[FIC] No Monster Here for SMPC

[alexisjane]

Title - No Monster Here
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - NC-17
Word count - 2295 words
Warnings - Um...just Wincest, I think.
A/N - For smpc. Beta'd by the wonderful majestic_duxk. Any remaining mistakes are mine. A thank you for wings128 for taking time out of her big project to help me with mine...and a bit of an early birthday present : ) xx

On AO3


This started as a comment fic.

wings128 posted this picture...



...and said...

This could be a no-tell-motel shower, couldn't it?
Although the water pressure looks too good.
Do I see the glint of a Winchesterly wedding band?
Someone will write me fic, won't they? ♥


So, I said...


Ooooo, like the boys having to pretend they're married on a case, but Dean really suffering, not just with the usual guilt about how he feels about his brother, but that Sam seems to be totally comfortable with holding his hand, pecking quick chaste kisses to Dean's stubble, and all the loving, heated looks that are tearing Dean up inside.



He feels like he's dying. The Hell Hound kind, not the shotgun-to-the-chest kind. A shotgun to the chest would be a mercy right now. Anything rather than spend another night feeling Sam's body heat caressing him under the covers, and hating himself for longing that it was something more corporeal.

So, he stands there in the wet-room, hoping that the steaming water will somehow wash the wrongness out of him, his fingertips squeaking on the wet tile as he grips on, and tries not to break. He knows he can't stay in there all night, but there's a king size bed, and a truckload of guilt waiting for him in the other room, so just a few minutes more.

He doesn't realize Sam is right next to him, not until he hears the spray break wrong. He spins around, horrified that his feelings must be written all over his face, naked under his brother’s gaze in every way. Except Sam doesn't take a swing, or laugh it off. Dean can see him sway slightly under the weight of the half bottle of whiskey he was saving, that's probably empty on the hotel room floor now. The cascade of water bleeds sodden black patches into Sam's jeans and t-shirt. Dean watches, paralyzed with fear, as Sam reaches out and tenderly takes Dean's hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses the gold band.

Looking down at it sadly, Sam's voice is barely a whisper above the hiss of the shower echoing in the small room. "I wish it was real. I'm sorry. I am. But I wish that you wanted it too."

Dean can see the tears in Sam's eyes even through the water cascading down his face. He knows them that well. Sam starts to turn to leave but Dean steps forward, stopping him with a hand on his cheek. "Sometimes wishes come true, Sammy. You just have to ask."

Sam shakes his head, his face scrunches up and he looks hurt, like Dean is playing some brutal joke. He tries to pull away but Dean grabs him by the wrist. Sam relents, bemused in drunken disbelief; lets his brother pull his arm up; lets him splay open his fingers and press his lips to the gold band on his own hand. "It can be real. It can be real, if we want it to be, Sammy."

Sam sobs then. Not just with a sound but with his whole body. He practically collapses against Dean, wrapping his huge arms around his brother's shoulders. Dean clings to him, one foot slipping slightly against the wet floor. He runs his hand through Sam's half-wet hair, and whispers, "It's okay Sammy. I got you," over and over, as Sam frantically kisses his throat and face, almost biting the desperate, whispered, "I love you"s, into his skin.

Dean's hands play over the muscles of Sam's shoulders, running down to the small of his back and up again to hang on the thick biceps crowding him. He knows he's getting hard, he feels the rough pressure from Sam's fly as his cock moves of it's own accord, and he groans at the freedom to not have to will it away, not have to think of Bobby in a jockstrap on a hot summers day to kill his inappropriate boner.

It's still inappropriate, same as it was when Sam's growth spurt at sixteen transformed him from a lanky kid into...something. Dean still isn't sure what it was, but he noticed.

The groan he gets in response snaps him back to reality. Sam cants his hips and Dean sees stars. It's all he ever wanted. Except.

"Sam. Wait. Stop."

