Title: A Little Fetish
By: Consternatio
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest, gun!kink
Spoilers: very small spoiler for Asylum
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sadly. No, not even the car.
Summary: Sam wants to apologise. Dean's not one for talking. Something has to give.


Sam suspects that he's probably going to regret this is the morning, in more ways than he dares think about. He can't quite decide yet whether the regret is going to out weight the shame he's sure he's also going to feel. Although, he's beginning to fear that nothing, not even the whole morning after cliché is going to eclipse the pleasure and the newly awoken lust. They certainly aren't even close right now, not when he's pressed up against the side of the car by the full weight of his brother. Definitely not when Dean is trying to, and mostly succeeding, reduce Sam to gibbering incoherency by doing what Sam can only describe as fucking his mouth.

It started in the car, as they drove away from the asylum. Sam can feel the tense silence between them, despite the music and the sound of the engine. Despite Dean's off hand dismissal of Sam's attempt at an apology, Sam can tell that it's still eating away at his brother.

In truth, it's eating away at him too. Sam can't forget the memory of standing over his brother, watching the pain and the bitterness and the loneliness as he pulled the trigger. He can't stop hearing the click of the empty gun, and it makes him feel sick every time. Sam wants to apologise, properly, wants to take back everything he said. He can't find the words though, can't deny them, because, god knows, he and Dean have argued enough about Sam's 'attitude'; about his resentment, of the things they fight, of the life they're leading, of dad, of Dean. He's never tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, never pulled his punches. There's no way Dean is going to buy any excuse that Sam could come up with.

He tries, he really does, but the more miles they travel, the harder Sam has to work to keep his words, his penitence to himself. He fidgets, shifting in his seat, as if keeping his body busy is going to do anything to quiet the thoughts in his head. Another 20 miles roll past, and Sam's damned near bursting with the need to talk. He can tell that his fidgeting is making Dean twitchy now, and it's never a good idea to piss of a guy who not only has a now loaded gun in his waistband, but who was also at the wrong end of your gun not so very long ago.

"For god's sake Sam, will you just sit still?"

And those nine words from Dean are the final straw. Everything Sam's been thinking for the last few hours comes spilling out of his mouth. He's barely even aware of what he's saying, he's too busy watching Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel, watching the tension in his brother's body increase. He's so busy watching Dean that he's caught by surprise when Dean yanks the wheel, sending gravel and mud flying as he turns the car down a dark side road. Sam tries to stop the flow of words, but it's like at the asylum, he doesn't seem to have any control over himself. There's a scary moment when he wonders whether the mad Doctor's hold over him was completely severed when Dean burned his bones, but he can't feel that alien presence, goading him this time.

The car jerks to a halt, throwing Sam against the dashboard. Dean's out the car a split second later, and Sam has a feeling that this is all about to go very badly wrong. He's proved right when his door is wrenched open, and an obviously furious Dean is hauling him out of the vehicle.

Sam realises that he'd forgotten that Dean's temper, although rare, is volatile and violent.

Dean slams him against the car, one hand gripping Sam's biceps hard enough to bruise, the other holds the gun that Sam earlier pointed at his brother, and as Sam's back hits the car, Dean brings the gun up to rest against Sam's cheek.

Sam freezes. He remembers the other thing about Dean's temper. It's unpredictable. He's fairly certain that his brother wouldn't shot him. Well, he's pretty sure that he wouldn't kill him, anyway. At least, not intentionally.

"What the fuck is your problem Sam?"

"I just wanted to explain..."

"Fine, you've explained. Can we just drop the fucking subject now?" Dean's voice is furious.

This is the point where Sam knows he should just nod, and accept that they are never going to mention this again. Dean doesn't do talking. He never did, and since Sam went away to college, he's been even less inclined to discussions of anything but finding Dad and the hunt. So, of course, Sam's mouth takes over again.

"Dean, I'm sorry, really, I just want to explain. Please..."

His teeth rattle when Dean slams his against the car again. It's so unexpected that Sam ends up biting his tongue.

Dean lets go of him, abruptly, stepping back a couple of paces.

"Enough. Just leave it, ok?"

And, ok, this is definitely the point at which Sam should just shut up.


He doesn't know if it's because he just can't seem to keep his mouth shut, or whether it's because he reaches for his brother, but the next thing he knows is that Dean's full weight hits him, and several things hit Sam at once. The feel of Dean's thigh as it slides between his, Dean's hands holding his head in place and the gun still in one his hands. The cold metal against his skin is a shock, but not as much of a shock as the feel of Dean's lips on his.

For just a second, it's like everything stops. This is so far out of any scenario that Sam could possibly have imagined that he hasn't the faintest idea what it means, nor what to do. His brother's body is pressed against him, and all Sam can think of are random words like, hot, hard, wet, and oh god.

There's always been this tension between them, as far back as Sam can remember. He's carefully never paid it any attention before, never examined it too closely. It's only now, as Dean attacks his mouth again, and again, that Sam begins to understand what that tension really is.

