[SPN] FIC: "Bruised," Sam/Dean, NC17

[stephanometra]

Hello, lovelies! Sorry about the spamming; I'll not post for a week, or summat.

Title: Bruised
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Porn. Seriously, NC17.
Summary: Dean is forcibly reminded of a particular kink. Sam spends the next few minutes staring out the window and idly fingering the bruises, and for fifty miles Dean is so hard it hurts.
Warnings: Incest, obviously. Breathplay of the choking variety. A bit of violence, but really, it's Winchesters we're dealing with, so that's only to be expected.
Notes: Okay, well. I can blame this about equally on the esteemed Mr. Kripke, who in his wisdom decided that it was appropriate for Sam to be throttled within an inch of his life every other episode in the first season, and on my darling anoneknewmoose, who in essence refused to let me not write this. Shout-outs to my SPN cheerleaders - anoneknewmoose, Captain; vanitymachine, Co-Captain; fictionalaspect and silverkilroy, Cute Pom-Pom Girls in the Second Row - and to everyone else who's heard me wibble about this fic since it took up residence in my brain and refused to leave. 3300 words. Also! This fic now has a prequel: Square in a Round.

-

They hear about a string of grave robberies in Kentucky, and it turns out to be their kind of gig, if a murder of flesh-eating ghouls counts as a gig.

"Why the hell do they call it a 'murder,' anyway?" Dean asks, settling back on his heels and scanning the little cemetery for movement. The 12-gauge in his hands is loaded with cold iron shot.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Crows, Dean. It's the same word they use for crows."

A naked, emaciated figure emerges from the copse of poplars on the graveyard's western border, and Dean raises the gun. "That look much like a crow to you, Sammy?"

They down four of the things before a few come up from behind; one of them gets Dean in a hammerlock – where did a fucking ghoul learn to grapple like that? – and he drops his gun, which is one of those things that should never fucking happen, especially when he hears the dull thud of Sam slamming against something solid and grunting in pain.

A chill spreads throughout Dean's body, making his limbs heavy and sluggish. He tries to call out to Sam, whom he can't see because the damn ghoul is mashing his face into the dirt, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth.

The ghoul fists its hand in Dean's hair, pulling back Dean's head to expose his throat.

The shotgun lies on the ground three feet from him, still cocked and ready, but it's so difficult to move that it might as well be a mile away. Dean hears a garbled sound that might have come from Sam, and his hand suddenly closes around the gun's stock. Warmth radiates from the trigger assembly when he gets his fingers around it; he flips over, sprawling on his back, and shoots the ghoul looming over him square in the chest.

Two of the fuckers remain, and one of them has Sam by the throat, thrown up against a tree with his feet dangling almost comically in the air. The other one charges him – stupid fucker – and he blows it away.

He doesn't have a clear shot at the last one; a shotgun blast will shred Sam as well as the ghoul. Dean drops the gun and pulls his knife from his coat. "Hey, asshole!" he calls in his best I-don't-take-shit-from-things-like-you voice, and hopes to God he's got enough muscle control to time the throw correctly.

The ghoul turns to him, one long-fingered, grey-skinned hand still pinning a bug-eyed Sam to the tree, and then looks down, surprised, when a long blade suddenly protrudes from its chest.

The corpse disintegrates, and Sam falls to his knees, coughing uncontrollably, chest heaving.

"Shit, shit," Dean swears, forcing his uncooperative limbs into a halting half-crawl. "Sam?"

Sam's voice is rough around his gulping breaths, and the skin of his throat is already darkening to livid bruises. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

"It had – Jesus, Sammy, the damn thing fucking paralyzed me."

Sam looks surprised. "That wasn't in the journal."

Dean shakes his head, reaching down to pull Sam to his feet. "No, no it wasn't. Christ."

They stumble back to the Impala, and somehow Dean manages to shake off the lingering paralysis enough to get them back to the motel without driving off the damn road.

-

Sam collapses face down on the cheap chintz bedspread, barely kicking off his shoes before crawling up the bed.

"Sam, what the fuck. You don't really want to go to bed wearing that shit." Dean swats at him until he rolls over on his back and coaxes him out of his filthy clothes.

Head propped on the overstuffed institutional pillow, Sam looks at Dean through hooded eyes, seemingly disinterested in getting under the covers and going to sleep. "I'm okay, Dean. Seriously."

"I don't know if you were paying attention back there, Sam, but you almost died. You need to sleep. Seriously."

Sam pulls him down and kisses him instead, fingers fumbling with Dean's belt buckle. "Later," he says.

