
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7659658.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Original_Female_Character
      (s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Serial_Killers, Alternate_Universe_-_Dark,
      Necrophilia, Necrophilia_roleplay, Past_Rape/Non-con, Minor_Character
      Death, No_Onscreen_Character_Death, Recreational_Drug_Use, Prescription
      Drug_Abuse, Non-Lethal_Overdose, Unconscious_Sex, Knifeplay, Bloodplay,
      Blood_Drinking, Brief_Eating_Disorder_Mentions, Oedipal_Issues, Serious
      Injuries, Mild_Gore, Mild_Breathplay_Elements, Blasphemy, Past_Child
      Neglect, Dubious_Consent
  Series:
      Part 6 of Playing_Bingo
  Collections:
      SPN_Kink_Bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-07 Words: 1947
****** Fear No Evil ******
by octopussy_(deannawincester)
Summary
     Dean has had a lot of girls, but Sam's determined to put Dean's best
     girl to shame if it kills him.
     Written for SPN Kink Bingo 2016.
When it comes to girls, Dean has a type.
Dean’s girls take up next-to-no space with their ribbed chests and jail
bait–thighs. Dean’s girls have eating disorder– and daddy issue–complexions,
wasting-away-pale and club-drug-pink and fingerprint-purple all over.
Dean likes them blonde and made-up and high as the sky. Most of them have hair
and skin and nails as thin as they are, but they still smile lipstick smiles
like they’re the prettiest girl in any room.
Dean likes that they’re easy. Easy to seduce, easy to cut, easy to hold up and
fuck if he wants even when they’re dead weight.
Dean’s girls look like a mom who he remembers snorting coke and leaving Dean
outside dive bars with his infant brother. Sam doesn’t know that mom—she
doesn’t show up in pictures, all of them taken before she paled—but Dean’s
girls look just like Dean’s mom.
When it comes to girls, Dean has a type. When it comes to boys, though, Dean’s
only got one, only needs one—Sam’s made sure of it.
At fifteen, Sam knows more than he should about most things: ecstasy, hunting
knives, fucked open assholes, major arteries, and what Dean does with his
girls.
It’s about to happen again. They’re in a new town with a thunderous strung-out
club scene and Dean’s started to get aggressive, stopped pulling his punches
when men come on to Sam, stopped pulling his thrusts when he fucks Sam after.
It’ll be any day now, the pattern just as central to the way they live as
shitty food, the smell of store brand lube, and long drives designed to cross
jurisdictional lines.
The first time Dean came home with unexplained blood under his fingernails, Sam
was nine. The first time Sam caught Dean with his knife and his dick buried in
a girl, he was twelve. The first time Dean let him watch, Sam held the girl’s
hair so it would stay blonde when the rest of her turned red.
Sam’d never dream of stopping Dean. No, these girls are part of who Dean’s
always been, or at least who the mother he remembers made him. As long as he
doesn’t get caught, he brings home the pills from his girls’ purses, and he
still dicks Sam plenty, Sam has no need to stop anything.
But Sam can’t help how it makes him itch.
Those girls with their washed out eyes and their painted on lips don’t know a
damn thing about Dean. Dean’s girls don’t understand that they should beg for
him to decorate rooms with their insides with just as much enthusiasm as they
beg for his cock, should appreciate his undivided attention. Dean’s an artist
and he deifies his girls, raises them from wilting club kids into living,
undulating, pulsing manifestations of the divine.
Sam would do anything to be one of Dean’s girls, to be Dean’s best girl. He has
done practically everything short of dying. But if dying’s what it takes . . .
Dean’s been selling pills on a corner near the place where this town turns into
a cesspit of writhing, withering bodies since they got to town. He’ll be there
for at least another hour, giving free samples to too-far-gone girls who might
follow him anywhere for another hit tomorrow night.
Sam has time.
He preps himself with an efficiency that’s far more mature than he is, lubes
himself up sloppy. He considers running some calculations to determine exactly
how much hydrocodone he needs, but decides to guess.
He shakes the bottle and swallows every pill that falls out, a little thrill of
uncertainty raising his cock and his bile in equal amounts.
Dean’s already talking when he comes through the door, sorting through a stack
of bills and a handful of rumpled baggies.
“Nice haul tonight, Sammy. And there’s this girl, must party every night, you
can see her collarbones across the room, gonna be just what the doctor or-”
Dean stops short when he notices Sam’s setup.
Sam’s naked on the bed, prescription bottle with someone else’s name on it
stuck in the dip created by his hip. He’s got a set of mismatched knives laid
out on the flowered comforter, tips pointing in at him. He thought about laying
down plastic, but this wouldn’t be the first motel room they turned into a
crime scene.
Dean closes the door, dumps his goods on the table, and starts undressing in an
instant, but his voice is a smooth purr when he asks, “What’s all this?”
“Just what the doctor ordered?”
Dean’s mostly naked by the time he reaches the bed, starts rubbing his thumb
around Sam’s ankle bone. He looks pointedly at the pill bottle.
“You take something?”
Sam nods and stretches, feeling coy and melted around the edges. He arches,
cups his boy-tits to show them off. His cock can’t seem to get any harder than
half-mast, but maybe that’s because he’s close to passing out.
“Pretend that I’m one of your girls.”
Dean may shake his head, but he also sucks in a breath and his pupils dilate
like he’s hungry. Sam knows he’s so hungry that any protest is empty at this
point.
Dean knocks all the air out of Sam when he presses Sam deep into the bed.
Sam may be broader across than most of Dean’s girls, but with Dean on him and a
knife pressed into his throat, Sam falls in love with how tiny he feels.
