Chapter Text
DEAN
Dean shrugs out of his clothes in the bathroom under Sam's hungry gaze. He knows that his new body is perfectly crafted from the mole on his left hip to the starburst birthmark on his inner thigh. All of his scars and blemishes have been removed as well. He's never been in better shape. Yet he's still self-conscious, with the phantom itch of old scars on his skin and the knowledge that he’s permanently disfigured in intangible ways.
He tamps down those thoughts and tries to look self-assured when he moves to exit the bathroom. Sam doesn't budge from his spot by the door, and Dean feels even more naked when he's forced to brush skin-to-flannel to get by.
Before he can cross the threshold though, large hands clamp down on his hips, stilling him, and lips crash down onto his, demanding and possessive, and Dean crumbles under the onslaught. He uses one hand to draw Sam closer, the other to brace himself against the door frame as he pushes his body against Sam's.
But just as quickly as it had started, Sam suddenly pulls back and lets out a sigh. Dean wonders if he's done something wrong again, until his brother speaks.
"I'm not mad at you, Dean." And Dean feels a knot in his stomach unwind. "Just…I wish you'd come to me instead of…this"—he tips the bottle in his hand. Dean flushes with guilt, the disapproval from his Dom hurting more than he thought possible. He opens his mouth to say something—what, he's not sure—but Sam's not waiting for an apology or promises. A light push towards the bed tells him this conversation is over. Although Dean can honestly say that the message had been received loud and clear.
Dean takes his position on the bed, as Sam goes to retrieve his purchases from that day. He's made mental guesses all afternoon about the items that might be in the large, but discrete, black nylon bag. The list he comes up with is short; he didn't exactly give Sam much to work with.
The two long lengths of sheer white silk fabric are a complete surprise. Sam kneels in front of Dean, placing the fabric into two neat piles on the bedcovers.
"Hold out your wrists."
Sam picks up one end of silk, twists it so that it forms a thin, flat strap, before wrapping it around Dean’s right wrist and closing the loop with a skillful knot, one that won’t tighten no matter how much he might pull. “Is this too tight?”
Dean’s about to shake his head, when he remembers Sam's first instruction. “No, it feels good."
Sam smiles, satisfied, then repeats his actions with the other length of silk on Dean’s left wrist.
When he’s done, he picks up the remaining swaths of silk. Dean must not have hidden his sudden bout of nervousness very well, because Sam looks him in the eyes and says, “You can say your safe word any time.”
He manages to utter, "I'm fine, Sam," which seems to be enough assurance, because his brother resumes his work.
Dean’s surprised when Sam doesn't drag him backwards to the bedposts and strap his arms apart. Instead, Sam folds his arms across his abdomen and lays them flat against his belly. Sam instructs him to unclench his fists and flatten his hands as well. Dean thinks it's like hugging himself.
He holds the position while Sam shakes out the silk. When they're thinner and wider, Sam criss-crosses the two pieces behind his back and brings them to the front again. The silk slides smoothly over his flesh, warms instantly to skin temperature, and Dean admits it feels pretty good. Nothing like the cold unyielding edge of metal. The tension slowly bleeds out of his body as Sam repeats the motions, looping the silk in a deliberate pattern until Dean's arms and torso are almost fully-cocooned in white.
When Sam has tied the last knot, Dean instinctively tries to move his arms and hands, but the bindings don't give an inch. He's locked up tight, but instead of freaking out like he expects, he finds himself unexpectedly calm. Secure. More so when Sam scoots around behind him to sit, propped up on pillows, against the headboard and pulls him down at the waist, until his ass lands in the vee of Sam’s legs and his back comes to rest against a sturdy chest.
Long, muscled arms wrap around his bundled torso and strands of hair tickle his neck as a voice murmurs in his ear, “Open your legs.” Dean obeys.
Soft-worn jeans rub up against his calves when Sam's larger feet hooks inside Dean’s ankles and spreads him wider, pins him open. Dean's cock swells, and he knows that Sam is affected by the display as well, judging by the hard, sizeable bulge digging into his tailbone.
“Don’t move,” he hears. Then he feels the press of dry lips along his exposed neck, teeth nipping at his pulse point, fingertips skimming across his chest; they find his nipples easily under the thin silk, rubs and teases them to stiff peaks. They don't linger though and wander back up instead, through his hair, down his neck, shoulders, arms, and chest to nipples once again. Sam squeezes them, softly at first, but harder with every turn, until Dean's gasping from the twin sparks of pain that quickly melt into pleasure, and finds himself eager for the next hit. Neck, shoulder, arms, chest, and repeat. His cock is full and heavy now, straining upwards and eagerly seeking the attention of his Dom. But Sam ignores it; and Dean just takes it, surrendering to his Dom's will.
Just as his body settles into the rhythm, a fingernail scrapes over his slit. His body involuntarily bucks towards the stimulation. He whimpers at the too-brief contact, but that whimper quickly turns into a moan when those teasing fingers return to caress and gently tug at his swollen balls. Fingers grasp his chin and slant his face upwards until those moans are met by powerful lips and swallowed with a wet, searching kiss.
Sam's grip remains firm when they break apart, chests heaving in tandem, and forces him to look into those familiar hazel eyes, darker now with lust and need: "Mine, Dean."
Sam doesn't order him to say anything back, but the hope and expectation is clear in his eyes. And Dean finds it easy to say, "Yours, Sam," because there is no other truth.
Sam rewards him by laying a claim on his bare skin, sucking what-will-be a spectacular bruise onto the delicate stretch of flesh between his shoulder and neck. The previously featherlight touches become swift, heavy pulls up and down the length of his shaft, and when Sam commands "Come,” it takes just a few more harsh strokes for Dean to obey, every nerve singing and vision whiting out as his body surges up in release…
He's floating in a fog, pliant as Sam manhandles him gently onto his back. He distantly hears the slide of a zipper before Sam's face fills his vision. There's a barely-there brush of lips over his as he's spread open by strong, sure hands, pinned like a butterfly. He revels in the burn of muscle and the wall of heat against the back of his thighs, then there’s a push, and that heat is searing him from the inside out.
Sam rocks into him and Dean takes it all with a sigh.
THE END
My Soundtrack:
Hurricane - MS MR
Beneath Your Beautiful - Labrinth