gorgeous skin slowly comes into view. Dean wants to touch it all, taste it all, but he holds back, waits until the offending cloth is on the floor and Sam’s ass and legs are on full display. Dean’s mouth waters at the sight, and he can’t help running his hands up those long, long legs, cupping firm muscle until he can pull the cheeks of Sam’s ass apart and finally see where he wants to be.
Sam is a little restless now, soft sounds that might be Dean’s name falling from his lips as Dean rubs his face over the soft skin of Sam’s ass, licking and nipping every inch. The scent is overwhelming, musky and rich with sweat and arousal. Dean thinks he could do this for hours, but he knows he doesn’t have time, and his dick is throbbing with the need to be buried inside Sam. He licks a stripe over Sam’s hole and feels it contract, feels Sam’s body react to his warmth and the shock of cool air after the heat of Dean’s tongue. He does it again, and again, spreading Sam’s legs to lick and tongue the base of Sam’s balls as well, already regretting that he won’t get to suck Sam’s undoubtedly beautiful cock. But he contents himself with licking Sam open, straightening his tongue and pushing it in, slow and sure. His fingers follow, slick with lube, one then another, reveling in the tight heat of Sam’s body, refusing to let himself think about never having this again.
Dean loses himself in Sam’s body for awhile, in the slick sound of his fingers sliding in and out of tight, wet heat. Sam’s hole is stretched and red, glistening, as Dean slips another finger in. Sam is restless again, moaning under his breath, rocking his hips into the bed and back onto Dean’s hand. It’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever seen or done, and he almost hates to stop. But he can’t ignore the throbbing in his cock and his balls now, drawn up tight and painfully hard. He pulls his fingers out slowly, almost losing it when Sam whines and chases them unconsciously, another sound that might be
slipping out into the heated air.
Dean slides on a condom and slicks it up before rising up onto his knees. He runs his clean hand through Sam’s sweaty hair. “Gonna take care of you, Sammy,” he murmurs, “I promise.”
Sam quiets under his hand, and Dean rubs the head of his cock over Sam’s stretched, red hole before he starts to push, drawing out the anticipation. He moans as Sam clenches around the intrusion and grips the base of his cock, afraid this will be over before it begins. He grits his teeth and whispers
as he gives a tiny shove of his hips, just enough to force the blunt head of his dick inside. Sam murmurs fretfully and tries to pull away, but Dean holds him still, self control in shreds as he slides with torturous patience into his brother’s body.
Finally, he’s in, balls pressed tight to Sam’s ass, cock fully encased in slick, searing heat. He wants to move, thinks he might die if he doesn’t fuck Sam right fucking now, but he forces himself to wait, to give Sam time to adjust, even if he doesn’t realize.
Gradually the crushing tightness eases slightly and with a moan that’s almost a sob Dean starts to move, rocking carefully inside Sam. He strokes Sam’s back, every inch that he can reach, determined to savor every sensation, store them away in case he’s never allowed to do this again.
But soon it’s too much, and he starts to move faster, pushing in harder, feverishly building a steady rhythm that he realizes Sam is trying to match underneath him. Each push knocks a breathy moan out of Sam, hands clenching in the sheets as he writhes under Dean.
It’s so much better than Dean ever expected, and he’s on the edge sooner than he wants to be. He lets go of Sam’s hips, balancing himself on one hand as he pushes the other underneath Sam’s body, suddenly desperate to feel Sam come around him before it’s over. The angle is beyond awkward, but it doesn’t take much—Sam is hard and leaking, rutting down against the bedspread as Dean fucks into him, hitting his prostrate as often as he can, twisting his wrist and thumbing the head of Sam’s cock on every awkward stroke. In moments, Sam’s entire body shakes with the force of his release, clamping down on Dean’s cock and covering his hand with slick. Dean moans, working his hips as best he can, the aftershocks of Sam’s pleasure feeding back into his own. He pulls himself back up and thrusts hard through the spasms, once—twice—again--and he’s done, body arching as he empties himself into his brother.
Dean collapses on top of Sam, harsh breaths and gasps mingling as they both come down from the high. Dean realizes he can’t stay here long—Sam’s face is already starting to scrunch in discomfort. With a sigh Dean pulls himself up and carefully out of his brother’s body and staggers into the bathroom. The condom goes into the toilet, and he cleans himself up before returning to the bedroom, long habit turning the motions into autopilot. He smiles to himself in the mirror, high on wonder and endorphins.
That feeling disappears as soon as he leaves the bathroom. Sam looks completely debauched, sweaty and used, with lube smeared and leaking from his puffy red hole. His lips are swollen where he’s bitten them, and Dean is pretty sure there’s going to be at least one set of bruises on his hips. Dean's dick twitches at the sight,
mine mine mine
throbbing through him for a split second before the realization of what he's done takes it's place.
There’s no way Sam isn’t going to realize something is wrong. And no way Dean can defend himself. Dean staggers to the other bed and collapses in horror at the sudden weight of guilt crushing him. He just raped his little brother. He doesn’t sugar coat it for himself, doesn’t make any excuses. It’s clear what he’s done, and now…now he’s going to have to live with the consequences.
Dean closes his eyes and thinks, bleakly, that hell will be a vacation compared to this.
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