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justinedelarge) wrote2012-11-04 06:30 pm
Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 21: Kiss and Make it Better
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 2500
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just for fun.
Summary: Ever wonder how Dean started talking dirty? The genesis is in the way Sam and Dean make their feelings for each other physical. This story has dirty talk, all the feels you can handle, infinite love and even a plot that develops into a nail-biting narrative, with the best kind of hurt/comfort.
Chapter Summary: Sam is feeling better today, for some strange reason. John asks Sam to tell him what they did to him, and is shocked to learn how familiar what Sam tells him is. Dean learns more than he wanted to.
When Dean awoke, cold November light streaming in through the bedroom window, Sam was curled up on his left side, snuggled against him, left arm with the cast stuffed under the pillow supporting his head, his right arm wrapped around Dean.
“You awake?” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair.
Sam yawned and rolled on his back, stretching. “Mmph.”
“Five more minutes, right?”
Sam snuggled closer. “Mmm.”
Dean held Sam close, reveling in the moment of nowhere particular they had to be, nothing particular they had to do, just listening to Sam breathe.
His eyes snapped open.
Listening to Sam breathe.
Deep, even breaths. Not tortured, shallow, wet-sounding gasps.
“Sam?”
“…sleeping.” Sam’s voice still sounded thrashed.
Dean touched Sam’s face, tipped it up. Sam opened his eyes, bleary and still a little bit asleep.
“Take a real deep breath for me?”
Sam’s body tensed, anticipating the nearly unbearable pain, but he knew the drill, and drew air into his lungs.
Dean waited for Sam’s face to squint shut in agony. It happened every time Sam did the breathing exercise.
But this time, Sam just winced. And was able to take a full, deep breath and hold it.
“Jesus, Dean… what was in the pill you gave me last night?”
Sam smiled, and Dean couldn’t help smiling back, so happy was he to see Sam feeling better. But something about it just felt too good to be true.
Sam walked down the stairs by himself, Dean right behind him to steady him if needed.
John looked up as Sam entered the kitchen. His eyes had dark half-circles under them, as if he’d only slept a few hours.
To everyone’s surprise, John rose and wrapped Sam in his arms, holding him close, but careful not to squeeze too hard.
Sam blinked in surprise, staring at Dean over John’s shoulder. Dean gritted his teeth. The only thing holding him back from swatting John’s hands off Sammy was the expression on Sam’s face: a shocked look that melted as he sank into the feeling of his dad hugging him.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry. I should never have hit you like that.” John swallowed hard. “I just… that’s what I was taught to do. If someone is hysterical. You slap them to snap them out of it. That’s what…” John stroked Sam’s hair, held him close. His shoulders started shaking in a peculiar rhythm, and his breathing went all choked and funny, and it took Sam and Dean several beats to realize that John was crying.
“It’s ok, Dad.” Sam’s voice was hoarse but functional.
John made an embarrassing sound, part sob, part snort. “No. It’s not. It’s really not.”
Sam’s eyes fell shut, as his father held him in his arms and wept, wept for having hurt him.
Too little. Dean stuffed his hands into his pockets. And way too fucking late.
He watched John struggle for composure and fail. Saw Sam, his own eyes wet with tears, bury his face in the soft flannel of John’s overshirt, breathe in his scent of cigarette smoke, whiskey and Jovan Musk for Men, let himself be gently rocked.
But at least…at least Sam has this. Finally.
Dean heard Sam whisper, “It’s ok, Dad. I’m not mad.”
Dean’s mouth twisted, his face openly showing his warring emotions, but neither Sam nor John was looking.
But Bobby, back from the pantry with a bag of flour to make biscuits, caught every last flicker.
“Hey, Dean. Wanna give me a hand?”
Dean shut down the emotions he couldn’t deal with at the moment, and moved into action. “What’s on the menu?
“Biscuits and gravy.”
Sam’s favorite. And Dean’s favorite breakfast that didn’t involve bacon.
Dean already knew how to make sausage gravy. That was practically the first thing Bobby had ever taught him to cook, when he was only 14. (As Bobby explained it, “A man needs to know three things: how to drink whiskey without embarrassing himself, how to shoot, and how to make sausage gravy.”) So he busied himself crumbling up the sausage and frying it brown, then sprinkling in flour, stirring and adding milk.
Bobby busied himself making biscuits. He knew his way around a kitchen, but he made a terrible mess, particularly with anything involving flour. By the time he slid the pan of biscuits into the oven, he was dusted in flour from chest to knees.
Sam and John sat at the table drinking coffee.
Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder and handed him something. His pain pill. Sam swallowed it with a gulp of coffee, and blinked his thank you in that way that Dean understood immediately.
