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moragmacpherson ([personal profile] moragmacpherson) wrote2010-12-23 03:06 am
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Fic: The Many Forms of Comfort (NC-17, Sam/Dean)

[livejournal.com profile] dragonspell  is totally to blame for this... well, her and many others.  You'll have to check the author's notes to see who else is to blame.... err, I mean, who else I have to thank for this actually getting posted.

Title: The Many Forms of Comfort
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~3,900
Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke and the CW and their associated corporate identities
Genre: Wincest, Slash, PWP
Contents include: See above, hurt/comfort elements, wrist!kink like whoa, and oral sex
Timeline: Jump the Shark (4.19)
Author's Notes: So, [livejournal.com profile] dragonspell  dared me to write porn and then [livejournal.com profile] callowyn  and [livejournal.com profile] viridian_magpie and [livejournal.com profile] clwright2 and the rest of the harem started corrupting me and this is what came out.  I honestly can't thank them enough for guiding me into my first foray into the PRONZ.  There honestly aren't thanks enough or words enough to express my love for them, and I'm sure there are folks whom I'm forgetting - let me know, so I can give you credit (whether you really want it or not, hee!) 
Summary: Dean and Sam find comfort in each other following the events of Jump the Shark (4.19)

"Goddamn ghouls," Dean curses as the bandages on Sam's forearms soak through with blood yet again.

It's been hours and the bleeding still hasn’t stopped, the skin of Sam's arms too sensitive for stitches; Sam whimpers like an infant every time Dean tries touching a needle to his arm. Dean's too worried about how much blood Sam has already lost to make fun of him for being such a girl. Sam's in the bathtub, still in his boxers despite the water sloshing around him. Dean's draining the water as it cools and refilling it with hot every half hour.

Dean works his way up Sam's arm, replacing the gauze pads that have soaked through before binding them down tight with more bandages—nothing adhesive, nothing that would reopen the wounds. He pours Sam another glass of orange juice to sip through a straw before he starts on the other arm. Between dressings, his brother's huge gorilla arms rest limp on towels along the sides of the claw-footed tub.

"Gotta piss from drinkin' all this juice," slurs Sam after the third repetition of the cycle, his head struggling to lift up from the washcloth pillow where it lays. “Ge’ out.”

Dean presses his hand flat against his brother's bare sternum. "Easy there, tiger. Just do it where you are—water's about ready for a change anyway."

Sam's head lolls over towards Dean and he only opens one eye to glare at him. "'M not pissin' in the tub," he says, stubborn and bitchy even when he's down at least a quart of blood.

"Never stopped you when you were a kid. Almost got me in the eye a couple of times." Dean chuckles, but all he gets from Sam is a petulant snort and head shake. "You want to do it in the toilet like a big boy, you're gonna have to let me help."

"C'n do it by m'self, Dean," Sam huffs, his arms slowly rising, but Dean wraps his hands around both of Sam's biceps before Sam can move more than an inch or two.

"Dammit, Sam, stay still!" Dean growls. Sam submits, for once in his life, and what more evidence does Dean need that Sam's half out of his mind from the blood loss? "You're not doing anything that might open those cuts back up, you hear me? Now hold your horses for one damn second." Sam nods his grudging assent, and Dean pulls the plug so the lukewarm pink-tinged water can drain.

Dean ponders for a few seconds before crouching behind his brother and wrapping his arms around Sammy's chest—shit, why did his brother have to get so damn huge? "C'mon, Sasquatch. Don’t use your arms, but push up with your legs, would ya?"

Sam complies and between the two of them they're able to get him up and out of the tub. Which is when Dean realizes that his work is never done, because Sam's still helpless, dripping and shivering in front of the toilet. Sam looks at his pale arms, fresh patches of blood already seeping through bandages Dean just changed, and makes a choked sound that's the closest he'll come to begging when there aren't lives at stake.

Dean stands steady behind him. "Yeah, I gotcha, man, just keep your arms up, okay, and turn around?" Sam obediently shuffles in a circle, then slumps against Dean’s chest, panting.

