MoragMacpherson (moragmacpherson) wrote,
MoragMacpherson
moragmacpherson

Fic: Marked For Life (Supernatural, Sam/Dean, NC-17)

This is a little early, but Cally's having a rough night, so I figured she could use an early birthday present to help her out.

Title:
Marked for Life
Authors:  dragonspell and moragmacpherson
Betas: jaimeykay and clwright2
Rating:: NC-17
Genre:: Slash, PWP
Pairing:: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 4,557
Timeline: Set just before Wishful Thinking (4.08)
Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke and the CW and their associated corporate identities
Contents include: See listings above as well as graphic sexual content
Authors' notes: Written for callowyn for her birthday; she gave us the prompt: In D/C fics, the handprint is always a major erogenous zone. Jealous!Sam discovers this and uses it to his advantage. Our profound thanks to our betas. We all love you, hon: happy birthday!
Summary: Dean never noticed how often Sam touched his shoulder until he got back from Hell.

If there were two things that Dean was intimately familiar with after three decades of life, they were injuries and Sam Winchester. Then again, he also had dealt with four decades of death, and was just starting to get comfortable with living again. If he was having a hard time re-acclimating to life, it was only because the things he'd always counted on were acting strange.

The thing with injuries, though, was that you were never quite as conscious of a body part as when you dinged it good—Dean hated a stubbed toe almost more than a bullet wound. Then again, the handprint wasn't exactly an injury—it just looked like one, a raised scar that showed no signs of fading, even months after the fact. Which was really irritating, because it turned out that Dean's upper left arm got a lot more contact on a day-to-day basis than he'd ever considered. Especially from Sam—grabbing him to pull him to safety, to stop him for a word, even just a light touch for comfort.

Dean had always appreciated those touches, that sense of having his brother at his back, but he hadn't realized just how often Sam grabbed him there. It made sense and all—Sam was right handed and taller than Dean: that shoulder was the natural point of contact between them. And given that Sammy had been acting... off since Dean's return, Dean hated to discourage anything that resembled their normal banter and interaction. When he thought about it, Sam had always favored that spot, Dean was pretty sure.

If it had been a normal injury, Dean wouldn't have given the touches a second thought. Dean had more than a passing acquaintance with pain, both in life and in death. Pain he could deal with. But it wasn't pain that he felt whenever Sam's fingers matched up to the echo of Castiel's. The spot was... sensitive, in ways that Dean was really not comfortable associating with his overgrown baby brother. Just now, as they'd pulled over to fill up at a near-abandoned gas station on the side of I-90, Sam had grabbed Dean by the shoulder to ask where he was going and suddenly all of Dean's blood was rushing out of his head in a distinct southerly direction.

Dean immediately pulled away from the touch. "Uh, those three cups of coffee have gotta go somewhere, Sammy. Grab me some Twinkies when you go in to pay, would ya?" He walked off without giving Sam a chance to reply, moving at a brisk pace appropriate to an urgent bathroom stop until he was safely around the corner and in the men's room. First things first: he pulled his trusty flask out of his jacket pocket and took a long swig. He spared a quick glance to the light pouring through the grimy bathroom windows—it was maybe half past ten, but they'd been driving west and what with timezone changes and all, it was—oh fuck it, Dean didn't care. He took another drink, savoring the whiskey burn before screwing the cap back on with shaking fingers and pondering the less than pristine urinals and the way the head of his dick was now peeking out of his boxers and scraping against his straining zipper.

He considered the mold for a few seconds before carefully undoing his fly. With his dick as hard as it was, there was no way that he was going to be able to piss, so he squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, "Betty White doing a strip tease," twice under his breath. His go-to image did the trick once again and his shudder as he softened was a combination of both revulsion and relief. The relief became overpowering—he really did need to piss—but as his bladder drained the revulsion returned: once again, Dean's brother, his flesh and blood, had been the one to make Dean too hard to pee. If the wall hadn't been so disgusting, Dean would have slammed his head against it. He needed to figure out a solution to this problem, and soon.