All things considered, there is almost nothing on God's green earth that could possibly make Dean say no to life-affirming sex with Sam. Dean groans and starts shimmying out of his clothes, leaving his shirt because Sam is sucking on his tongue like it's going out of style, and he doesn't want to give up Sam's mouth long enough to pull it over his head.

Dean moans when Sam curls a hand loosely around his cock, thrusting raggedly into the circle of Sam's fingers for a minute before reluctantly pulling away and sliding down the bed. He sucks Sam deeply into his mouth, tasting wet and salt and rubbing himself against the sheets at how good Sam feels against his tongue.

Lips tight around Sam's dick, Dean's gaze slides upward along Sam's body to the taut line of his neck, where the purple-red finger-shaped bruises circle Sam's throat, and without warning Dean seizes and groans low in his chest, coming in pulses all over the sheets.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam sobs, rolling his hips and clutching at Dean's head. Dean just lets his jaw go slack with post-orgasmic languor, letting Sam fuck his mouth, staring at the bruises and swallowing hard as Sam throws back his head and comes down Dean's throat.

Breathless, panting, Sam pulls Dean off his cock, sliding down the bed to kiss him again, licking at the inside of Dean's mouth to taste himself on Dean's tongue, and fuck, it's so, so good.

Dean rolls to the side, flopping on his back and staring at the ceiling for a second before turning his head to look at Sam. "You gonna sleep now?"

Sam smiles lazily. "Yeah, okay."

"Good." He gets up and makes for the shower, pulling off his t-shirt as he goes, and by the time he's clean Sam is out like a light, the collar of bruises standing out in sharp relief against the pale of his skin and the blinding, blinding white of the sheets.

-

Dean saw a porno once that had choking in it. Not, like, choking-on-dick kind of choking (although he's seen a lot of that, too); it had these two lesbians, a blonde and a brunette, and one of them had her hands wrapped around the other's throat while she ploughed her with this gigantic rubber cock. It was some of that really delicious amateur hardcore shit, not processed L.A. garbage full of orgasm-faking meth-head Barbie dolls. No, this was just a couple of girls in ridiculous shoes banging on a couch, except that at the end of it the blonde had this gorgeous ring of bruises around her neck.

He came so hard he nearly blacked out the first time he watched it, and the tenth time was almost as good.

And it's sick and it's wrong and it's terrible that the marks on Sam's neck remind him of that, because it definitely wasn't a hot chick with a giant purple strap-on who gave Sam those bruises (although Christ, what Dean wouldn't give to see that in porn); it was that undead thing that tried to kill him, just like dozens of other things that tried before it.

Wide awake, Dean listens to Sam's breathing in the next bed – slow, even, and totally fucking exhausted – for a few minutes more, trying not to think about Sam and choking and pegging and lesbians and willing away his erection, before he throws off the covers, retreating to the shower so he can jerk off without feeling like a horrible human being.

-

They rest for a day, taking a moment to catch their breath before heading up to Wisconsin to check on something from Dad's journal.

When Sam leaves the room, he pops his collar, trying to hide the worst of the bruising.

"Cut that shit out," Dean says. "You look like some retard frat boy."

"Fuck off," Sam says. "What about that damn jacket of yours, huh?" He sullenly punches in a Kansas tape and cranks up the volume, effectively cutting off any further conversation, but he folds his collar back down the second they hit the highway.

The roads in southern Illinois suck; for a while it's just Point of Know Return and potholes.

"Jesus, that fucker really did a number on your neck," Dean finally ventures.

Sam ducks his head the way he always does when he's embarrassed about something. "Nah, it's nothing," he replies, but his hand automatically reaches up to touch the marks self-consciously.

Dean's mouth goes dry. "A pissed-off ghoul trying to throttle you isn't 'nothing,' Sammy. I mean, I can totally see where the bastard was coming from –" Sam punches him in the shoulder then, and Dean laughs. "Seriously, that's…you're okay, right?"

"Dude, it's fine."

Sam spends the next few minutes staring out the window and idly fingering the bruises, and for fifty miles Dean is so hard it hurts.

-

The bruises mostly fade by the time they get to Fitchburg, because they detour through Milwaukee after Sam picks up something about a haunting in one of the women's dorms at the UW campus there. It turns out to be a bust, but Dean doesn't mind; the scenery is almost good enough to distract him from constantly ogling Sam's neck, and when they finally do roll into Fitchburg, Dean's just glad he isn't giving the kid at the tiny motel's front desk any more ammunition.