The last time Dean had to help his brother use the toilet, Sam couldn't have been older than six. Dean holds onto that memory as he holds Sam up, because that at least is familiar territory, whereas the much larger package—

And Dean's so not finishing that thought. He hugs Sam's chest tighter with one hand while he raises the lid on the toilet with a foot. "You're gonna have to give in to your inner chick for this one, Sammy," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes as he sits down, but there’s gratitude there, and the slightest hint of relief. Dean's relieved too—he really doesn't need two-hundred-some pounds of Sam fainting on top of him. While Sam slumps into a seated position, Dean catches his fingers under the elastic of Sam's boxers and pulls the clingy fabric all the the way down Sam's muscled calves, past his freakishly long toes—kid's like a monkey—and off, keeping his eyes averted. If Dean catches a glimpse of more than a brother should see, then it's an accident and these things happen.

Dean coughs and turns to head out the door. "Just—give me a holler when you're done." He doesn't wait for a reply before swinging the door of the bathroom shut and knocking his head against it. He's not listening closely, not at all, and when he opens his eyes and looks down, he's definitely still not holding Sam's underwear clenched in one fist.

That was two weeks ago.

This morning Dean's sitting on Sam’s bed, unwrapping gauze bandages one last time. There are no more brown blotches marring the cotton, the thin lines stretching along the inside of his brother's arms still red but no longer swollen and puckered. It's a quick heal, even for Sam. Dean doesn’t want to think about why that might be.

Of course, it probably helps that Sam got Dad's skin, a tough olive-gold hide that heals near-flawlessly. Not like the pale freckled skin that Mom bequeathed to Dean, with its long memory for every scrape, slash, and puncture—the angels may have freshened the canvas, but Dean's skin is already pocked with scars and a crooked finger or two. Pretty soon Dean will hardly be able to make out the cuts that nearly killed Sam. For now, he can run his callused fingers along the baby-soft skin with strokes that make Sam moan happily in his sleep, a pleased smile softening the tension of the last few months. Dean catches himself smiling in return. No matter what else is going on, the sight of this—his brother, healthy and whole—means that Dean's doing something right in this world.

He slides his thumb up Sam's arm one more time, just to prove the reality to himself, the perfect skin too tempting to resist one last caress, when Dean finds his own wrist caught in an iron-tight grip. Before he can react, Sam rolls them both over. Dean catches his breath and goes to pull Sam off, but then Sam presses his hips down against Dean's.

"The hell—Sam, it’s me!" Sam has both of Dean’s wrists pinned to the bed, pressing down so Dean can’t move. He's grinning.

“Sam,” Dean warns, and if his voice is a little shaky, that’s because he’s surprised.

Then, just to add insult to injury, Sam shifts both Dean’s wrists to his right hand and uses his free left hand to touch the stubble along Dean's jaw. "Forearms are an erogenous zone, you know," Sam says. He sounds like he’s teasing, I know something you don’t know, but there's something else, some kind of heat in the look that Sam's giving him. Then Sam rolls his hips again, and oh, so that's what the word erogenous means.

"If you ever watched Casa Erotica, Sammy, you’d know there’s a lot more exciting ones than your fucking wrists. Get off me." Dean tries to jerk his arms away, but Sam's not letting go and he's still fucking grinning, the heavy bastard. The grin quirks to the side as he moves to push back on Dean's right arm.

"C’mon, Dean, don’t tell me none of your girls have done this," Sam murmurs, running the backs of his fingers up and down Dean's exposed forearms. The caresses send shivers and sparks and other un-brotherly sensations through the rest of Dean's body, and Dean can’t stifle a gasp.

Sam leans his head down to lightly nip at Dean's earlobe. "Not just girls, either, am I right?"

Little bastard has always been too observant for his own good. Dean groans as Sam licks his way down Dean's neck. "Dammit, Sam, cut it out. This isn’t funny." He shoves his hips up, and boy is that a mistake, because not only does he fail to throw Sam off of him, he also pushes his own traitorous dick into the warm groove between Sam's leg and hip. Sam presses back down against him, and his brother's sure as hell not six years old anymore to judge by the feel of the firm—"Fuck, Sam!"

Sam smirks. "That’s the idea."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, arms still pinned uselessly over the pillow. "Dude, I've been dosing you with Vicodin for the last two weeks. Let’s just—let you get the drugs out of your system, and—" Sam shuts him up by pressing his left wrist into Dean's open mouth.