"Dean?"

Fortunately Dean had already tucked himself in because he jumped almost a foot off the ground at the sound of Sam's voice. "Jesus, Sammy—what the fuck are you thinking, sneaking up on a guy in the bathroom?" he snarled. Dean took a couple of deep breaths and zipped up before turning around.

Sam had a rotten smirk on his face and was dangling the package of Twinkies from his hand as he leaned up against the doorjamb. "Jumpy much?" said Sam, his tone mild. "You were just taking awhile, wanted to make sure you hadn't gotten lost."

Dean scowled as he washed his hands. "Yeah, that's right, I got jumped in the big scary men's room. Now move. I wanna get the hell out of Wyoming while the getting's good." Sam made a grab for Dean's shoulder as he brushed by but Dean batted his hand away before he could do more than slide his hand over the scar.

Still, that was enough for Dean's jeans to remain uncomfortably tight for the next few miles. And Dean couldn't help thinking about that in the shower in Idaho that night as he scrubbed the washcloth over the sensitive skin of his solitary scar. Sam had always had a thing for touching him there: it wasn't his fault, he couldn't know what he was doing to Dean. It was just an odd thing to have to say to his little brother, 'Could you stop touching my arm, you're turning me on and it's getting embarrassing.' Because if Dean wasn't so fucked in the head, then it shouldn't matter how good it felt when somebody touched his scar—the fact that it was Sammy doing the touching should have made his dick shrink until it damn near inverted.

But Dean was fucked in the head and Sam did keep touching him there and Dean was just going to take his sweet damn time in the shower. Hopefully, if he rubbed one out, then his over-interested dick would think twice about getting excited the next time Sam gave him a brotherly hug. Dean resolutely thought about Lisa doing naked sun salutations as he stroked himself, brushing his scarred shoulder against the slick tiles for good measure.

"Hello, Dean."

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Dean barely managed to keep his balance as he grabbed the translucent shower curtain and wrapped it around himself. "Cas, do you have any fucking concept of personal space?"

"No," said Castiel, standing by the sink. "Should I?" He didn't flinch when Sam kicked the door in, knife raised over his head.

Something more than panic flickered in Sam's eyes when they landed on Castiel and he didn't lower the knife. "Dean. Are you okay?"

Dean blinked at him—blinked at them both. "No. I'm not okay. I'm naked in the shower, and both of you need to get the hell out of here! Now!" Sam faltered and backed out of the bathroom while Castiel wordlessly followed him out. "And shut the goddamn door while you're at it."

Dean waited until the door swung shut to release his death grip on the shower curtain and turn off the shower. He looked down at himself. No chance of getting things taken care of quickly enough to placate the two pushy sonsofbitches waiting for him in the other room. Dean grabbed his towel off the back of the toilet and patted himself dry. He was sufficiently pissed off that not even rub of rough fabric over his scar distracted him from his fury. With a final sigh he wrapped the towel around his waist and considered the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Fuck it: they'd both already seen all of him, Sam shouldn't care, and Castiel apparently didn't either. Dean would tell them both to pull their heads out of their asses—or at least out of his—as quickly as possible and get to bed.

He kicked the door back open and stomped over to his duffle. "Twice! Twice in one goddamn day you assholes have snuck up on me in the bathroom. Can't I get a single fucking second of privacy? Is that so fucking much to ask?" He concentrated on finding clean clothes before turning around to face the two intruders. Sam looked alternately guilty whenever he was looking at Dean and pissed as hell whenever he looked at Castiel. Castiel, for his part, maintained his angelic serenity. Dean decided the latter was the easier of two problems to address, so he approached Castiel, boxers and t-shirt clutched in one hand. "So what's so important that I'm not allowed to finish washing my back?"

"You didn't appear to be—"

"Ah-ah!" Dean held up his hand. "Just spit it out. I'm fucking tired and I'm annoyed and the sooner you tell me what the hell you need the sooner you can get the hell out and both of us will be happier."

