FIC: Out of Focus (Supernatural) Sam/Dean 18+.

Adding in daylight savings and Q's new hours (competing with Icon), they were open until 5:00 last night.

The sunrise was pretty.

I didn't bother to dress up besides putting on platforms, body glitter and rainbow lashes, but I had a better time than I expected to. Even if I didn't decide to go until after midnight. Kim was very convincing.

Before I left, though, I wrote up a little Supernatural fic.

I'm breaking my own cardinal rule about posting without a beta, but, eh. It's Halloween and I'm off to carve pumpkins and watch football.

Title: Out of Focus
Author: shadow_shimmer
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Spoilers: Hmm. Only very vaguely up to "Bloody Mary," I suppose.
Warnings: Wincest and angst and maybe a bondage kink. If you squint.It's very light.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit.
Summary:His eyes were a little vacant and Dean realized that this really might not have all that much to do with him, Dean, and instead had more to do with Sam and Sam needing to take back control of his life somehow.

Take it back from Dean.

Out of Focus

Dean couldn’t quite keep his eyes focused. They kept wandering off to the side, or crossing or even drifting shut.

“Stay with me,” Sam told him. “At least until I can get you into bed.”

Pain and narcotics and adrenalin’s aftereffects hadn’t managed to drag Dean’s brain out of the gutter and he couldn’t help snickering. Even snorting a little.

“ . . . in bed,” he repeated, between noises.

“Whatever,” Sam muttered, pulling tighter then he had to, in Dean’s opinion, on a bit of gauze that he was wrapping around Dean’s hand.

“There,” he said. “Done. Now,” and he pulled Dean up and off of the toilet by the shoulder, “you can sleep and I can watch Letterman.”

“ ‘Cause you ain’t sleepin’, right? You’re the Amazing Sleepless Sam,” Dean rambled as they stumbled toward the bed.

Sitting Dean on the edge of the bed, Sam nodded and shrugged. He said, “Something like that,” before turning on the TV and leaving Dean to wiggle his way to head of the bed by himself.

With all of the Vicodin that he’d taken, Dean figured he’d drift right off, but the smell of antiseptic and burned fabric bugged him and so did Sam’s incessant channel flipping. Eventually, they were gonna have to talk. No matter how much the two of them hated the idea, Sam couldn’t go on being all sullen and secret-y because that, on top of the insomnia, was a recipe for getting one or both of them hurt. Worse than a couple of burned hands.

“Hey,” Dean said over the sound of Jennie Garth screaming on Lifetime’s Battered Woman Movie of the Week. “I can’t sleep with these pants on.”

Not even bothering to look at him, Sam said, “Take them off, then.”

“Can’t,” Dean persisted. “Mummy hands.” And he held up his gauze wrapped hands and groaned in his best imitation of said mummy.

Which, apparently, wasn’t very funny because Sam just snapped, “And whose fault is that? You were supposed to burn the zombie not yourself.”

Dean might have been tired and drugged and pissed but he was smart enough - this time - not to come back with ‘I wouldn’t have if you’d’ve been doing what you were supposed to instead of dozing on the job, asshat.’

Instead, he went with, “Either way, can’t sleep in them. They’re covered in zombie goo.”

“Jesus,” Sam said, changing the channel one more time, just to be contrary, Dean was sure, before turning around. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

He fumbled with Dean’s zipper for a minute before Dean started having second thoughts. Since he’d picked Sam up, he hadn’t had much time to take care of things, and having any kind of action down there - even as stoned as he was - was going to make things even more awkward between him and Sam then they already were.

“Hey, Sammy,” he started. “I’m alright. I was kidding. Slept in worse . . . shit.”

It was too late, and Sam was looking up at him with his wounded, angry, what-else-could-I-expect-from-my-shady-big-brother face on.

“For chirssake, Dean.”

Flinching, Dean tried to roll away but didn’t get far because Sam had a hold of his pants and wasn’t going to let go. And that was the wacky fun thing about the Winchesters. They never ran screaming. Not from the weirdest, scariest most fucked up shit. They might worry and obsess and, yeah, lose sleep about it. But they sure as hell didn’t run, and Sam was a Winchester through and through.

Dean had always been proud of him for that.