He brushes his arm between Dean's lips, wrist to elbow and back, hissing when Dean can’t help but trail his tongue along the healed flesh. After he reaches the wrist again, Sam pulls his arm away, displaying the slick skin to Dean. In the shine from the light overhead, Dean can’t even see the scar.

"See? All better,” Sam says. “I’m not gonna split at the seams. Relax."

Dean huffs out a laugh, weak and too-breathy. "Like I can relax when you're sitting on top of me, Gigantor.” He shifts, careful not to brush any important parts together. “Now get off me, would ya?"

Sam's eyes narrow and darken. “I think you’re missing my point, Dean.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Dean mutters. He tugs at his wrists again—this is pathetic, Sam is using one hand—but it’s still useless.

"You're not going to admit it? Fine." Sam ducks his head down and runs his tongue up and down the inside of Dean's arm—and damn is that wrong, so very, very wrong, but he can't deny that it feels amazing. Sam pulls back and breathes words over the damp skin. "You must’ve noticed I don’t exactly mind you seeing me naked."

Dean has noticed how inappropriately comfortable he is with seeing Sam naked, but that wasn’t—they’re brothers, and Dean’s fucked in the head; Sam’s not supposed to be thinking this way too.

The sheets bunch up around Dean’s shoulders when he tries to shrug. "Small spaces, shit happens. It’s like a locker room, that’s all. We’re all dudes here and blah blah blah."

Sam pulls his hips away, his thumb tenderly stroking the inside of Dean's wrists. Dean hates himself for missing the warmth. "Was this the kind of thing you did in locker rooms, Dean?” He leans in, runs his mouth along Dean’s jaw. “How about this?”

Dean moves his hips up without meaning to. “Not exactly,” he rasps. Sam pulls away, studies Dean’s face, and Dean’s ready for another assault on his forearms (or hell, even a hickey), but instead Sam ducks his head and gives him a quick peck on the lips.

To his absolute humiliation, Dean feels himself blush, but Sam's smiling again. "Glad to hear it."

Sam's free hand drops down to Dean's side and slides under the t-shirt Dean had been sleeping in. Sam knows damn well Dean is ticklish, and Dean struggles not to squirm as Sam’s long fingers brush across his stomach. Sam’s looking at him with as much focus as he’s ever given a ritual or ancient textbook, and Dean can’t help but soak it up; he thinks he’s been waiting for this, just Sam looking at him like this, since he got out of Hell. Maybe his whole life. "Let me take care of you," Sam whispers.

Dean's breath hitches when Sam tweaks a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "I can take care of myself just fine, Sammy," he says. “Not your job.”

"Been taking care of yourself since Anna, haven't you?” Sam strokes his fingers along a particularly ticklish rib and Dean can't help but arch up. “No, wait. Phil from Sales, back in Ohio. Eighth floor men's bathroom at Sanford.” He laughs. “Man, you can't keep your hands to yourself even when your memories are gone." Before Dean can protest that it wasn’t really him, and you weren’t supposed to know about that, dammit, Sam licks a hot line across his bottom lip. "I know all of your excuses, Dean, and I'm bored with them."

This time when Sam bends down to kiss Dean's lips, Dean catches Sam's lower lip between his teeth and bites down, hard. But Sam just smirks and tightens his grip on Dean's wrist, and it's Dean who yelps, "Ow!" releasing Sam's lip so that he can prop himself back up and look down at Dean.

Dean’s wrists hurt, and he’s been turned on since he first touched Sam’s skin, and his head is a jumble of can’t and please and Sam. "Incest is just an excuse now?" he spits. The word burns coming out.

Sam rolls his hips down again and Dean bites back a groan while Sam chuckles. "Yeah, about that. You feel that thing down there that tells me just how into this you are?"

“Hnng,” replies Dean.

"Means you're not a chick."

"You're damn right I'm not a chick," Dean replies reflexively, then groans when Sam’s cock drags along his through the thin layer of fabric.

"So, not-a-chick, I think we can forget about producing disfigured offspring, don’t you?" And now Sam's freakishly long toes are getting into the act too, wriggling against Dean's calf in a way that shouldn't be seductive at all but somehow is.

"Doesn't—Sam!—doesn’t make it right. There's a reason brother-fucking's against the law."

