SACRAMENT
Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester.
NC17. 1500 words.
Non-AU. Set in Season 11 (no spoilers).
kinks. come play, spanking, barebacking. manhandling. Written for spn_masquerade for this prompt.




“You were thinking about her again, weren’t you?”

Sam lays his marks over those the hunt left behind. Red, abraded skin bleeding into areas of mottled yellow and blue. Gorgeous in their careless damage. The evidence of yet another monster that thought it could outlast the Winchesters. If common sense ruled the supernatural, anything that goes bump in the night would clear out the moment Sam and Dean hit town.

Because there’s nothing too big, too terrifying, too dark for them to conquer. Sam’s known it since Dean conned Death himself into retrieving Sam’s soul. His brother, on the other hand, twists himself into knots like the most perverse kind of self-torture, and Sam hates it. When will Dean realize that the universe would sooner rewrite itself than let them lose?

It’s left to Sam to drive the point home. Literally.

“You think she has some kind of hold over you, Dean?”

Every word thrust home with a snap of Sam’s hips, skin over his thighs burning where he collides with the back of Dean’s legs. Inflicting further injury. Knees planted wide on the third-rate mattress, paper-thin sheets bunched and torn under Dean’s hands. Sam watches Dean’s ass flex and snap back, flesh bouncing each time he rocks forward. He flashes back to physics class, ripples and waves; Sam’s hips the wall they break against.

“She’s in your head because you let her in.”

Sam’s hiss licks across the back of Dean’s neck. Over skin that bears the imprint of his teeth. Sharp furrows and wet, pink patches where Sam was gentle, more patient, setting blunt teeth there to make a point. Little grooves turning dark as blood rushes to the surface of Dean’s skin.

Dean’s hair is damp behind his ears and at the base of his neck. Sweat and Sam’s saliva; he’d pinned Dean down on the sagging mattress and mouthed at the salty sweet skin, panted promises and threats until Dean went limp beneath him.

He’ll fuck Dean until his brother understands. Until it’s written into his muscle memory. Nothing can own Dean the way Sam does. he’s the source of Sam’s power, a well of family blood. Dean is his throne: a symbol, yet so much more.

“I’m the only one allowed inside you like that.”

He means like this, his cock claiming Dean from within. Somewhere the Darkness can’t reach. Dean can do nothing but take his lesson, unable to reach back or touch Sam without pitching forward, torture for a man like Dean, so dependent on tactile reassurance.

Dean’s moans are a foreign language only Sam can translate. Praise, want, desperation garbled together around repetitions of Sam’s name. He tried to stay quiet, muffling his cries against his arms, biting his wrist lest his own voice betray him. There’s no denying it; Dean wants this just as badly. He’d splayed himself out like an offering when Sam pushed him towards the bed. Fresh, pink hole begging to be left wrecked and messy, cock swaying between his soft, pale thighs.

Here in this anonymous motel room, Sam punishes Dean for his naivety. Slams home the idea that while Dean might let the Darkness consume him at times, his bounty is Sam’s. Here he’s rough and demanding. Soft and intimate is for the bunker. Home is sacred; this is anything but. This has nothing to do with any power, religion, or faith beyond what the Winchesters have built between themselves.

He’s what Dean needs, where he needs it.

“If this is what I have to do to make you see that, then you’re gonna take it. I know you can.”

Because Sam’s done this before. Left his fingerprints on Dean’s hips and his come inside his brother. Every time Dean looks at Sam with that ruined stare, when Sam can see the inky blackness creeping into his eyes. He drags Dean back to the latest in a lifetime of dirty rooms, puts him on his knees and fucks him. Presses in slow, slaps Dean’s ass when he tries to take too much, too quickly. Slaps him again just to see the outline of his palm on Dean’s skin. Bites Dean’s shoulder when he needs to ground himself in the familiar taste of his brother, the give of muscle under his teeth.

“You get it now, Dean? You’re supposed to come to me when it feels like too much.”