John watched Sam for a moment. “You look like you’re breathing better.”
Sam nodded, adding more sugar to his coffee.
John’s smile was genuine, and more than a little relieved. “Good.”
Everyone but Sam ate two fat buttermilk biscuits, generously doused with sausage gravy flecked with black pepper. Sam closed his eyes with pleasure at the first mouthful, and slowly managed to eat one, wincing as he chewed. He looked at his plate sadly, then slid his plate over to Dean. After a moment of debating trying to spoon-feed Sam a bit more, Dean caved and devoured Sam’s second biscuit in four huge bites.
John finished his cup of coffee and set it down on the table. “Sam. I know you may not be ready to talk about what happened, but we need to know.” He and Bobby exchanged a coded glance. “It’s important.”
Sam took a deep breath, a resigned sigh, as though he’d known all morning this was coming. Under the table, Dean put his hand on Sam’s thigh. Sam dropped his hand under the tablecloth and squeezed Dean’s hand.
“Tell me what you remember.”
Sam stared at his cup of coffee, which was nearly empty. Bobby jumped to his feet and refilled it.
“I remember being jumped. Fighting. Remember them beating the crap out of me. I pretended to pass out. They shoved me in the back of a van. I was able to see street signs, and I counted the miles like you taught us, Dad.” Sam explained how he was able to determine where they had taken him, with physical landmarks he was able to see when he dared open his eyes a crack, and based on comments they made, thinking him unconscious.
“They took me into this warehouse. Tied me to a chair. Worked me over.” Sam stirred sugar and cream into his coffee. “The one guy used his fists, mostly. A stick. You know, physical stuff. But this other guy…” Sam swallowed. “He could…do things. Without even touching me.”
Dean’s fingers tightened on Sam’s thigh. Sam stroked his hand quickly.
“Not sexual things. Although… anyway, he could hurt me. Without touching me.”
Dean caught that. Went cold all over. Nearly called Sam on it right then.
“What kinds of things. Exactly.” The wrinkles in John’s face stood out, making him look older than he was.
Sam looked at John first, then Bobby. Something in their expressions told him they needed to know.
He looked at Dean. “You don’t want to hear this.”
“Sam.”
“You really don’t.”
Dean’s voice was gentle. “I don’t want to. But I have to.”
Sam took a deep breath, tilting his head to the side as if to say you asked for it.
“It felt like he was pulling out my fingernails. One at a time. Slow. He’d do one, and then the other guy would hit me. Punch me in my ribs. My stomach.”
Bobby flinched.
“Then he’d do it again.
“What else did they do, Sam?” John’s voice was smooth, calming, the voice of a father reading his children a bedtime story.
“Don’t want to.”
“Dad, do you really have to do this? Now?” Dean was becoming extremely agitated.
“I do.” John’s face was etched with sorrow and rage, but also determination.
Sam suddenly stood up, shoving his chair behind him with a squeal. “They stuck my head in a bucket of water until I passed out. They liked that one. Did it a lot. They hung me from my wrists and used me like a punching bag.
“And the first guy, the older one? He’d tell me to beg. To say please.” Sam shook his head. “It was weird. He told me to say, “Please, mister, don’t hurt me anymore.”
John closed his eyes. Bobby stared at the floor.
“But I wouldn’t say it. No matter what they did.”
It was hard to say who looked at Sam with more pride, John or Dean.
“But that made him mad. So he got mean. And he told the other guy something. He did this thing. Felt like an electric shock.” Sam shuddered. “That one really hurt. And he did it a lot. On my chest and…” Sam stopped.
“I know it’s hard. But we need to know. Where else?”
Sam shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. “No.”
“Sam—“
“No.” The Sam that glared at John wasn’t the 16-year-old teenager that squirmed when you tickled him under the arms. It was the man that endured two days of torture without once begging for mercy.
John let it go. “Ok. You don’t have to say.” But everyone in the room knew. Two people, in fact, knew exactly where else the man had inflicted the sensation of electric shock on Sam’s body.
Bobby abruptly stood up and left the room. A moment later, the sound of retching was heard from the downstairs bathroom.
Dean stared at John, his green eyes burning with the full realization of what he and Bobby had done to that other boy, of what they had called down on Sam in revenge.
It looked like hate.
Sam leaned against the refrigerator, shaking. “We done? Can I go now?”
John sagged in his chair. “Of course.”
Dean went to him immediately, turning his back to John, blocking Sam from his view. “You wanna go upstairs?” Sam nodded. “I’ll be right up.” Dean stroked Sam’s hair. Just that gentle touch was enough to bleed off a bit of the tension racing through Sam’s body. Just a bit.