"So's cock-sucking, in Ohio. Right there in the sodomy statutes they've never taken off the books. But that's never stopped you." Sam nibbles up Dean's jaw and Dean's done, he's just fucking done. "You like getting your cock sucked, don't you?" Dean can't do anything but groan, and Sam takes the opportunity to kiss him again. This time Dean responds: ten years of denial is one thing, but resisting a Sam who’s biting Dean’s lips and wearing nothing but boxers goes so far beyond that, it’s fucked-up even for them. And their lives definitely are fucked up, because there's no way that Dean should know what a good kisser his little brother is, mouth and tongue as possessive and demanding as how, oh yeah, Dean still can’t move his arms. Dean's panting when Sam pulls away, lips swollen and spit-slick from their kisses.

"If I let go, are you going to stay put?" Sam's thighs tighten around Dean's hips to remind him that Sam's not just holding him by the wrists. But then, Sam’s got him more ways than Dean can count. Dean meets his brother's hooded gaze and nods.

Finally, Sam lets go of Dean's wrists, and Dean has to fight the urge to rub his hands together to restore his circulation. Sam drags Dean's t-shirt up and off his body, mussing Dean’s hair, and pushes Dean flat again when Dean grumbles. Dean falls back on the mattress with a thud and then Sam's massive hands are everywhere, running up and down Dean's body, his mouth and tongue covering what little ground his hands miss.

Dean's just about to grab at Sam's too-long hair and show him how real men kiss when his brother once again snags both Dean's wrists in his right hand this time pinned to his sternum. Dean makes a bitchface to rival Sam’s best. "Dammit, Sam, I'm not going anywhere, all right?"

"Oh, I know," Sam mumbles into Dean's navel. "I just like the way you get when I've got you trapped like this." Sam ducks his head down further, rubs his nose along Dean's cock through thin cotton. "And I think you like it too.”

Sam's still gotta be high on Vicodin if he thinks there's a chance in hell of Dean admitting to that. "Toppy fucker, aren't you?"

And Sam's a fucking cheater, is what he is, because he doesn't reply. Instead he tightens his hold on Dean's wrists, scraping his teeth over the skin of Dean's hipbone and dragging down the elastic of Dean's boxers. Dean tells himself it's the way the fabric slides over the head of his cock, pulling his hard dick down with it, that makes him moan - not the sensation of being held down, controlled, by the one person he could even think about trusting.

Dean's not into that kind of shit, dammit. Damn Sam's control issues and goddamn that stupid cocky grin he's wearing. "You just gonna stare at it or what?" Dean demands, and if his voice is a little uneven, well, who can blame him?

Only Sam could have a face that's the picture of innocence while he's fluttering his fingers up and down Dean's now painfully hard dick. "Gave you a pretty good show the other night," he says, and he’s still staring. “Fair’s fair.” Then he winks.

Oh, that is fucking it.

Sam might have pinned Dean's hands, but Dean's still got two good legs to work with. He hooks his foot around Sam's leg and runs it up Sam's thigh before flicking Sam's balls with his big toe. Sam's gasp makes the contortion totally worth it. "How’s that for fair, you—" Dean's retort dies in his throat when Sam ducks down and wraps his lips around Dean's cock.

This is wrong. This is very, very wrong. There is no way that anything that feels this good could possibly be right. And where the fuck did Sam learn how to do this shit? The thing he's doing with his tongue along the ridge of the head—"Sam, you little—dammit, Sammy—" Dean's writhing on the bed now, shaking with the effort of trying to free his hands from Sam's hold so that he can touch, can slow the eager pace Sam is setting or just hold on. Sam’s hand just grips tighter while his mouth sucks harder, pulling Dean's cock deeper inside. "Fuck!"

Dean's wheezing when Sam pulls off a few seconds later, feeling wrung out and desperate for more all at the same time. His reprieve is short-lived, though, when he lifts his head up enough to get a look at Sam's face. Sam's grinning again, licking his lips even though there's still some spit dripping off his chin—kid always was a sloppy eater—and, shit, next time Dean ends up in Hell he'll have gone for all the right reasons.

“Not bad,” Sam says. "I think I can take it."