Castiel remained calm. "There is a town nearby where a seal may be falling. Concrete, Washington."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "May be falling." He barked out a laugh. "Well, I can see why that was totally worth interrupting me in the shower, especially given that we were already on our way there."

Castiel gave the fist Dean shook in his face a bare glance. "If that's true, then I'll report back to you when you arrive." On that note Castiel disappeared with the faintest sound of rustling feathers.

Dean shook his head. Castiel had been the easier problem and now, alone with Sam, Dean just wanted to go to bed. He sighed. "Can I at least have a second alone to get dressed," he said as he crossed back over to the bathroom.

Before he knew what was happening, Sam slammed him up against the wall. "No," growled Sam. He dipped his head low and practically sniffed Dean. "What was he doing in there?"

Dean's breath caught in his throat. "Interrupting my shower, now get off me." Dean went to push Sam away but Sam's hand came up to stop him. His fingers stroked over the scar. Dean couldn't help but groan and drop his clothes to the ground.

"Tell me," Sam hissed, his eyes narrowing.

The odd tone in Sam's voice broke through the haze Dean's sudden lust and he shoved Sam away. "You knew. You fucking knew!" he said accusingly, but Sam's long fingers made it past his half-hearted attempts to block the touch, and then they were stroking over the too-smooth skin again. Dean's knees started to buckle.

“Knew what he did to you? Yeah, I fucking knew,” Sam growled and it sent a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. Sam’s palm centered over Castiel’s handprint and Dean’s legs failed him entirely. The only thing that kept him up was Sam pressing forward, his hard body aligning with Dean’s and his leg shoving in between Dean’s. Dean’s breath hitched, the gears of his mind grinding together, stuck in park.

“What the fuck, Sam?” he demanded, his voice giving out on the last few syllables as Sam stroked over that damn scar again. It was like the thing had a direct connection to his dick and the more that Sam stroked, the harder that Dean got. “Get off me.” He tried to make it sound like an order; instead, it was only a weak complaint.

“Did he touch you?” Sam asked harshly, ignoring Dean’s whimpered protest.

Dean wasn't sure what Sam was asking.

“Did he touch you?” Sam repeated.

Dean pushed against Sam’s shoulder, trying to push him back—push him away before Dean did something embarrassing like hump Sam’s leg. Stupid cheap motel towel didn't hide anything and Sam was still touching that fucking scar. “I’ve got his fucking handprint burned on to my shoulder!” Dean snapped. “What the hell do you think?”

Sam snarled. “No. In the bathroom. Did he touch you?” Sam wasn’t so much touching Dean’s scar as holding it hostage. His entire hand was covering it, every tingling inch of it in contact with the warm press of Sam's palm and insinuating fingers.

Cas?” Wait, what? Dean had missed a step somewhere. “Fuck, no! He just...loomed--what the fuck are you doing, Sam?” Dean’s dick was hard, tenting the towel and making it obvious that he was a sick fuck getting off on his brother touching his shoulder. Then again, Dean was also pretty sure that the hardness pressing into his stomach was Sam’s dick and that Sam didn’t have a freaky angel love scar to blame.

“Staking a claim,” Sam said and before Dean had a chance to ask Sam what the hell he meant by that, Sam’s head was dipping and he wasn’t just touching Dean’s scar. He was licking it. His tongue flicked at the raised print of the fingers, sliding over scar and unblemished skin alike while his hand twisted the amulet on its leather thong around Dean's neck. Dean shuddered, his hands twisting in Sam's t-shirt, using Sam's shoulders to ground himself before he shattered into a million pieces.

