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spn: the evening splits in half (sam/dean; nc17)
And here is my second and last Blindfold fill, which is like the complete polar opposite of my other fill. Prompt: "Teen!Sam realizes he has a crush on his older brother and is horrified at himself for being such a freak. Cue all the sexually explicit fantasies that Sam jerks off too. Basically I just want desperate, pining, frustrated Sam. " Sam's 17 in this fic.
The Evening Splits in Half
SPN. Sam/Dean, in Sam's head. NC17. Warning: masturbation fantasies containing dubious consent.
"Sam has a catalog of images." ~1700 words
If it weren't for Dad, if it weren't for Dean, if it weren't for this crazy itinerant life where they do shit like pull him away from history homework because they need backup on a monster hunt, then maybe Sam wouldn't end up so fucked up. Dad veers wildly between neglect and breathing down their necks, and the whiplash only makes Sam cling tighter to Dean because at least Dean is stable, predictable in all ways. Dean will needle and taunt and staunch all bleeding and hold Sam close until help comes, and the next day he will give Sam shit for wanting to finish his homework instead of watching TV. Dean slakes Sam's thirst and feeds his hunger, and Sam is painfully aware of it the way all carriers of terrible secrets are aware of their sins. Everyday it's just Dean Dean Dean, an eyeful of him, a heartful of him, ubiquitous, omnipresent, a habit Sam cannot break. It makes Sam angry. It breaks Sam down with want.
It's a cool clear night and all sense of self-preservation goes out the window when the harpy tucks back its wings and makes a bee-line for Dean. It hurtles screeching through the air, and Sam runs full-tilt and knocks his brother out of the way. They both tumble on the dirt, head over heels, too appropriate of a metaphor, and when Sam ends up on top of Dean, his fists bunched in the ratty Metallica shirt, they are both breathing hard, fast. They are wild-eyed and high on adrenalin. Sam feels a second rush of instinct to bend down and press his mouth to Dean's, part his brother's lips with his tongue, but then a sudden horror seizes him and a voice in his head goes no no no. Keep it together, Winchester.
"My hero," is all Dean says, ruffling Sam's hair and grinning fondly. Sam wrenches away, blushing furiously.
A couple of days later, Dad's fucked off somewhere, shifty as usual, and Dean is out enjoying the thrills and chills of being newly twenty-one, so it's just Sam alone in the motel room and that's how he likes it these days. The monster in his heart has made him taciturn. His father called it "the teenage blues" and Dean called it "being a dickweed", and when he shoved Sam affectionately, Sam shoved back twice as hard, with what seemed like no affection.
"What'd I tell you?" Dad sighed, rolling his eyes at Dean in a commiserating sort of manner, and it made Sam want to punch something.
So yeah, tonight Sam has the motel room all to himself, so he is in the shower jerking off to thoughts he only recently admitted to having. All the times Dean has carelessly pulled off his t-shirt and Sam couldn't look away from golden skin and the contours of muscle, not because Dean was beautiful and therefore Sam loved him, but because Sam loved him and therefore found himself helplessly observant in the face of new desires, old loves taking new form. He would not be averse to pressing his palms against the wings of Dean's shoulder blades and bending down to taste the back of his neck.
Sam has a catalog of images: Dean shoving him against the wall and growling threateningly, Dean shoving him face-first against a wall and taking him, just taking him and taking him, Dean holding him down on an anonymous bed, hand on his chest, or maybe Sam's face-down and Dean's hand is on the back of his neck and he can't breathe. And Dean, right there, closer than he has ever been before, sliding in and out of him, sometimes rough, but sometimes slow as if meaning to punish Sam by prolonging the experience. The fantasies are comforting in their brutality, starring a Dean analogue who takes from Sam everything he is afraid to give. Sam jerks himself erratically and closes his eyes, imagining Dean holding him down and fucking him, imagines the smooth roll of his hips, grunting like porn stars do, saying, "Yeah, Sam, yeah," like he's the whore. The slap of flesh against flesh. The stuttered gasps they'd make. "You fucking love this, you fucked up shit," Dean says, because even in his fantasies, Sam needs the truth.
I'm a sick fucking freak, Sam thinks, and the words tumble out of Dean's mouth, fraught with venom and accusation as he pounds into Sam, who in these fantasies is always too overwhelmed to protest, afraid to voice anything that might betray his desire.