Sam jerks back, with the same expression on his face that he'd had when he was five and Dean caught him eating all the marshmallow bits straight out of the cereal box. Dean smiles, and rubs his thumb deep into the muscle of Sam's cheek. "Not here."

Sam is pliant when Dean strips him of his wet clothes. It's not the first occasion Dean's had to do it, but this time, it's different. Sam watches him reverently, like Dean is washing his feet, or raising the dead. He steps obediently from the wet jeans that Dean had to wrestle down his long, downy thighs, and lets Dean lead him by the hand to stand by their bed.

Dean towels Sam down first, blotting carefully at his neck and chest and everywhere. When he's satisfied, he nods to the bed and Sam crawls under the covers without taking his eyes off his brother. He watches, silent and still, as Dean dries himself down in sharp, rough strokes, rubbing violently at his hair, like he can bully it into drying off. When he's done, Dean sighs, throws the towel onto the back of a chair, and drops down in slow motion to the space where Sam has pushed the covers back.

They lie on their respective pillows, faces close, breathing in each other's out breaths. Sam tentatively lays his hand on Dean's chest. Dean breathes deep, covering it with his own, then uses his other hand to tip Sam's chin up so he can look in his eyes.

"I need you to hear me, Sam. Are you listening? I don't want you to get me wrong...I want this. Want you. Christ, for so long I've wanted – But I'm still your brother and I have to look out for you. And right now, you are in no fit state to be...doing...making any decisions. I don't want to be second-guessing myself here, Sammy. Please...we need to wait...I...I need to know that –"

Sam's hand drifts away from Dean's chest as he speaks, something like sadness sweeping over his features. Sam's eyes drift too, from Dean's eyes to his lips. Very slowly, Sam leans in, his tongue flicking out once before he makes contact. It's soft, and so unsure; it makes Dean want to scream out. He parts his lips, thinking that he can have this one thing, can deepen the kiss, pull Sammy into him, and kiss him until they are gasping for air, but Sam is already pulling back.

Dean panics a little, but then Sam curls up against him, arms snaking around his waist, Sam's head pillowing onto the spot where his hand had been, murmuring, "Tell me you love me, at least, Dean, so I have something 'til morning."

Dean felt tears sting his eyes, the sensation confusing the hell out of him. It seems wrong to feel that alongside the swell of happiness in his chest. Still, he kisses the messy mop at his throat, and says quietly, "I love you, Sammy," although Sam is already breathing slow and steady and probably never heard it at all.

~•~

Dean wakes to the rhythmic sound of shallow breaths. As consciousness creeps in, he realizes that the sound isn't the only thing moving to the tempo. It's not the first time he's woken up with Sam wrapped around him, morning wood insistent against his thigh or backside. They never talked about it, never mentioned it. Maybe if one of them had, then they could have been at this point a lot sooner. This point, being Sam rutting his erection between the cheeks of Dean's ass.

The rocking is strangely comforting, especially with Sam's arms around him and the moisture from his breath making a hot place between his shoulder blades. But the thought that Sam is watching himself get off against Dean's body, makes the blood rush to his dick, and it slaps against his belly.

Dean unlatches one of Sam's hands from his chest, and pushes it down. Sam doesn't seem surprised that his brother is awake or by what he's asking. His groan is louder than Dean's when he finally grips Dean tight and starts stroking. Dean wonders how many times Sam has secretly watched him jerk off when he starts to twist his wrist on the up stroke, and run his thumb down the slit, just the way Dean likes it.

Sam's mouth is open, pressing wet hungry kisses onto Dean's neck. "Morning." Dean can only manage a sharp inhale as a reply, as Sam changes the pressure of his fingers. He can feel Sam's lips curl against his skin in response. "I'm sober."

Dean nods in short sharp movements, his breath huffing and voice barely carving out a sound. "I gathered."

"I need you in me, Dean. Need you..."