Not wait until he’s fully haunted by the visions she brings him. Until he’s so dazed from the lack of sleep that Sam can’t count on him to be by his side on the next hunt. Until the Darkness is in so deep, Sam can’t fuck her out of Dean’s mind.

“She can’t have you. You’re all mine.”

And he is. The blood, the bruises, the cuts that will scar and the ones that won’t. They all belong to Sam. Dean’s pleasure, his pain. That’s Sam’s, too. He knows that Dean wants it rough when they’re together under these circumstances. His brother folds willingly into Sam’s hands, bends into whatever shape Sam wants. On all fours with his ass bouncing against Sam’s thighs. Against the wall with his cheek leaving an impression in the drywall. On the floor with his back bearing the brunt of Sam’s rhythm.

“What’s it gonna take, Dean?”

Sam has yet to find the one trigger that will bring Dean down entirely. That will shield him from the Darkness permanently. That will bind him to Sam inextricably, no more secrets, no more hiding. If Sam could write his name across Dean’s back, he would. If there was a spell he could use, he would perform it. Bruises and teeth marks fade. Tattoos involve someone else’s hands on his brother’s skin. Sam wants something that will erase the boundary between them, until they’re one and the same in the eyes of any supernatural son of a bitch that takes a swing at them.

That’s when Sam sees it. Dean’s back, bare to his gaze. Beautiful for it’s flaws and discolorations. A testimony to what he’s endured, what Sam has given him. Touch, taste, scent: Sam has marked him in every way he knows how, except for one.

Sam’s orgasm is close. Trapped in an ass as exquisite as his brother’s, lasting any longer would be torture for both of them. Dean’s muscles squeeze and clamp around his cock, pure reflex in response to the way Sam is pounding into him.

Putting his weight on Dean’s back, Sam fists one hand in Dean’s hair, uses the other to hold Dean’s ass still. Slams into him even harder, until Dean’s sensitive skin is flashing red with every hit.

“You need to watch, Dean. I think you’re gonna like this.”

Pulling Dean’s head back until Sam can see his eyes, appreciating the way they’re not fully glazed over. Dean’s still with him, processing as much as he can through dueling sensations of pain and ecstasy. Sam forces him to watch as he pulls his cock out. He wants him to stare at the long, slick length that’s spent the last twenty minutes reaming him from the inside out, so red it’s nearly purple from the blood that makes him hard.

Sam shudders and bucks against Dean’s body, stroking himself to completion with one hand while the other remains anchored at the nape of Dean’s neck, prevents Dean from looking anywhere but at Sam’s cock. Dean’s mouth is wide open around gasped breaths, lips flush and fat from his own teeth. Sam wants to taste them. He imagines they’d be hot and sweet, maybe a hint of copper tang.

As his come paints an obscene landscape across the freckled and contused skin, Sam wants to say that this is one mark the Darkness can't take away. She can't make Dean forget the way his brother’s come felt on his back. But he can't speak, tongue held in check by the way Dean arches into the spray, moaning like he's being fucked all over again. His hole spasms around nothing, a cry Sam knows all too well falling from his swollen lips.

Dean’s just come without being touched. From nothing more than a truly well-fucked hole and the sensation of Sam’s come dripping down his spine. Sam's cock twitches in his grip, one last burst joining the mess on his brother’s skin.

By the time Sam finds his voice, Dean’s arms and knees have given out. He collapses on the bed and Sam is left looking at his wanton sprawl, his hole left puffy and gasping around nothing but air. The sight sends a powerful cascade of possessiveness through his body, the sensation nearly more powerful than his orgasm.

The room is rank with sweat and come, sheets shredded beyond recognition. Their bags are packed; Sam never planned on staying the night. He's got the keys already. Dean will let him drive this time.

Sam is unable to resist the urge to touch the abstract claim he’s made, fore and middle fingers drawing patterns with his come. Maybe Sam writes his own name in the mess. Maybe that’s why Dean shivers beneath his touch.

“You know it now, don't you? That I'm the one you're meant for. Not her, Dean. Never her.”

He hears the first coherent words Dean’s managed since they got back to the room.

“Only yours, Sammy.”


fin.