In real life, the furthest Sam has ever gone with anyone is a quick and particularly embarrassing trip to third base with Angela Foreman in her car, and he has no conception of what a dick might even feel like in his ass. He is too nervous to find out. More than Dean's dick, he wants Dean, the man himself, and the permission to wrap himself around his brother and explore in body what Sam already knows in spirit. But these feelings are too sincere, so Sam doesn't think of them when it's time to jerk off. He hides them behind these baser, punitive tales, primal in their predictability, recognizable in their lust and fear of lust.
The scenario changes. Dean holds Sam to him back to front, Sam's back against Dean's front, and Dean's touching him, hissing in his ear all the things Sam needs to hear. "This what you want, Sammy?" with his hand down Sam's pants, loose-fingered and teasing, moving slow and steady as Dean laughs huskily in his ear. "I always knew you were fucked up," he says, and bites Sam's earlobe, sucks a kiss onto the side of his neck as if meaning to draw blood.
Sam, alone in the shower and steam of the bathroom, bites his lip and groans.
Dean's other hand slides up under Sam's shirt, and his touch is so warm, smoother than something like this has any right to be. He pinches a nipple and tugs, and Sam makes a broken sound, curses as Dean chuckles. "So fucking easy," Dean murmurs, and mouths at Sam's neck, all hot breaths, a slow warm tongue, and Sam tilts his head to him and Dean obliges: he kisses Sam, and Sam is lost in it, lost in the rhythm of Dean's hand between his legs, faster now and rough and unrelenting. His brother is everywhere around him, dismantling him.
"Sam," Dean says against his mouth.
Sam comes. He bites his lip and tries to not make a sound.
He finishes his shower as if in a daze, orbiting himself in a disconnected haze. He tries to keep his mind blank until his heart rate returns to normal, but little bits keep slipping in – the imagined softness of Dean's lips, a voice twisted low and rough by lust. The way Dean might look at him if he felt the same way. (Might he? Could he? The potential answers are terrifying, and Sam never lingers on the question for very long.)
This was not a desire that used to consume him so, but the more Sam became aware of his proclivities, the bigger and faster they grew inside him, fertilized by fear and guilt. Are you happy now? he sometimes wants to ask of his life at the zenith of self-loathing. Fine, Dean, family comes first. Fine, Dad, family is all I have. Fine, this is all I can be. I get it. Are you happy?
Sam sits on the bed and tries to finish his math homework, but his mind wanders to dramatic scenarios that force confessions, tipping points where he can say to his brother, They've taken everything else. You're the only one I have. The world Sam inhabits is small, and he both fears and hopes that it is all he needs. It makes him bleed. It patches him up. It raises him, then cuts him down. It opens his eyes to a wider world unknown to most people, then takes away all exits.
Perhaps there is such a thing as destiny, that it's all meant to be this way.
"We're heroes, Sam," Dean is fond of saying, and every time he'd smile that sweet and open smile. Hunting is the one thing Dean isn't cynical about, and that smile discombobulates Sam every time.
Sam has a catalog of images, a list of what he really wants. Fucking is convenient shorthand, but mostly he wants to strip himself and his brother naked and explore, discover the body's triggers and tastes. You have caught so many of my sins, now catch this too. He wants to see the shirt pulled up, revealing Dean's stomach inch by inch. You're the only one I know, so let's know this too. He wants to see Dean's head tipped back, eyes closed, mouth open with silent pleasure. He wants to kiss his jaw and feel the prickle of stubble. The feel of Dean's neck against his cheek, pulse point beating against his skin.
Fuck this shit. Sam can't do homework like this.
When Dean comes home later, Sam is in the shower again and he ceases all movement to focus on the sound of his brother stumbling drunkenly in the motel room. A few seconds later, there is a sharp rap on the door.
"You in there?" Dean hollers.
"Dude, I'm showering!" Sam yells back, even though he is finished here. He turns off the water, steps out of the tub, and grabs a towel from the rack.
"Okay, just checking," he says, and then to Sam's surprise, he hears Dean stumble away. There is the creak of bedsprings like someone collapsing on a bed.
He stays in the bathroom long enough for Dean to fall asleep. It seems easier that way.
What are you going to do with yourself, Sam Winchester?
He cringes when the bathroom door creaks upon opening, but Dean is snoring softly on the bed, dead to the world. Sam crosses the room to the other bed, picks up the mess of papers that is his homework, and goes to the rickety desk in the corner, where he turns on the table lamp. He turns off the room lights, and glances at Dean, a silhouette in the shadows.
