InsaneJournal

Current mood:	in pain
Entry tags:	fic, supernatural

[FIC] Supernatural-- "All Tied Up In You"
I finally managed to write porn for this series. Well, almost. I wrote HALF of the porn, and my friend wrote the other half. I guess it still counts?

Title: All Tied Up In You
Author(s): WriterZilch and danny_sama
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Wincest? Obviously. Also: Bondage. Also: Complete PWP.
Summary: This isn't the way they normally do it.
Notes: This started out as back-and-forth IMs with danny_sama, who has slowly but surely become my Porn Muse. I cleaned it up and got it into actual story-form, then wrote the ending, and then sent it on to her for a bit of beta. I'm usually a fan of toppy!Sam, but I'm also a fan of tied-up-and-desperate!Sam, so... there you go.




This isn't the way they normally do it.

Sam pulls against the ropes, a fine trembling starting in his arms as he grits his teeth a little, tests the strength of his bonds. They don't give very much-- his arms are pulled tight to the bed, and his legs are just loose enough that he can bend his knees a little. Not that it does him any good. Sam isn't going anywhere, not anytime soon.

He can't seem to stop himself from getting worked up by that thought, breath coming faster as he grows frustratedly hard, straining against the material of his jeans, gasping when the movement of his hips makes his jeans shift a little, rubbing his cock. This is dangerous-- Hell, this is stupid and he knows it. He's helpless in this position, vulnerable, things no hunter can afford to be. Anyone could come in and find him. Anyone could take advantage of this.

That's why it's both a comfort and a torment to have Dean sitting across the motel room in one of the narrow desk chairs, watching him.

Dean sits, chin in hand and eyes far too intent. He acts like he can just watch for as long as he likes while Sam writhes, tugs at the ropes, moans miserably when they won't give. He acts like he's got all fucking night to watch this show and he intends to get his money's worth.

Sam groans. "Dean, you bastard." He keeps writhing, mostly because he can't not, not with Dean watching him like that, and his dick is driving him crazy, crazy good, and he might just lose it this way. He can't help his own startled jerk at that thought; wetness smears the inside of his jeans like a future promise.

And Dean watches, just this side of smug now. Damn him, he has to know that Sam's on the verge of coming without a hand on him, that just knowing Dean is over there getting off on the way he looks is almost enough to send him over the edge all on his own. Except it's not enough, not what he wants-- not Dean, and it chafes too, dammit.

So maybe he starts begging for it. "Dean, Dean. C'mon, please." Sam can feel his face go hot, shame and arousal mixing dizzily in his brain. Dean slides out of his chair to stalk closer, to stand over his brother and stare down at him as he writhes, lips pulled into a wide smirk, but his eyes are so intense, hot and dark, the green swallowed up by his pupils blown wide.

Dean reaches out and slides a finger-- just one finger-- down Sam's leg, from knee to thigh, tracing the heavy inseam of his jeans.

Sam shudders hard, all of him tuning into that single point of contact, lets his eyes flutter closed. Something so innocuous shouldn't feel so intense, shouldn't make him want so badly that he's willing to beg again, promise anything, anything, just so Dean will touch him more. He has to clear his throat twice just to rasp, "God, Dean, please." Dean smiles, bright and wicked.

And then just like that, the contact is gone. Sam keens in his throat, straining upward to find it again.

Dean sounds sort of awed as he stares down. "Sam, Sammy. You don't know how good you look like this. Fuck."

Sam spreads his legs just that fraction wider that the ropes allow, all desperate invitation. Dean, Dean. You know you can have it. The waiting is driving him out of his head. He lets his eyes go heavy and he breathes out, "Dean, now." Not forcefully, not even a command, but whatever it is Dean reads in his face, it's enough to make him slide onto the bed and lean down to catch Sam's mouth in a hard and breathless kiss.

Sam is pliant at first, whimpering slightly, lips parting to let Dean lick into his mouth, fast and eager, and then he pushes up against him, wanting to feel as much as he can. His fingers twitch with the need to feel Dean's hair between them, the short prickles and the rasp of the shorter stubble at the back of his neck, and something almost like anger heats in the pit of his stomach when his hands stay firmly tied and he can't. Dean shifts then, slides his body easily between Sam's spread legs, lets Sam take more of his weight as he settles there. Dean is hard, oh god, Sam can feel it, and he suddenly couldn't give a fuck about Dean's hair, because he can't give a fuck about anything, not when his mind is completely desperately blank.

He stops fighting then, all the struggle sliding out of him as he just goes loose and willing under his brother. Dean notices the change, slides back just enough to whisper hot and wet against his mouth, "Yeah, Sammy, that's it. You want this bad, don't you?"

