
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/610178.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Fae, First_Time, Underage_Sex, Barebacking, Public
      Sex, Public_Nudity, Public_Claiming, Ritual_Sex, Sibling_Incest
  Collections:
      spn_j2_xmas_exchange_2012
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-26 Words: 4429
****** The Light Court ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     With all the heat and pressure distracting him, it's hard to pay
     attention to the small noises of the people gathered around. There's
     still movement at the edges of his vision, still the whispers of
     cloth on skin and feet on dirt and quiet chanting in a language he's
     not nearly good enough at yet to understand, but he feels a little
     less like he's been peeled out of his shell and left for the vultures
     to pick over with Dean blanketing him.
Notes
     Written for obstinatrix for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. I went for the
     prompt "fairies made them do it. Feel free to interpret creatively"
     and may have taken the 'interpret creatively' a bit far... I tried to
     incorporate as many of her likes as possible, albeit some of them
     rather loosely (I know kilts are not the same as crossdressing, but
     fuck it, I like kilts. I blame Jensen.) Hope you enjoy bb and that
     you had a very happy holiday!
Sam's hair falls like blinders around his face as he tips his head forward.
Chunks of it stick to his forehead, clinging with sweat even though it's cool
enough out for his skin to have pebbled up, itching where goosebumps pull at
the edges of the thick, careful swoops of chalky cobalt painting sigils onto
every bare inch of him.
And that is a lot of inches because he is full freaking monty here, as if this
whole thing wasn't nerve-wracking enough already.
He's trying to concentrate on his breathing, the lump of grass grinding
uncomfortably under his left knee, the feel of dirt cramming under his
fingernails and turning to mud with the sweat of his palms. It's not doing much
to block out the sensation of all those eyes roaming over his skin, but it's
something. Better when Dean puts a hand on the back of his neck and eliminates
the train-wreck temptation to look up.
The slow tickle of fluid that tracks down the side of his neck could be sweat,
but he's guessing blood. From where Sam had been forced to kneel beside the
Queen, it hadn't looked like Dean cut very deep into the heel of his palm, but
as far as he knows Seelie don't heal any faster than humans so it's probably
still bleeding. Sam certainly never has, anyway, and hell knows he could have
used some Wolverine mojo plenty of times. Then again, he's never had much of
anything that could qualify as a 'power', but here he is. Maybe he needs to be
bound to the clan for that kind of stuff. Maybe he can get Cas to show him some
cool changeling tricks after… after.
Scratchy, oppressive wool-heat presses against the backs of his thighs, the
curve of his ass. Sam flinches away from it skittishly, but Dean's hand
tightens at the nape of his neck, thumb pressing hard into the tender spot at
the base of his skull like a warning.
He hopes the kilt-wearing is just ceremonial, or something. Every time Sam’s
seen him before today, Dean’s been sporting the all-American badboy look,
leather jacket and all. The barbarian warrior thing is working for him too, but
Sam figures that's mostly because for people who look like Dean, style is just
window dressing. He kinda doubts he'd be able to pull it off himself. He's more
than happy to spend the rest of his life with the clan - ecstatic actually -
but he'd really prefer not to have to do it in a skirt, even a man-skirt.
Not to mention that after this is all over, he'd really just as soon keep his
nudity around representatives of the Court to an absolute minimum.
"Sam." Dean's voice pressed against his ear startles him all over again. He
jolts, but Dean's bigger and stronger and, by all accounts, a general sword-
swinging, gun-wielding, OG-type badass, so he doesn't get far.
Somehow he'd missed the moment when Dean bent down over him, a solid zag of
heat molded from Sam's shoulder blades to the hollow of his knees. There's no
escaping the feeling of it now; the slick skin drag as they breathe not quite
in time, the heavier, sharper knot of the necklace Dean always wears settled
against his spine. The alien pressure against his ass, muted by thick cloth.
He's had the adrenaline shakes since before the ceremony started, but he can’t
call this anything but trembling now.
Thick fingers press up against his lips, pushing past them already by the time
Dean says, "Suck for me."