Then Sam is gone, flinging the covers off them, and pushing his lithe body down, between the curve of Dean's legs. Dean's back arches off the mattress, his mouth shaped for a silent shout as he feels Sam's mouth engulf him; the hot, wet suction, tongue in all the right places, Sam's hand working what his throat can't take; which isn't much it seems when Dean's cock makes contact, and he feels Sam’s muscles swallow him down.

It doesn't take long before he's clawing at Sam's shoulders, trying to push him away. "Jesus, Sam. Oh god...fuck...I'm gonna come...I'm gonna..."

That gets Sam's attention and he tugs at Dean's balls as he pulls off – his sloppy mouth slurping its way up Dean's shaft – pulling Dean back from the edge. He scrabbles up to blanket his brother, wiping the saliva from his chin on Dean's stomach and chest as he ascends. "Not yet. I've waited too long for this."

Dean huffs out a laugh. "Okay. Just promise you'll never tell me where you learned how to do that."

Sam settles his weight down on his brother, letting their cocks slot together, pressing his lips to Dean's as he whispers, "Deal." Dean opens up to him, allowing Sam's tongue inside; somehow it feels more intimate than where their hips press them against each other. He puts his arms around his brother and pulls him down; one hand moving up to grasp the back of his head, the other cupping the swell of his ass before gripping the top of Sam's thigh.

That's when he feels it. A trace of slick at the very tips of his fingers. He pauses in surprise, but not so much so that Sam notices, or if he does, it doesn't slow his methodical exploration of Dean's mouth.

Dean slides his hand further, thinking only to confirm his suspicion that Sam is just as much a boy scout in bed as everywhere else. Except his enthusiasm and Sam's preparedness, mean that Dean's fingers slip too easily past the ring of muscle.

Sam does notice that; throwing his head back in ecstasy, grinding back so that Dean is three knuckles deep before he knows it. He presses a third finger in, just to see if he can, and oh God, the sound Sam makes is too much.

He holds Sam tight and rolls them over, pushing Sam's legs roughly apart with his knees. When he pulls his fingers out, Sam keens at the loss, thrusting his hips up, searching for friction, or something to fill him, or maybe both.

But Dean pins him with a hand on his chest, and one cupping his cheek. "Sammy...I know you think you want this but..."

Sam's smile is blinding, dimples popping and his eyes glowing. He lays his hand over Dean's and taps his fingers twice. The gold bands they're each still wearing click together. "I'm asking, Dean. I don't ever want to take these off."

They don't say anything for a while then, not until Dean bottoms out against Sam's ass. He desperately wishes he was flexible enough to bend down and suck at the droplet of precome that he's squeezed out of Sam's cock, but settles instead for swiping it off with his thumb and wiping it on Sam's lips so he can taste him there instead. Sam curses him and tells him to get moving, goddammit, like they're late for the school bus and Dean's lingering over his coffee.

After all the build up, neither of them lasts very long. Dean does as he's told and fucks into Sam only a handful of times before he's growling and half sobbing into Sam's shoulder, releasing everything inside him. He keeps moving though, thinking through the haze that he should probably help his brother out, but he barely touches Sam's dick before he's arching up, and coming onto Dean's stomach, fingernails cutting into Dean’s shoulder blades.

They kiss, for a long time, covering each other in small touches, and holding so tight they leave bruises. Dean spends a lot of time pushing Sam's hair away from his face to the pillow as they talk in soft, low voices.  He does the same thing when they finally drag themselves to the shower, under the pretense of helping Sam wash his hair.

Sam can't stop looking, like Dean is the most wondrous thing he'd ever seen. Like the first time he'd come back from the dead. New and shiny and a miracle. He doesn't stop when they pack their bags, or when they load up the Impala.

And if Dean notices, he doesn't seem to care. He just keeps smiling and joking. The only difference is the lightness in him, and the quick touches and kisses and longing looks that don't burn anymore.

They drive away without killing anything. There's no monster here. Just miracles. And sometimes it's okay to get what you wish for.

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