Sam can't even force out the words, so he just nods. Dean lowers himself back down to mouth at his throat-- Sam throws his head back, helplessly, pleadingly, hissing between his teeth when Dean follows up the sharp sting of a bite with the soothing wetness of his tongue.

Dean shifts a little farther down, following the line of Sam's throat, lips and tongue tracing over his adam's apple, which moves under his mouth as Sam sucks in another sharp breath. The hollow between his clavicles catches Dean's attention next, followed by a long, wet, dirty lick along Sam's collarbones as if Dean wants to distract him from the hand that's working its way up under his shirt.

Sam can't decide if he's going nuts in a good way or a bad way, because he's so far past wanting foreplay, he just needs Dean, now, now. Then Dean's fingers beneath his shirt find his nipple and twist, just so, and Sam can't stop the high, desperate sound that he makes.

Dean breathes out a hot gust against his skin. "Fuck, Sam. You make those noises for me, and I--" He doesn't finish the thought, just twists again, and then drags blunt nails slow and inexorable down Sam's ribs, making him squirm and thrust up mindlessly. He can't stop pulling at the ropes-- Sam can feel them digging into his skin, but the rub and the ache is so distant, so unimportant now.

"Dean," Sam breathes, panting so quick he almost sounds afraid. "Dean, c'mon, please, just please--"

"Please what, Sam?" As if he doesn't know.

Sam just whimpers, turns his face away, and Dean stops everything, leans up again, whispering hot and urgent in his ear, "Say it, Sam. More than anything right now I wanna hear you say it."

Sam trembles under him like he's going to fall apart, like he'll just shake himself to pieces that Dean will gently put back together later. "Dean," he whispers finally, voice nearly ruined, "fuck me."

Dean smiles then, and the very small unclouded part of Sam's very preoccupied brain wonders how a Dean-smile can be so dirty and so tender at the same time. "No."

"What?" Sam's brain refuses to shift gears and splutters out by the roadside. He jerks under Dean, mindlessly. "Dean, you have to, god, don't do this to me--"

"Do what to you? Leave you like this? I totally could." His fingers trace down to Sam's wrist, skirting along the edges of the ropes feather-light. "You're not goin' anywhere unless I let you, Sammy."

"I know, I know." Sam feels dizzy, hot. More precome wets the inside of his jeans, and he's desperate not to lose it like this. "Anything, Dean, anything you want--"

Dean shifts, crawling backward down his lap, fingers skimming their way down Sam's chest and stomach and then shoving his shirt up roughly. "When you ask me so pretty," Dean murmurs, almost like he's talking to himself, "how can I say no?" His hands start working on the buttons of Sam's jeans, and Sam can only arch his back in frantic encouragement. Having Dean's hands right there is almost too much already, and when Dean tugs the button open only to stop there, Sam lets out a cry of frustration.

"Dean, fuck, Dean--"

"Gonna come like this?" Dean bends himself low, till his mouth is hovering over the tight bulge in Sam's jeans. "Gonna spill right in your pants for me, Sammy?" His lips tilt sideways. "Maybe if you ask real nice, I'll lick you clean after."

Sam closes his eyes, breathes fast and desperate as Dean lowers that last inch and mouths at the front of his pants. Warmth seeps through the material, warmth and wetness and then pressure as Dean sucks at him hard right through the cotton.

"Ohgod ohgod ohgod--" It's too much. The unending tease takes its toll, finally, and Sam can only ride it as he comes, gasping and writhing and spitting Dean's name. His cock jerks, spilling hotly, come soaking into his unbuttoned jeans, and it's the worst and also the best thing he's felt in a long, long time.

Reality filters back slowly. Sam shakes his head, trying to dislodge some of the hair sticking damply to his forehead. Up above the ceiling comes gradually into focus, and it's an attempt to get his breathing back under control that has Sam counting the cracks in the plaster.

"Can't believe you really creamed your pants," Dean says, sounding way too fucking pleased. Sam lifts his head to glare at his brother, but the expression just takes too much effort, especially when Dean starts tracing his fingers over the wet patch of his jeans. He lets his head flop back to the pillows, groaning miserably.

"Jerk. All your fault," he rasps.

Dean hums out a pleased sound and starts on Sam's zipper. "Guess I can take responsibility for this one."

Sam shudders hard-- the contact is too much, too soon. "Nnh, Dean, what're you--"

"Promised to lick you clean, didn't I? I'm gonna."

Way too much, way too soon. Something too sharp to be arousal but too good to be anything else sparks its way up Sam's spine. "Dean, wait, what about you?"

Dean laughs, warm and self-satisfied like when he knows what he's going to get and it's a sure thing. "I'm gonna lick you hard again, Sammy," he says, voice sliding low and dark, "and when you're ready for me again I'm gonna ride you till we both come."

Sam thinks it's the best idea either of them has had all night.