By the time they leave, Sam has a new set of bruises, courtesy of that damn shtriga, and Dean's fairly sure he's in hell.

They're between jobs, so Dean just picks a direction and drives, trying not to stare too often or too much.

-

Sam is on edge when they drive into Atlanta, and Dean doesn't have any idea why until Sam shuts the door of their motel room and demands, "What's your problem, dude?"

Dean just looks at him. "Well, Sammy, you're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

Then Sam touches the marks on his neck – not as pretty and perfect this time, because the shtriga hadn't actually tried to strangle him, but it was still pretty obvious that a hand left them – and glares at him. "This problem, Dean."

Shucking off his coat, Dean says, "Fuck off, I don't have a problem."

"Yes, you do."

"Do not."

"Do so."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Silence stretches between them.

"Seriously, Dean, what's your fucking problem?"

Dean toes off his boots and sits down on one of the beds. "I so do not want to have this discussion right now."

"Too fucking bad."

"Drop it, man, I swear to God."

He sits down next to Dean on the bed. "Look, do you know what normal people do in situations like this?"

Dean grits his teeth. "Dude, has anything about our situation in the past twenty years ever even approached normal?"

And suddenly Sam is very, very close, looming over Dean and breathing hotly in his ear. "A normal person would just ask."

Dean swallows hard, opens and closes his mouth. "How – how the fuck am I supposed to ask for that, Sam?"

And Sam just smirks and grabs hold of one of Dean's hands, pressing it to his neck, while he reaches down with the other hand to cup Dean through his jeans.

Cock already half-hard and wholly interested, Dean glares and grinds out, "Don't we get enough of this kind of shit on the job?"

Sam laughs darkly. "Apparently not," he says, and then he attacks Dean's mouth.

Groaning into the kiss, Dean strokes his thumb over the pulse point in Sam's throat. Sam's breath catches when he hits the tenderest of the bruises, and the little gasping sounds go straight to Dean's dick. He pops the button on Sam's fly, pushing pants and boxers out of the way to find Sam gloriously hard already, his cock sliding hot and smooth through Dean's fist. "Jesus, Sam," he murmurs, and Sam greedily swallows the words.

"Anything you want," Sam pants against Dean's lips, fingers digging into Dean's back.

"Want to fuck you," Dean says. "And then –" he increases the pressure on Sam's neck, cock jumping when he feels Sam flinch just a little under his hand even as they both moan.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, head lolling back. "Yeah." He lets Dean push him back on the bed, lets Dean strip him, watches with lust-dark eyes as Dean pulls off his own clothes and rifles through his duffel for a condom and the lube.

And Christ, he looks so fucking good like this that it's almost too much for Dean, too much to see Sam laid out and flushed and willing to take anything that Dean's dishing out. Dean grips the base of his cock roughly and squeezes his eyes shut against the urge to just fall on Sam and kiss and bite and rub himself against that flat perfect belly until they both shoot like fucking teenagers.

When he opens his eyes Sam is gasping, jacking his own dick without rhythm or finesse and looking exactly like Dean feels. "God," Sam says, reaching for him, pulling him down. "You have no idea how hot you look like that."

Dean grins and slowly lowers himself onto Sam's body. He reaches down to stroke Sam's cock alongside Sam's own hand, and then reaches for the lube. "Spread your legs, and don't stop doing that," he says, and Sam obeys, opening for Dean with a breathy indistinct sound.

Sam is hot and tight around the slick finger Dean slips inside him, tighter still when he adds a second. Dean leans in, tracing the collar of bruises at Sam's throat with his tongue, loving the desperate noises Sam makes when he scissors his fingers in Sam's ass while sucking on the already-marked skin.

"Come on, Dean," Sam moans, working his hips, mouth moving hotly against Dean's face wherever he can reach.

"Hold on," Dean says, tearing open the condom packet, wrapping and slicking up. He pushes in a little too fast, a little too hard, reining himself in when he bottoms out because he needs this to last just a little bit longer.

Panting, he gathers Sam's legs, groaning when Sam wraps them around his waist, pulling him in deeper and lifting up to slide his lips against Dean's, fucking into Dean's mouth with his tongue as Dean fucks his ass with short, rocking strokes that leave them both gasping into the kiss.

Sam cries out sharply when Dean gets the angle right, hand flying on his dick, and he drops back his head to bare his throat, and it's like a benediction, like Christmas come early when Dean closes his trembling fingers around that sweat-slick skin.