“Sam...” Dean groaned. He felt so fucking turned on that he couldn’t even stand it and there wasn’t any hope of pretending to have dignity any more. He ground himself against Sam’s leg, humping shamelessly. His breath came in harsh, short pants because he couldn’t seem to suck in enough air. Sam’s fingers slid underneath Dean’s jaw, pushing his head upward, and then Sam’s mouth was pressing against Dean’s. Sam’s tongue licked once at Dean’s lips, asking for permission that Dean wasn’t about to refuse. Not in this state. Dean opened his mouth and allowed Sam’s tongue inside, meeting it with his own.

Sam's fingers kept tracing over the scar, scrambling Dean’s mind and making it impossible to think. He was going to fucking come just from a little making out. Dean turned his head, breaking the kiss as he tried to rein himself back in. “Fuck, Sam...” he panted. “Stop.”

“Stop?” Sam asked. He was panting too, his chest pressing against Dean’s, head resting on Dean's other shoulder, breath hot and loud in Dean's ear.

Dean yanked Sam’s hand away from the scar, moving it to the relative safety of his chest where Sam’s thumb stroked idly over Dean’s collarbone. “Stop that,” he clarified. “I’m gonna come if you don’t.” It felt strange admitting it out loud—telling his brother that rubbing a scar could get him hot now—but he figured it was better than having to explain after the fact—not that Sam didn't already seem entirely aware of its effects. No—Sam wanted this and Dean—Dean didn't know what he wanted right now, other than to come. At this stage, the only dignity he could hope to salvage was lasting long enough to show his brother he hadn't completely reverted to being a horny teenager who came from a little light petting. Dean had stamina, dammit, or at least he used to before he was rehymenated and angel-marked.

“Yeah?” Sam asked, sounding not at all disinterested in that. His fingers inched towards the scar again. Dean caught them, pressing them against his chest, and closed his eyes. Might as well go for broke.

“Figured that we should fuck first,” said Dean.

Sam groaned and jerked his hips forward, his dick grinding against Dean’s hip through his jeans. "Not gonna give me some lecture about how this is wrong or something like that?" he murmured, nibbling the words into Dean's neck.

Dean chuckled. "I think we're both a little too far gone for that, don't you?"

Sam licked a trail up Dean's neck to his earlobe, one hand struggling with the knot on Dean's towel while the other tugged on Dean's amulet before it returned to the scar, staking its claim once again. "Yeah," he agreed, biting on Dean's earlobe.

Dean moaned as the towel slid down his thighs. "Promise to bitch you out in the morning."

He could feel Sam's lips curling up into a grin over the shell of his ear. "Yeah, okay." Sam’s hand gripped Dean’s hip, holding him in place. Dean groaned with impatience: every instinct was screaming at him to just hump Sam until they both came in a sticky mess. Sam hissed and pressed a finger against Dean’s mouth. “Suck.”

Dean obeyed instantly, wrapping his lips around Sam’s finger, getting it wet. He locked his eyes with Sam’s as he licked at it, watching Sam’s reaction. Sam's face remained intent as he pushed another finger into Dean's mouth. Dean sucked them both down eagerly, humming around them and grinding down on Sam's knee. “Fuck,” Sam whispered. He pulled his fingers out and moved down, shoving Dean’s leg upward. Dean kept his leg up as Sam’s wet fingers slipped under his balls and found his hole before pressing up and in, sliding up to the first knuckle. Dean gasped, biting his lip as he tried to keep himself relaxed. He had to keep himself relaxed. If he relaxed, this would work. It would go smooth.

Sam’s finger was moving inside of him, though, distracting him. Dean moaned as Sam stroked him inside and then a bolt of lightning shot up Dean’s spine. His head snapped back, hitting the wall, his eyes flying open. “Oh fuck!” Holy fucking shit. Sam pressed the spot again, sending another spark of pure electricity racing through Dean’s body and Dean whimpered, rocking forward.

Sam’s mouth was wet and warm on Dean’s neck, sucking on his skin. Dean wrapped his leg around Sam’s waist, trying to keep himself steady as Sam kept moving inside of him, kept stroking that spot that made him see stars, that made him think that he was about to come each time. Fuck, and Sam wasn’t even naked yet. Dean kneaded Sam’s shoulders, panting. “Hurry up, Sammy...” he rasped. At the rate Sam was going, Dean was going to be over and done before they got anywhere and somehow Dean knew that was something he'd never live down.