The feel of Dean's neck against his cheek, pulse point beating against his--
Sam sits at the desk and does his work.
The Evening Splits in Half
SPN. Sam/Dean, in Sam's head. NC17. Warning: masturbation fantasies containing dubious consent.
"Sam has a catalog of images." ~1700 words
If it weren't for Dad, if it weren't for Dean, if it weren't for this crazy itinerant life where they do shit like pull him away from history homework because they need backup on a monster hunt, then maybe Sam wouldn't end up so fucked up. Dad veers wildly between neglect and breathing down their necks, and the whiplash only makes Sam cling tighter to Dean because at least Dean is stable, predictable in all ways. Dean will needle and taunt and staunch all bleeding and hold Sam close until help comes, and the next day he will give Sam shit for wanting to finish his homework instead of watching TV. Dean slakes Sam's thirst and feeds his hunger, and Sam is painfully aware of it the way all carriers of terrible secrets are aware of their sins. Everyday it's just Dean Dean Dean, an eyeful of him, a heartful of him, ubiquitous, omnipresent, a habit Sam cannot break. It makes Sam angry. It breaks Sam down with want.
It's a cool clear night and all sense of self-preservation goes out the window when the harpy tucks back its wings and makes a bee-line for Dean. It hurtles screeching through the air, and Sam runs full-tilt and knocks his brother out of the way. They both tumble on the dirt, head over heels, too appropriate of a metaphor, and when Sam ends up on top of Dean, his fists bunched in the ratty Metallica shirt, they are both breathing hard, fast. They are wild-eyed and high on adrenalin. Sam feels a second rush of instinct to bend down and press his mouth to Dean's, part his brother's lips with his tongue, but then a sudden horror seizes him and a voice in his head goes no no no. Keep it together, Winchester.
"My hero," is all Dean says, ruffling Sam's hair and grinning fondly. Sam wrenches away, blushing furiously.
A couple of days later, Dad's fucked off somewhere, shifty as usual, and Dean is out enjoying the thrills and chills of being newly twenty-one, so it's just Sam alone in the motel room and that's how he likes it these days. The monster in his heart has made him taciturn. His father called it "the teenage blues" and Dean called it "being a dickweed", and when he shoved Sam affectionately, Sam shoved back twice as hard, with what seemed like no affection.
"What'd I tell you?" Dad sighed, rolling his eyes at Dean in a commiserating sort of manner, and it made Sam want to punch something.
So yeah, tonight Sam has the motel room all to himself, so he is in the shower jerking off to thoughts he only recently admitted to having. All the times Dean has carelessly pulled off his t-shirt and Sam couldn't look away from golden skin and the contours of muscle, not because Dean was beautiful and therefore Sam loved him, but because Sam loved him and therefore found himself helplessly observant in the face of new desires, old loves taking new form. He would not be averse to pressing his palms against the wings of Dean's shoulder blades and bending down to taste the back of his neck.
Sam has a catalog of images: Dean shoving him against the wall and growling threateningly, Dean shoving him face-first against a wall and taking him, just taking him and taking him, Dean holding him down on an anonymous bed, hand on his chest, or maybe Sam's face-down and Dean's hand is on the back of his neck and he can't breathe. And Dean, right there, closer than he has ever been before, sliding in and out of him, sometimes rough, but sometimes slow as if meaning to punish Sam by prolonging the experience. The fantasies are comforting in their brutality, starring a Dean analogue who takes from Sam everything he is afraid to give. Sam jerks himself erratically and closes his eyes, imagining Dean holding him down and fucking him, imagines the smooth roll of his hips, grunting like porn stars do, saying, "Yeah, Sam, yeah," like he's the whore. The slap of flesh against flesh. The stuttered gasps they'd make. "You fucking love this, you fucked up shit," Dean says, because even in his fantasies, Sam needs the truth.
I'm a sick fucking freak, Sam thinks, and the words tumble out of Dean's mouth, fraught with venom and accusation as he pounds into Sam, who in these fantasies is always too overwhelmed to protest, afraid to voice anything that might betray his desire.