Dean rubs his cock in deep against Sam’s concave little stomach, the head
bumping up against his ribs on the upstroke.
“What do you want, Sammy?”
Sam lays his hands on Dean’s thighs, tries to grab, to pull, but his joints
feel useless and soft.
“Cut me,” he begs.
Dean draws a line from Sam’s collarbone, right up his throat, up the side of
his face. Sam doesn’t blink when the knife passes right above his left eye, but
his cock twitches wetly where it’s smashed between Dean’s legs and Sam’s
stomach.
The knife is so sharp, Sam barely feels Dean slicing cleanly from his hairline
straight down over his temple to his cheek. The blood runs hot and heavy,
trickling right into his eye and his mouth. Sam can’t swallow fast enough or
effectively enough to clear the blood from his throat, it puddles enough to
make his body process it as suffocating.
It feels incredible.
Dean kisses across Sam’s cheek. His lips are slick with blood by the time he
gets to Sam’s mouth. He steals the iron tang off Sam’s tongue, swallowing thick
as he drinks it down. Dean gives a soft hum of satisfaction, dragging his
tongue up from the depths of Sam’s throat, across the bitten inside of Sam’s
cheek, across Sam’s warm face right up to the deep cut that will definitely
scar.
Dean sucks on the cut, explores the open edges of Sam’s skin until the pain
buzzes all over Sam’s body.
When Dean pulls back his mouth and chin drip red. He runs his thumb over Sam’s
eye, clearing the blood for a moment before it leaks back into the socket.
“Sleepy?”
Sam nods, almost imperceptibly. It takes everything in him.
“What if you don’t wake back up?”
“Well, then, fuck me again,” Sam tries to shrug, but mostly his head just lolls
to one side. “Harder.”
Dean shudders, grinds his cock in deep. Sam’s tummy feels as wet with Dean’s
precome as his face feels with his own blood; he’s dopey with the drugs and
covered in warm, living puddles.
Dean sucks a deep, biting bruise onto Sam’s chest then brings the knife up
again to free the blood he coaxed to the surface. It runs in fast rivulets
around Sam’s nipple like lover’s kisses.
“God, Sam, you gonna die for me, Sammy?”
Dean moves the knife, touches the tip to a dip between two ribs, inches it into
his bellybutton, sets it against the soft curve of Sam’s side.
Sam swallows to feel the blade break his skin.
“If you want me to.”
“Fuck, Sam.”
Dean shifts the knife down to the soft span of Sam’s hip and slides it in. The
blade goes so slow that Sam feels every inch. He imagines the wound makes wet
little noises like a lube-heavy hole when Dean thrusts and pulls minutely,
fucking him with the blade, but if it does, Sam doesn’t hear them.
“Please,” Sam whines, tears he can’t remember crying mixing with the blood on
his face. “Please fuck me.”
Dean leaves the knife deep in him as he shifts downward, pushes Sam’s legs
apart and shoves in. Sam expects to hear a yelp of his own in unison with
Dean’s groan, but no sound escapes his open mouth.
This must be what Dean’s girls feel like, fading out but still acutely aware of
where he is inside them, his knife, his cock, his tongue, his fingers.
Sam’s never felt alive before this, not like this.
===============================================================================
 
Something’s pinching Sam. No, not pinching, stabbing. He tries to wave it away,
but the pain doesn’t stop.
“What the fuck?”
Sam opens his eyes to find Dean suturing the cut on his hip with even, steady
stitches. He grins up at Sam, relaxed and exuding happiness through the ruddy
stains all over his body.
“Welcome back.”
Sam stretches and finds his skin caked in dried blood, his face done up with
butterfly bandages, his entire body aching in a life-affirming deep-fuck kind
of way.
Dean finishes off the line of stitches, ties off, and cuts the line with his
teeth. Sam notices cuts all over his body, one over his ribs still trickling
blood.
“You doin’ okay, Sammy?”
Dean lays down on the bloody bed next to him, curls up against his side and
strokes over the cut on his ribs.
“Was it good?” Sam asks tentatively, watching Dean’s long, capable, dirty
fingers which are dirty with lube, blood, and spit.
Dean kisses him without warning, achingly tender with tongue and lips. His
answer comes as gentle breaths against Sam’s mouth.
“It’s never been like that, never. I never realized how much you look like her,
especially when you’re outta of your mind and bleedin’ for me.”
They’re both getting worked back up, Sam can feel Dean humping at his side with
tiny circular motions. Dean chews at Sam’s lip until it splits and bleeds,
flooding both of their mouths.
Sam yanks on Dean’s hair, shoves their bodies close enough that their bones
seem to grind together through their skin. It feels like drowning in tandem,
each of them gasping to get enough air between Sam’s blood and each other’s
breath.
“Fuck me, fuck me again, Dean,” Sam begs.
They rut together in the ruined motel bed, adding black bruises to the stains
on their skin. This fuck is all nails and teeth and fists, screams and curses,
intense and visceral where the last fuck was a joint foray into oblivion.
They haven’t ever fucked like this. If he’s honest, Sam’s never been fucked
like this, not in all the  times as he’s been had. It’s more than Dean’s girls
even get, a transcendent, animalistic climax on a bed that’s more theirs than
it’s ever been the motel’s.
They have to leave quickly, before someone sends the police over to check out
their noise. Before they leave, they shower and bandage themselves enough to
make it to the next state over. They leave the motel elevated. They leave the
cheap room transformed into a shrine to Dean’s art and Sam’s devotion painted
in red and white.
===============================================================================
 
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