Sam bit down—a warning—and Dean whimpered. Sam listened, though, stretching Dean as he pushed another finger up inside of him. “God...” Dean’s head lolled the side, giving Sam more room to work and Sam’s tongue licked gently at the hickey that he’d just made—a sore spot on Dean’s throat. Dean shivered.

“Be right back,” Sam whispered, moving away, his fingers slipping out of Dean, leaving him empty. Dean moaned in disappointment and slumped against the wall. He couldn’t stand on his own—his knees were shaking too badly, his entire body trembling. Jesus, what was wrong with him? He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down a little but all he could focus on was just how much he ached. How much he needed. And he needed it now. He ran a hand down his body to grab his dick, fingers stroking over himself. Oh fuck, yes. That. That, right there. Dean fucked into his hand, his hips rolling in small circles.

“Jesus, Dean...” Sam rasped, shoving up against Dean again, his hard body now naked and pressing Dean to the wall. Sam’s hands were everywhere, roaming up over Dean’s body, fingers sliding over the raised print of the scar and nearly sending Dean crashing to the floor. “Leave you alone and...” Sam licked at Dean’s shoulder. “Fuck.” Sam pried Dean's fingers off of his cock and wrapped them around his own hip. "Now, now: wait for me," he chided, pulling Dean's hand back to his hip when Dean went to stroke himself again.

Dean heard the snap of a plastic tube opening and then Sam’s fingers were back, slipping inside of him again, stretching him. Three, this time, smearing slick up inside of him. They twisted inside of him, making him shudder, and then were gone again. Dean wanted to protest, wanted to complain, but Sam was gripping his leg again, shoving it up even farther, and Sam’s body was curling around Dean’s. There was something hard and solid pressing against Dean’s hole again. Dean swallowed hard. He knew what that was. “Yeah...”

Sam slowly pressed inside of him, spreading him open. Dean’s mouth dropped open, panting silently as he tried to accept the push of Sam’s cock inside of him. Sam was muttering nonsense against Dean’s skin, nothing that Dean could make out, just heard the low rumble of Sam’s voice. Sam’s hand slid to the outside of Dean’s knee, coaxing him to curve it around Sam again. When Dean did so, Sam’s other hand trailed down the leg that Dean was still standing on, patting it. Dean knew what he wanted.

Dean nodded and followed Sam’s lead. He pushed off, wrapping his other leg around Sam’s waist and hooking his ankles behind Sam’s back as Sam’s hands cupped his ass, supporting him, and Sam’s cock sank in to the hilt. “Jesus,” Dean moaned, his arms wrapping around Sam’s neck and his head falling back to rest against the wall. Sam hummed in agreement and began to thrust, his hips rocking against Dean, his cock moving inside.

Dean’s world had narrowed to just Sam: Sam’s hands holding him upright, Sam’s body around him and inside him, Dean’s dick dragging against Sam’s stomach. Sam, Sam, Sam.

Finding a rhythm, steady and deliberate, Sam fucked into him, making Dean gasp as each push inward made Sam’s dick brush up against that spot inside of him and each pull outward rubbed Dean’s dick against Sam. "Sammy, please," Dean gasped. He was getting close. His entire body was tightening up and there was no way that he could hold back. Dean didn’t even know what he was begging for--for Sam to go faster or harder--he just needed something more. He just wanted, needed, to come. He was hovering at that edge, unable to tip over and he needed something more.

“Dean,” Sam groaned and his teeth nipped at the scar on Dean’s shoulder, sinking in.

Dean’s vision went white and he was coming, his orgasm screaming along his nerves. Surely those high-pitched, choked whimpers weren't coming from him? Sam pulled his teeth off the scar and covered Dean’s mouth with his own, swallowing the cries. Shuddering helplessly, Dean’s hands buried in Sam’s hair as he allowed Sam's tongue to fuck his mouth just as thoroughly as Sam's cock was fucking his ass.