All of a sudden everything shifts and Sam's not feeling anything but lust. Pure and simple. No pain, no fear, no anger, no bitterness. It's nothing more than a temporary respite, a few minutes of blissful freedom, but it's enough to drown out any thoughts of how wrong this is, how they shouldn't be doing this.

Oh yes, Sam's pretty sure he's going to regret this later, but right now, he doesn't care. Not when Dean's pressing his hips against Sam's, not when he's shifting as restlessly as Sam was in the car, not when the gun slides down his brother's face, tracing cheekbone, then his jaw, down his neck. Sam can't help himself, he arches up, towards Dean, towards the gun.

Dean pulls back, one hand holding Sam's head, the other trailing the gun over Sam's collarbones, making him shiver, making him gasp.

"Got a little gun fetish there Sammy?"

Dean's voice is positively wicked now, that arrogant cockiness is back, and Sam knows that if he opens eyes he doesn't remember closing, Dean's going to be smirking. Irritating bastard. Sam keeps his eyes firmly closed. He doesn't want to see the smirk, doesn't want to have to deal with the fact that it's his brother pressing the barrel of the gun under his chin, forcing him to tip his head back a little, then drawing the weapon down, letting it scratch over the hollow at the base of his throat, then circle a nipple. Sam swallows, aroused and confused and...

"Oh, fuck."

The press of the gun to his stomach makes him jump, makes his skin crawl a little with fear. He's still fairly sure that Dean isn't going to kill him, but he's nowhere near as sure that he's going to get out of this without bruises.

He's expecting, hoping that the next time he feels that gun, it's going to be stroking against his cock. Instead, it's Dean's hand, palm stroking his erection, fingers tracing the outline in denim. The rush of arousal that follows is shocking. Seems Sam didn't know himself as well as he thought. The sensation is dark, and dirty and inescapably wrong, and it's a turn on like nothing Sam's felt before.

When Dean's fingers pop open the flies of his jeans, Sam shivers. There's moment of sudden doubt. They're in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, and Dean's his brother, for fuck's sake. He's almost worked up the coherency to push Dean away, to call a halt to this whole, crazy, sordid episode, when Dean slides the gun inside Sam's jeans and pants, until it's nestled against Sam's cock.

It's terrifying, and exhilarating and scary and oh god, so damned good. Dean's other hand has wormed its way into his pants, and cups his balls, while he strokes the gun slowly against the side of Sam's cock.

Sam bites his lip. He shouldn't be getting off on this. But he can't help the way his hips twitch against the gun, the way his breath hitches everytime Dean presses a little harder, just this side of painful.

Dean's hand leaves his balls, and moves to strokes Sam's cock, long, slow strokes that makes Sam shudder, while the gun slides lower, and nuzzles his balls. Sam's head tips back, hitting the roof of the car with a thud. He can hear Dean's low laugh, full of lust and affection. It's the affection that undoes Sam, that drives any thought of the wrongness of this out of his head. They've both lost so much. Sam a mother he never knew, Jessica, the dream of a normal life; Dean a mother he knew for far too short a time, a childhood that shouldn't have been spent hunting things that went bump in the night.

Sam sure he's never considered this before. He's considered other guys before, sure. Before he met Jess, he'd done more than just 'consider'. But he's pretty sure that not even in his fucked up psyche has he ever, ever thought about Dean in this way. He knows that after this, he's never going to be able to think about his brother in any other way.

It's like Sam's in a world of his own, insulated from the outside world by the slow pleasure of the hand on his cock, and the perverse thrill of the gun rubbing backwards and forwards between his legs.

"Well, well, Sammy's got a kinky side."

Sam shivered. He hadn't exactly forgotten that it was Dean touching him, teasing him, arousing him, but hearing his brother's voice, at once both familiar and strange, breaks into the little cocoon of arousal. Some part of his mind is screaming at him, and the word incest runs through his head. Sam knows that even an hour ago, just the thought of that would have had him heading for the hills, but now, with the reality of Dean's hands on him, he's lost, an unrepentant sinner, and damnit, when sin feels this good, why would anyone want to repent.

The gun presses harder, muzzle pressing just behind his balls, and it makes his hips jerk, tender skin grazed a little by the unforgiving metal, the small pain adding a sharp edge to his lust, a counter point to the *almost* raw friction of Dean's hand on his cock. Sam's so caught up in the slide of the gun, the steady stroke of Dean's hand, that when his brother removes both, Sam's hips continue to move for a few seconds.


The world turns, and it's only when it stops that Sam realises that Dean's reversed their positions. Sam opens his eyes to see his brother leaning against the car, gun still in one hand, tongue lazily licking the fingers of the hand that a second ago had been on Sam's cock. And, oh, that's fighting dirty, Sam thinks. That's far, far too arousing an image and he doesn't know how he's ever going to be able to watch Dean eat anything after this without thinking of the way he looks now; sprawled lazily against his precious car, eyes half closed, expression predatory.

It's really not right to be thinking about your brother this way, but damn, Sam defies anyone to resist the picture of wanton lust in front of him.

Dean finishes cleaning his fingers, and suddenly his hand is wrapped around the back of Sam's neck, pulling him forwards for another kiss, as hard and aggressive as the first. Dean sees everything as a battle, and it's clear that kissing is no exception.