"I think you took it," Dean slurs, flopping his head back and trying to remember how to breathe.

"Oh, not yet," says Sam, and then he licks a line from Dean's sac straight up to the tip of his dick.

Then he does it again. The leg Dean had wrapped around Sam's thigh slips back to the mattress, twitching with every lick. Dean curls his pinky finger around and down so that he can stroke the back of Sam's giant hand, still holding him in place. He tightens the hold his thighs have around Sam's broad shoulders and when Sam hums around his cock, Dean responds with his own moan.

Somehow in his haze of pleasure Dean finds one last untapped reservoir of guilt: no way is he gonna make his little brother swallow. "Sam, you gotta—I'm gonna," he says, and for once Sam listens, pulls off just in time because Dean's right there and Sam's gripping the base of his cock hard and—

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam pushes down a little harder, and just like that he's tugged Dean back from the edge. "You sadistic sonovabitch," Dean groans.

"No more sadistic than you. I know it got you off, taking care of me." Sam nips a trail of soft bites along Dean's inner thigh, rattling off a litany of inconveniently accurate observations. “Manhandling me around the bathroom. Stripping me down. Wouldn't even let me hold a fork to feed myself, I just had to sit there and take whatever you wanted to give me, open up whenever you said. Don’t tell me you didn’t like that, Dean." Dean frowns: it’s not like he enjoys seeing Sam on death's doorstep yet again.

Sam sighs, rolling Dean's balls in his hand. "You kept smiling, you know. It’s the same smile you get when you watch soap operas. The guilty one you get when you know you're enjoying something you really shouldn't." Sam wipes the last trace of spittle off of his chin with his finger before sucking it into his mouth, swiping it around his cheeks in an exaggerated gesture before pulling it out with a wet pop. "Watching you, all hot and bothered? Think I get it now. You’re even more gorgeous when you’re pinned under me." He leans closer, whispers in Dean’s ear. “Helpless.”

"'m not helpless," Dean protests, making another futile attempt to free his hands - Sam must have spent the summer squeezing the shit out of tennis balls or something, dude’s grip is strong.

Dean loses interest in the struggle almost at once, though, because Sam's sliding that spit-slick finger down over his balls and lower and then he's pushing it in and—"What was that, Dean?" Sam taunts as he curls his obscenely long finger inside Dean. “You planning to fight me off?” The intrusion feels strange, and Dean’s thinking about it for a moment before Sam finds the bump of Dean's prostate and—

"Okay!" Dean gasps. "Jesus, I give in, I give in, just—"

"Just what?" He can feel Sam's lips against the head of his cock, curling up in a smile.

"Please, Sammy," Dean begs, and it's a good thing he's not proud, because Sam closes his mouth around his dick again and it's fucking perfect. Sam's still stroking his prostate, not backing away and not pulling off, and if this is what Sam wants then Dean's happy to arch his hips and come down his brother's throat with a groan. Sam's talented tongue milks him through it.

A second or so before he's through, Sam lifts his head, and a few stray drops catch him on the chin and nose. Dean takes one look at his come dripping from Sam's face and then reality smacks him in the face. He should just leave, get out of here before he messes them up any worse, but his muscles are still blissed out and useless. "Christ, Sam, what did you just do?"

Sam releases Dean's hands and wipes his face off on Dean's discarded boxers before crawling up the bed next to Dean. "Nothing I haven't wanted to do for a long time," he says, nuzzling Dean's neck. When Sam kisses him, Dean can taste himself in his brother's mouth; how fucking weird is that?

Sam kisses him so thoroughly that he doesn't even object to being the little spoon, Sam's long body curling around his back, Sam's still-hard dick nestling between his ass cheeks. Oh.

"Sammy, let me..." Dean says, reaching for him, but Sam bats his hand away.

“Do I have to pin you down again?” Sam wraps his arms tighter around Dean. "Just relax for awhile, man. Get some rest," he grumbles. "You need it."

"You only pinned me 'cause I let you," Dean replies through a yawn, warm and safe in his brother's whole and healthy arms. “Bitch.”

Orgasms make Dean sleepy: Sam knows this. Which is probably why he waits until the last moment to add, "I'll get mine when you wake up." Dean is nearly asleep when he feels Sam kiss his cheek. “Jerk.”

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