“It happens, Sam,” he told him, trying to sound sober.

“Maybe when you’re fifteen,” Sam said.

For a split second, Dean wanted to ask Sam in what context it had happened to him when he was fifteen because his voice had sounded a little funny there. But he figured he was in enough trouble without reading the wrong thing into statements about his brother’s hard ons when he had one that wouldn’t quit, and the only person around that could do a damn thing about it was his brother.

So he went the other way. “I don’t need Viagra yet, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Shaking his head, Sam said, “You know I wasn’t.” And then he moved his hands down Dean’s legs in a disturbingly un-caretaker-ly way. “Does this always happen when I’m around, or is this a special occasion?”

“Perv,” Dean said, half-heartedly. “It’s just an in general hard on and we can stop talking about it now.”

Which was, of course, a lie. Sometime back, and Dean wasn’t really sure when it was, a switch had gotten flipped. The switch for “taking care of Sammy” and “teaching Sammy to kill the bad things” had flipped to something a little more intense. It was all those life and death encounters. All that adrenalin and all those hormones and all that rage and fear and aggression that welled up when they were sweaty and bloody and goddamn glad just to be alive. There hadn’t been anyone else to channel that on to. Just Sam.

So, yeah, sometimes he thought about Sam that way. But not for a while, not until the pain in his hands and the narcotics had broken down the wall that he’d put up to protect them both.

Sam shrugged, and Dean thought he was going to let it go. But instead of going back to his TV, he went back to Dean’s pants. He finished unzipping them and was trying to pull them down before Dean could manage to say anything about it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked and he was pleased that he sounded relatively calm.

“You didn’t want to talk about it anymore,” Sam told him, still pulling. “So. Not talking.” His hands were still brushing against Dean’s thighs, perilously close to Dean’s cock, and Sam didn’t seem to mind.

“Lift up,” he told Dean, who did because he was suddenly just along for the ride, pretending that Sam had not just stripped him of his boxers too, and was not, definitely not, laying his head on Dean’s stomach and fucking breathing on Dean.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. If Dean ever let himself think about this (and that was a big if), he had always known that Sam was oblivious. Sam was the normal one. This was Dean’s cross to bear, and it was just another thing that made him a better loner and a better hunter and a better liar.

But this? Here? With Sam? This made Dean feel a little vulnerable - both knowing how Sam felt and the way Sam was going about showing it. It was something Dean didn’t exactly like but didn’t dislike, either. Something that worried him, because Sam wasn’t usually such a take charge kind of guy.

Yelling would have helped. Yelling and being able to use his hands, Dean thought, looking down at Sam. He could scream at Sam to do something, to suck it or forget it. And he could push him down or push him the hell away once and for all.

But he could barely breathe, let alone scream and he couldn’t use his hands and Sam had just figured that out because he was tugging his own shirt off and looking down and Dean with a look that Dean had never seen. Probably because he’d never been about to have sex with him before, but nevertheless, Dean had figured he was pretty clear on all of Sam’s facial expressions.

“It’s almost like . . .” And Sam stopped to think and to sink his teeth into Dean's hip. “A bondage thing.” He smiled. “You can’t touch me.”

“Is that what makes it okay?” Dean asked as Sam finally moved down and began to lick.

Sam just hummed what Dean thought was an agreement, and then things went a little sparkly behind his eyes before Dean could think at all again. Which wasn’t a blessing, because his thoughts were weren’t very charitable. But even as he was telling himself that at least he had always had some self control and hadn’t ever acted on the bad thoughts, no matter what the scenario (bondage or not), he was shifting his legs so Sam lay in between them.

“I’ve always been a slut,” he said, more to himself than to Sam. He figured Sam couldn’t hear him anyway because he was so busy with his mouth and then with his hands. And really, he shouldn’t know how to do that unless he’d had some practice which meant that - what? It meant what?

“Sammy, Christ,” Dean started. “Guys?”

Getting up and wiping his mouth on his arm Sam nodded. “A few. When I first got to Stanford. Does it matter?”

“No,” Dean told him, wondering where he was going and if it really didn’t matter about the guy thing and just what the fuck was going on.

The last part of his question was answered when Sam came back from the bathroom, without his pants now, and with one of the little bottles of complimentary lotion that smelled like wax and cheap perfume.