In real life, the furthest Sam has ever gone with anyone is a quick and particularly embarrassing trip to third base with Angela Foreman in her car, and he has no conception of what a dick might even feel like in his ass. He is too nervous to find out. More than Dean's dick, he wants Dean, the man himself, and the permission to wrap himself around his brother and explore in body what Sam already knows in spirit. But these feelings are too sincere, so Sam doesn't think of them when it's time to jerk off. He hides them behind these baser, punitive tales, primal in their predictability, recognizable in their lust and fear of lust.
The scenario changes. Dean holds Sam to him back to front, Sam's back against Dean's front, and Dean's touching him, hissing in his ear all the things Sam needs to hear. "This what you want, Sammy?" with his hand down Sam's pants, loose-fingered and teasing, moving slow and steady as Dean laughs huskily in his ear. "I always knew you were fucked up," he says, and bites Sam's earlobe, sucks a kiss onto the side of his neck as if meaning to draw blood.
Sam, alone in the shower and steam of the bathroom, bites his lip and groans.
Dean's other hand slides up under Sam's shirt, and his touch is so warm, smoother than something like this has any right to be. He pinches a nipple and tugs, and Sam makes a broken sound, curses as Dean chuckles. "So fucking easy," Dean murmurs, and mouths at Sam's neck, all hot breaths, a slow warm tongue, and Sam tilts his head to him and Dean obliges: he kisses Sam, and Sam is lost in it, lost in the rhythm of Dean's hand between his legs, faster now and rough and unrelenting. His brother is everywhere around him, dismantling him.
"Sam," Dean says against his mouth.
Sam comes. He bites his lip and tries to not make a sound.
He finishes his shower as if in a daze, orbiting himself in a disconnected haze. He tries to keep his mind blank until his heart rate returns to normal, but little bits keep slipping in – the imagined softness of Dean's lips, a voice twisted low and rough by lust. The way Dean might look at him if he felt the same way. (Might he? Could he? The potential answers are terrifying, and Sam never lingers on the question for very long.)
This was not a desire that used to consume him so, but the more Sam became aware of his proclivities, the bigger and faster they grew inside him, fertilized by fear and guilt. Are you happy now? he sometimes wants to ask of his life at the zenith of self-loathing. Fine, Dean, family comes first. Fine, Dad, family is all I have. Fine, this is all I can be. I get it. Are you happy?
Sam sits on the bed and tries to finish his math homework, but his mind wanders to dramatic scenarios that force confessions, tipping points where he can say to his brother, They've taken everything else. You're the only one I have. The world Sam inhabits is small, and he both fears and hopes that it is all he needs. It makes him bleed. It patches him up. It raises him, then cuts him down. It opens his eyes to a wider world unknown to most people, then takes away all exits.
Perhaps there is such a thing as destiny, that it's all meant to be this way.
"We're heroes, Sam," Dean is fond of saying, and every time he'd smile that sweet and open smile. Hunting is the one thing Dean isn't cynical about, and that smile discombobulates Sam every time.
Sam has a catalog of images, a list of what he really wants. Fucking is convenient shorthand, but mostly he wants to strip himself and his brother naked and explore, discover the body's triggers and tastes. You have caught so many of my sins, now catch this too. He wants to see the shirt pulled up, revealing Dean's stomach inch by inch. You're the only one I know, so let's know this too. He wants to see Dean's head tipped back, eyes closed, mouth open with silent pleasure. He wants to kiss his jaw and feel the prickle of stubble. The feel of Dean's neck against his cheek, pulse point beating against his skin.
Fuck this shit. Sam can't do homework like this.
When Dean comes home later, Sam is in the shower again and he ceases all movement to focus on the sound of his brother stumbling drunkenly in the motel room. A few seconds later, there is a sharp rap on the door.
"You in there?" Dean hollers.
"Dude, I'm showering!" Sam yells back, even though he is finished here. He turns off the water, steps out of the tub, and grabs a towel from the rack.
"Okay, just checking," he says, and then to Sam's surprise, he hears Dean stumble away. There is the creak of bedsprings like someone collapsing on a bed.
He stays in the bathroom long enough for Dean to fall asleep. It seems easier that way.
What are you going to do with yourself, Sam Winchester?
He cringes when the bathroom door creaks upon opening, but Dean is snoring softly on the bed, dead to the world. Sam crosses the room to the other bed, picks up the mess of papers that is his homework, and goes to the rickety desk in the corner, where he turns on the table lamp. He turns off the room lights, and glances at Dean, a silhouette in the shadows.
The feel of Dean's neck against his cheek, pulse point beating against his--
Sam sits at the desk and does his work.