Thank freaking everything that Sam's already down on his knees, because he
doesn't think he'd have made it through Dean saying that without hitting them
anyway. His lungs feel seized up, thin drags of air making it in passed that
ache as the inside of his mouth clenches, floods with saliva and penny-flavored
blood and grit.
It's nothing, should be nothing, but with the low, smoke-softness, the 'for me'
tacked on as it plays over and over in the back of his head, it can't really be
nothing. Not for Sam.
He always knew he was messed up, long before Dean showed up in front of his
school in a wet dream of a car and offered him everything he never knew he'd
been waiting his whole life for. This is just another thing, worse and somehow
more complicated than finding out his parents weren't really his parents or
that he'd never meet the ones who'd given birth to him, loved him, actually
wanted him; that his existence is a matched set to this freaky, quiet, bright-
eyed kid who’s a real human and acts less like one than any of the Seelie Sam's
met so far. More than finding out he has a brother who's unreal in ways that
have less to do with him being a magical fairy-elf-whatever than it does with
him being the smoothest, coolest, just-stepped-out-of-a-movie-screen hotass Sam
has ever seen. Because Sam thinks his brother is hot. Not even in an ambiguous
aesthetic appreciation kind of way he could wave off, either. Dean is like if
Sam made up the perfect person and it came to life even better than he'd
imagined. Dean is an obsession waiting to happen and he's Sam's brother.
And the thing of it is, that's not a turn-off for Sam. Actually the exact
opposite.
So messed up.
Dean's fingers drag slow over his tongue like a caress as they pull free of
Sam's mouth, one nail catching at the tip for a quick, sharp shock. Sam rubs it
away against the back of his teeth, tries to focus on that as Dean touches a
cool stripe to his hip, slips back further.
This would probably work better if Dean would back up, but he only moves enough
to get his hand between their bodies. Sam can't pretend to be anything but
glad. With all the heat and pressure distracting him, it's hard to pay
attention to the small noises of the people gathered around. There's still
movement at the edges of his vision, still the whispers of cloth on skin and
feet on dirt and quiet chanting in a language he's not nearly good enough at
yet to understand, but he feels a little less like he's been peeled out of his
shell and left for the vultures to pick over with Dean blanketing him. Even
when that first fingertip presses against his hole and straight on in.
He'd done his best to prep for this like Dean told him to – and he is going to
be jacking off to that particular conversation for the rest of his freaking
life; Dean on his bed, handing him a dildo, telling him how to do it, why he
needs to, all like it’s nothing, like every species requires lost members of
its tribe to pledge their allegiance by having raw, filthy sex. He tried to get
as slippery up inside as he could because, shockingly, ancient pagan sex-
bonding rituals aren't big on the inclusion of Astroglide. The spit helps rewet
it a little and Dean makes a kind of growly noise in his ear that Sam's going
to take as a 'good job'.
Having Dean touch him like this is completely different from doing it himself.
Probably just because Sam's not the one controlling it this time, but the
reason doesn't really matter. Not when his dick pops up to tap against his
stomach and his balls tug in close. There's this buzzy-scorching sensation
buried in him somewhere like a stoked ember and his body can't decide if it's
up in his rib cage or down at the base of his spine or hidden inside one of his
vital organs, but it flares at the rough grate of Dean's knuckles against his
hole, pressing in and slipping out, over and over.
The second finger isn't as intense, not quite so drenched in syrup-thick
anticipation. It's weirder with a more concrete sensation to hold onto; moving
around in there, feeling him up from the inside out. A good sort of weird, the
kind that makes him feel steamy inside his skin, mouth gone dry and stomach
lurching every time Dean touches in just the right place.
His arms are shaking like they're going to give out any second, but he's scared
moving will upset the tentative balance they have, so he fists his hands in the
scrubby greenery until his knuckles turn bloodless-white instead, grass blades
coming away in his grip with tiny pops.
Easing steadily, Dean presses a third finger in and Sam's skull shrinks around
his brain. The throb of blood in his temples is almost as consuming as the
tricky swirl thing Dean's doing with his hand.
“I don’t need-“ he gripes, ragged like there's a ten car pile-up in his throat.
Not that it matters, since all the trouble gets him is Dean’s teeth digging
into the side of his neck.