Dean felt himself go lax, trusting Sam to hold him up. Sam slammed into him, driving Dean against the wall but Dean didn’t care. With his orgasm still echoing through him, Sam could fuck Dean into the wall and he wouldn’t complain.

Sam suddenly lifted him, turning him, and Dean had a brief moment of dulled panic, clinging to Sam before they tumbled onto the bed, Sam driving into him hard and fast. Sam bit down on Dean’s neck again, sucking another bruise onto Dean’s skin and Dean moaned in surrender, tilting his head up and away to let Sam do as he pleased. Sam’s hand scraped down over Dean’s sides, gripping Dean’s hips as Sam drove into him and Dean had as much fight as a rag doll, too fucked-out and exhausted to do much else besides lie back and take whatever Sam gave him.

This time, when Sam’s fingers feathered over the scar, his hands gripping Dean’s shoulders, Dean twitched violently, pleasure shooting through his oversensitive nerves. Dean bit back a scream and jerked away, shoving Sam’s hand off onto the bed. Jesus fuck. That was too much to take—too much for Dean to give right now, after everything else.

Sam bit down hard on Dean’s neck, his hips slamming into Dean’s and then he was coming, his dick pulsing inside of Dean and filling him with hot splashes of warmth. Dean shivered at the sensation, wet and sloppy inside of him. Sam's body slid against the mess of sweat and come covering both of their stomachs as Sam collapsed against him, his breath huffing heavily in Dean's ear. Dean would have complained about the weight except for the distinct floaty feeling that was coursing through all of his limbs.

After several long moments Sam's head lifted up and he was licking the sweat off of Dean's chest before he tugged at Dean's amulet with his teeth, pulling it up. "Like you like this," Sam muttered, letting the charm drop back down before kissing Dean, a long swipe of his tongue inside of Dean’s mouth.

Dean smiled, absently petting Sam’s hair. “That was...” Dean didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Sam nodded and turned his attention to Dean’s scar again. “Don’t touch it,” Dean said. He could see that Sam was thinking about it.

Sam traced the handprint with a finger, teasing. “Still sensitive?”

Dean snorted. Sam knew the answer to that. Dean’s dick was already twitching painfully, just from the thought of Sam possibly touching the scar again. He wouldn’t be able to handle going again so soon and he knew Sam felt the same way, his cock slipping out of Dean's hole even as Dean clenched around it. "Get off me, Gigantor. I can't fucking breathe."

Sam laughed as he rolled off of Dean and onto his side, still keeping one hand wrapped around Dean's hip. That was fine—Dean's hips were pleasantly tingly at the moment, but not dangerously sensitive. Not like the fucking handprint. "So, we did it."

Dean sighed, idly wondering just how long Sam had been planning this, or something like it. "Yeah, we did."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Sam asked and Dean glared at him.

"Seriously? You want the freak out now? Can't a man have a moment to enjoy the afterglow?" Dean tried to roll off the bed but Sam's long arms trapped him and held him down, his fingers just skating over the hand print. That was enough to turn all of Dean's limbs back to jelly. Anyway, it was nice like this, Sam's body a heavy but warm blanket over his back, their legs tangled together under the sheet that Sam pulled over them, the scar safely pressed into the mattress.

"No," Sam said, his breath and lips warm against the back of Dean's neck, brushing against the leather cord. "Like I said: I like you like this. We should do it more often."

Before Dean realized what he was doing, he found himself pushing back deeper into the embrace and saying, "Yeah, we should."

To his surprise, Dean meant it.


This entry was originally posted at http://moragmacpherson.dreamwidth.org/60005.html because DW is where I set up crossposting first and I'm lazy. Feel free to comment wherever you prefer. This post has comment count unavailable comments on DW.
Tags: fic, nc-17, pwp, slash, spn
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