Sam left the room, broken arm pulled in hard against his stomach like it was aching, and went upstairs.
John couldn’t meet Dean’s gaze.
“What the fuck?” John had never seen Dean this angry, because Dean had never been this angry. “That’s what you two did? To that kid? That’s your fucking interrogation technique?”
“Dean, you don’t understand—“
“Oh, I get it.” Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not much of a difference between them and you, is there?”
John flinched.
“Hurts, huh?” Dean leaned across the table, palms flat on the wood. “Not as much as it hurt him.” And Dean’s badass demeanor cracked wide open, tears spilling down his face. “I can’t even talk to you.” He stood up, stumbled, had to sit down. “Dad. What they did to Sam…” And with that, Dean fell apart, burying his face in his forearms and sobbing.
John walked to him, lowered himself to his knees, put his arm around Dean. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault, Dean. You’re right. And I’m so sorry. I’m going to make it right. To both of you. I swear on your mother. I’ll make it right. Please… Dean, please, just give me a chance.”
Dean did not throw off John’s arm and storm out of the room. He did not curse his father’s name. He just pressed his face against the smooth wood of the table and cried himself to exhaustion for what they had done to Sam.
When he was drained, he roused himself and stood. John remained kneeling, head bowed. He didn’t say a word. He had no words in him to say. But his hand hovered over his father’s head, and then stroked his hair once, so gently it was barely perceptible.
~
Dean went upstairs, shut the bedroom door and slid the deadbolt shut. Sam was curled up on top of the bed.
Dean lay down behind him, curled up around him and held him. He just held him.
Gradually, Sam stopped shaking.
With just gentle pressure of his hands, Dean asked Sam to roll over towards him. Sam did.
Dean kissed Sam’s forehead. His eyelids. His nose. His mouth. Featherlight kisses, moist with warm breath from his barely parted lips.
He kissed his throat, mouth warm and soft, moving from top to bottom, one side to the other. His fingers toyed at the neck of Sam’s t-shirt.
Sam stripped it off, lay back down.
Dean kissed every bit of Sam’s exposed skin, moving slowly down his chest. He brushed his lips against every bruise, every healing cut and abrasion. So slowly. So gently.
He undid the top button of Sam’s jeans, drew the zipper down, pulled the clothing away. He stripped Sam bare. And wordlessly, with an intensity that transfixed Sam, Dean kissed Sam’s body, working his way across every single inch.
He paused over Sam’s inner thighs. “Sam. Did he. Here?”
Sam knew what he was asking. Did the man with the dark powers to cause pain inflict the sensation of electroshock torture there, on his inner thighs? And he couldn’t lie to Dean, as badly as he might want to.
“Yes.”
Dean breathed warm breath over Sam’s flesh, stroked it with his fingertips, and kissed every inch of his inner thighs, breathing out as if to drive softness and love and pleasure through the skin to sink into Sam’s muscle and bone.
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself, then brushed his mouth over Sam’s cock. “Here?” His eyes, bright green in the midday light, looked hopeful.
Sam’s response, closing his eyes tight, body shuddering, a sharp nod, drove the hope from his eyes, but not the love. Dean brought his lips to Sam, kissed the tip of his cock, mouth parting. Kissed the crown, his lips velvet-soft. Kissed his way down the shaft, not leaving a single molecule of skin untouched. Sam was hard. And so was Dean. But this was not sexual, not meant to spur desire and assuage it. This rooted deeper, flew higher.
Dean rolled Sam onto his stomach. He kissed Sam from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, with inexhaustible patience, the love rolling off him in waves, breathing out between his lips, telegraphed in the gentle touch of his fingertips, the brush of his cheek against Sam’s lower back.
His mouth ghosted over the curve of Sam’s ass. His voice, fragile. “Sam. Here?”
And Sam turned, looking over his shoulder at Dean so that he would be able to read the truth of it on his face and said, “No. Not there.”
Dean rested his cheek in the sleek curve of Sam’s lower back, hand caressing his flank, his tears falling warm and soft on Sam’s skin.
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And... John and Bobby doing all this stuff to that kid...
And...I'm wondering if the demon healing Sam will come for him at some point :S
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I still have points in my head to remember and how will they play out - like John thinking anyone with demon blood isn't human...and after what John and Bobby did to Spivey's son and now has been done to Sam...how will John react when he finds out?
Your portrayal of Sam and Dean's love, it's epic, EPIC. Mad props to you, my dear. <3
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<3
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I love that it went from angst filled to full on love and tenderness. Very powerful indeed.
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