Suddenly, Dean was very, very sober. His neck felt stiff because he’d been laying at a funny angle on the useless pillow and he was cold.

“I’m older,” he told Sam, looking at the ceiling and not at Sam. “I should. Y’know.” Which, he thought, might be number one on the list of things he thought he’d never say.

Then Sam was laying on top of him and if it wasn’t comforting, at least it was warm, and Sam was nodding. “Maybe. But you can’t really do that right now.” His eyes were a little vacant and Dean realized that this really might not have all that much to do with him, Dean, and instead had more to do with Sam and Sam needing to take back control of his life somehow.

Take it back from Dean.

“And,” Sam went on, bracing himself over Dean, “you can’t stop me.”

Yep. That’s what Dean had thought and now, faced with it, he calmed down. He’d figured it out. He could run with it. “Right, Sammy. I can’t.” And he moved, as best he could without his hands. He rolled his hips up against Sam’s and watched Sam’s eyes narrow and then shut.

“Wanna fuck me?” he asked, pushing it. Forcing the issue. “Wanna show me you’re bigger than me now?”

Sam went down on his elbows and Dean could hear him breathing and could feel him grinding his teeth against Dean’s neck.

“Can’t stop you, bro,” he said into Sam’s hair.

His neck, where Sam’s face was pressed to it, was damp now and Sam was shaking.

Nothing happened. Not for awhile and all Dean could do was stare up at the dim, cracked light fixture and calculate the odds of it breaking and falling on them. Kind of like the sword of Damocles. Punishment always hanging over him for the fact that he could stay hard, even while Sam cried on his shoulder and thought about hurting him.

He’d moved from the light fixture to finding hidden omens in the water stain on the wall, when Sam mumbled, “No,” at him, and sat up rubbing at his eyes. “Here,” he said, and put his hands under Dean’s shoulders and lifted until Dean was sitting up, leaning against the headboard.

“Sammy,” Dean began, watching his brother pop the cap on the bottle of lotion. “Maybe now’s not the time . . .” The water on the wall says hard times ahead, if I’m reading it right, Dean finished in his head, watching - like he’d watch a car wreck - as Sam dumped the sweet-smelling stuff into his hand and then reached between his legs.

The overhead light flickered and broke the spell, letting Dean look away. He didn’t watch what Sam did to himself. He shut his eyes when he felt Sam touch him with a slick hand. He didn’t look until Sam’s weight was in his lap and Sam was putting Dean’s arms around his neck and rocking his hips against Dean - onto Dean - until Dean was far enough in that their thighs touched.

By then, though, when Dean did open his eyes, Sam’s face was too close for Dean to focus on.

“It’s better this way,” Sam said, between deep, hard breaths.

Better that you didn’t do what you were thinking about? Dean thought. Better that I’m in you? Better that we’re doing this at all? Better that we’re together again? Dean wondered, but didn’t say it; he just let Sam ride him until he realized it wasn’t enough and that it wasn’t exactly better this way.

“Can’t breathe, Sam,” he said. “Smothering me.”

Sam stopped moving, looked at him, and then laughed. “Still? I mean, I knew that I did when you were, like, in highschool, but I’ve been good about giving you space lately.”

“Smartass,” Dean said, grinning and feeling a little better, the tension broken. Then he pushed, as best he could, at Sam’s chest. “Lay back,” he told him, and when Sam flicked a glance at his hands he just shrugged.

The world turned upside down for a minute, and then Dean was back where he was supposed to be, back where he was in control and back where he knew all the right moves. Sam was underneath him and losing it now like he hadn’t before and there was no way that Dean should think that watching his brother go a little crazy like that was hot. But it was. Damn hot.

So he shut his eyes again. Which Sam, apparently, didn’t appreciate because then his hands were in Dean’s hair and his lips were on Dean’s neck and then his cheek and then, Oh Christ forgive me, Dean thought, they were kissing.

Sam mumbled something into Dean’s mouth that sounded like harder and Dean embarrassed himself by making a kind of choking sound before leaning his weight on his forearms and did what Sam told him

It hurt. It hurt like hell but that was alright because the pain cut through the guilt a little and brought things back into focus.