Sam's panting when they pull back, and Dean's eyes are nothing but pupil. Dean runs the gun over Sam's lips, pressing until Sam opens his mouth. He's beginning to think that maybe it's Dean that has the gun kink, although Sam's hardly in a position to complain. He watches the way Dean parts his lips, the way he can't keep the lust from showing so plainly on his face, as he watches the gun slip just beyond Sam's lips.

The metal is cold, and heavy, and scary and sexy. Sam waits until Dean pulls the gun back, then chases it with his tongue, knowing just how obscene that must look. There's still a lingering sense of shame, of disbelief, but the gasp that escapes Dean when Sam's tongue curls around the muzzle of the gun just about kills that, once and for all.

Dean throws the gun into the car, while the other hand fumbles with the flies of his jeans. Sam watches, can't take his eyes away as Dean shoves his jeans and shorts down, and lets his hand slide up and down the length of his cock. Sam bites his lip, and can't stop himself mimicking Dean, sliding his hand over his own cock, the sense memory of Dean's hand on him still strong enough to send a shiver down his back.

He's confused when Dean let's go of his cock, and rests his hands on Sam's shoulders. It's only when Dean presses down that Sam finally gets a clue. It hits him hard, and he can't help but moan. It's so fucked up, getting off on the thought of going down on his brother, but it's so fucking hot too.

The ground is soft and he can smell the crushed grass under his knees. He can also smell Dean, his arousal, his need. He rests his hands on Dean's hips, the first time he's touched him since this started, and even that light touch makes Dean shift and moan, softly. It's incredibly powerful, to know that Mr Arrogant is so desperate for his little brother.

Sam licks the underside of Dean's cock, which provokes a whimper. A swirl of his tongue over the head makes Dean's hips jerk. Sliding his lips over the first inch or so releases a stream of curses over his head. Pressing down as far as he can, and drawing back, letting his teeth scrape lightly over the delicate flesh as he does so earns him Dean's hands in his hair, and the sound of what Sam presumes is Dean's head hitting the roof of the car.

He'd forgotten how good this could be. How arousing. How much he enjoyed it.

Sam slides one hand from Dean's hip, to cup his balls, squeezing them gently, letting his fingers slip further back, stroking over the sensitive skin there, every so often scratching with his nails, timing it to the drag of teeth over Dean's cock as he worked it.

It could have been minutes, or hours before Dean's hands tightened, his hips jerked erratically, and he swears, voice breaking and bleeding into a drawn out moan, as he comes, body trembling beneath Sam's hands and mouth. Sam grimaces, but swallows. Dean's breathing is harsh and suddenly sounds very loud.

Sam shifts, his own arousal now just this side of aching. His hand drops to his cock, stroking.

"Oh, fuck, Sam."

Somehow, Dean's on his knees in front of Sam, hand joining Sam's, both of them sliding roughly over his cock. Dean leans forward, lips brushing over Sam's, down his jaw, leaving little nips and licks in his wake. Sam tips his head back, back arching, hips driving his cock in their joined hands. When Dean bites his shoulder, hard, Sam freezes, wanting to hold off just a little longer, but Dean's hand doesn't slow, and it's no time at all before Sam's coming, shouting wordlessly.

Then it's over, and they're left, kneeling in the grass by the car, clothes askew, panting, bodies damp with sweat and sticky with come and emotionally wrung out.

Dean rests his head on Sam's shoulder, breath tickling Sam's neck when he speaks.

"Oh, man, that was..."


Sam's waiting for the regret, the shame, the disgust to arrive. So far though, all he feels is tired, physically uncomfortable and strangely calm.

Sam wants to ask whether they're ok now, although he's not sure that they can ever quite be 'ok', as most people would define it, again after what they've just done.

"So, can we drop the whole 'apology/explanation' thing now?"

Sometimes, Dean's far too perceptive for him own good.

"Yeah. Although, you know, you could have just told me to shut up."

Dean raises his head, and pulls a face at Sam.

"Dude, I tried that, remember?"

Sam remembers. Remembers the overwhelming need to make things right between them. Wonders whether what it really took to make things right was something the rest of the world thought was wrong. But it felt good to be sitting here, with Dean. No monsters, no chasing after Dad's ghost, no one else around for miles. It was so easy to fall back into the banter, as if nothing had changed.

"So you were trying to shut me up then, huh?"

Dean grins then, that irritating, cock-sure smirk that even now sets Sam's teeth on edge.

"Worked though, didn't it."

Sam groans, then stands, grimacing as the blood rushes back to his legs, leaving them tingling with pins and needles. He grabs Dean's proffered hand and drags him to his feet as well. They take a couple of minutes to rearrange them clothes, then just as Sam's about to get back in the car, Dean catches the lapel of his jacket, pulling him in for a kiss, slow and steady this time, all of the anger and the heat from earlier absent.

When Dean pulls back, Sam goes to speak, thinks better of it and just grins back at Dean. Sam decides it doesn't matter if this is wrong, that he doesn't care what the rest of the world thinks, as long as it's right for them.


Next story in series - Good to Talk....