Dean can feel Sam's blood humming through his carotid, hear the rasp of Sam's throat as he tries to breathe, and shit it's frightening how awesome it is to be holding Sam's life in his hands. But that's nothing compared to how it feels to know that Sam is letting him do this, because Dean knows that Sam could throw him off in an instant if he got out of control. And that makes him reckless, leaning harder on Sam's neck, bending to bite at Sam's jaw and whispering filth in his ear while he writhes on Dean's cock. "Shit, Sammy, you feel so fucking good, I could do this forever, just pin you down with my hands and my cock. Mark you, make you mine and never let you up again."

Sam's mouth works soundlessly as he chokes, his face flushed and his eyes wide and dilated.

"And you'd fucking love it, wouldn't you," Dean continues, his breathing labored as he gets closer and closer to coming. "Such a little slut –"

Sam gurgles and comes hard, back arching almost impossibly far, painting his stomach and Dean's chest with spunk.

"Fuck," Dean cries in surprise. He loses his grip on Sam's throat, rocking back and driving into Sam's ass with all of his weight, as Sam takes a huge, heaving breath. Weakly, Sam reaches up to touch the angry new marks on his throat, and that sends Dean tumbling over the edge, coming in a rush inside the tight heat of Sam's body.

They lie there just breathing for a moment, still joined, still covered in Sam's come.

"Okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, wincing at the uncertain tremor in his voice.

Sam replies, "Holy shit, Dean." He sounds hoarse and exhausted, but then he kisses Dean and it's lazy and sated and slow, and Dean figures he couldn't have fucked up too badly if Sam's still willing to kiss him like that.

Grinning, he reaches up to smooth Sam's hair away from his face before carefully pulling out and hobbling over to the bathroom on unsteady legs. He chucks the condom, cleans himself up, and then tosses a wet washcloth at Sam, hitting him square in the chest. "Cleanup on aisle S," he says, rummaging around for his boxers in the haphazard pile of clothing on the floor.

Sam flips him off.

Dean looks at the rumpled bed for a second before shrugging and climbing into the other one, sliding between the clean sheets with a sigh. After pulling on his own boxers, Sam gives the bed the same dismissive once-over and curls up on his side next to Dean, head pillowed on Dean's shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, Dean throws an arm around Sam's shoulders and says, "So."

"So."

"That was, uh." He doesn't really have any idea what to say; he just gently touches the new bruises on Sam's throat.

"Dean."

"What?"

"It was fantastic, I'm fine, and you're a fucking dumbass."

Dean can hear the smile in Sam's voice, and he can't keep from grinning lazily in response. "Yeah, that's what I hear." He trails his fingers down Sam's spine, tracing the vertebrae down to the dip of his lower back. "Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you feel about strap-ons?"

Sam lifts his head and gives Dean a quizzical glance. "Dude, why the hell would we need a strap-on?"

And Dean thinks about how amazing Sam would look spread for some chick, how incredibly fucking hot it would be to be fucking Sam's mouth, fisting his hands in Sam's hair and staring into Sam's eyes while a girl with a pastel fake cock slams into Sam's ass, and he's completely unprepared for the sudden stab of white-hot jealousy that lances through his chest. His fingers unconsciously dig into Sam's back.

Sam frowns. "Dean?"

Unclenching his hand and drawing apologetic little circles on Sam's skin instead, Dean smiles reassuringly. "No reason."

Eyes narrowing, Sam looks at him suspiciously. "Dean."

"Seriously, Sam, it's nothing. Forget I said it."

"Hmm." Sam settles back against Dean's chest. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were thinking about me getting pegged."

"That's, uh." Dean sputters, choking on the laughter that suddenly wells up in his chest. God, it's almost frightening how little room Dean's got for bullshit where Sam is concerned. "Like I'd share your ass with some girl."

Sam shifts, palming Dean's dick lightly through his shorts. "Real thing's better, anyway."

What, Dean thinks. "What?"

And he can feel Sam's smirk against his skin, feel the delighted curve of the bastard's lips when he says, "G'night, Dean," and refuses to say another word no matter how much Dean pokes and prods and threatens him.

"Asshole," Dean says eventually, giving up, and they fall asleep still tangled up in one another, Dean's hand curled possessively over the back of Sam's neck.

-

A/N: The ghoul shit came from AD&D. I feel dirty for admitting that, because I think that's the only thing that can possibly make an activity like this even nerdier and less socially acceptable. But hey, porn. :)

Feedback is the Sam to my Dean, people.