“I’ll tell you what you need.” Dean’s voice is an octave lower than Sam usually
hears it, and it trickles down his spine like ice water and molten honey,
trailing shivers in its wake. Another nip at the stinging spot on his throat,
gentler this time, and he can feel Dean smirking when he says, “Big brother
knows best.”
With zero permission, Sam's body clamps down hard enough that Dean’s fingers
feel like a lead weight in his gut, eating up the dead space where his stomach
used to be. Dean lets out a self-satisfied hum and twists his wrist 180,
tickling at all Sam’s soft bits.
It’s enough to make Sam’s toes curl and he’s trying really hard not to think
about what he must look like – sweaty and groaning just from Dean’s fingers,
his dick dripping precome into the dirt, desperate and eager as a promnight
virgin, minus the promnight – but can’t stop himself from grinding back into it
anyway.
Just like that, Dean’s gone; heat, weight, the full stretch of his fingers. Sam
gasps at the sudden waft of cool air all over his skin. A reassuring hand
settles on his waist, but by that point Sam’s already twisted around enough to
see Dean over his shoulder, hitching the heavy wool of the kilt up his thigh.
One quick flash of milk-pale skin and then Dean’s free hand disappears
underneath, jostles a couple of times in a way Sam’s far too familiar with not
to flush hot over.
This time his arms do give out. His elbows sting where they hit the dirt but
his crossed wrists make for a good place to rest his head. He lays there and
breathes in the damp smell of earth, trying to control the spastic twitch in
his leg when Dean brushes his knuckles up the inside of it, smoothes one up the
seam of his balls like he doesn't know just how close even that is to setting
Sam off like a Fourth of July extravaganza.
The hot, blunt nudge up against his hole is exactly what he’s expecting; flesh
smoother and softer than Dean’s fingers, kiss of wetness when Dean just rubs
the head against him a couple of times like a tease, the grip on his side
turning harder, bright snatches of sensation where nails dig in. That grip
turning into a pull and the ground suddenly swooping out from under him? Didn’t
really see that coming.
Seconds stutter over the mechanics of it as if the trippy, burning friction in
his guts is blocking the pathway to his brain. He hangs there in the middle
space for what’s got to be a decade or two, like time and gravity ran away
together to get a quicky wedding in Vegas and left Sam stranded. Everything’s
surreal, smoke and mirrors wrapped around a blistering, pulsing core that’s not
painful and not good, that just feels so much that Sam’s wondering if he’s been
using his body all wrong for years, if this is what feeling’s all about.
It’s not until Dean’s hips are flush against this ass that he works out that
he’s been yanked up to sit in Dean’s lap. Mainly by opening his eyes and
meeting a dozen other pairs.
Sam slams them shut again immediately, hard enough to speckle the blackness
behind his eyelids blue-white and still not enough to get the image of those
attentive faces out of his head. All that focus on him, like butterfly wings on
his skin, just enough pressure to turn him twitchy as heat steals up his neck
and burns in the tips of his ears.
His Adam’s apple grates against Dean’s palm on a gasp as Dean drags his hand up
Sam’s neck, cradles it under his jaw and tips his head back until it’s resting
against Dean’s shoulder. The relief is momentary, the promise of fresh air to a
drowning man, and then Dean’s pushing up with his hips like there’s any deeper
in Sam for him to get, pulling back faster than Sam can follow and pushing in
again.
Shocky-thrill stings in his veins, hands skidding over his own thighs, Dean’s
arms, flailing through empty air when he can’t figure out what to do with them,
can’t get a freaking grip. After a couple rounds, Sam’s body kicks into gear
and works out where to still, when to dip. That makes it better, and also
worse, because once he’s over the strange, all of that bizarre intensity starts
to feel good, which, in turn, makes him shudder and groan and generally feel
like he’s stuck in some sideshow amalgam of running suicides in PE and getting
off sweeter-deeper-harder than he ever has in his life. In front of a crowd of
strangers. At the hands of his brother.
Sam’s dick is wagging unsteadily with every little move and thrust, bumping
against his thighs randomly. He’s hard enough that it hurts, and at the same
time feels weirdly good. His fingers are itching to touch it and it takes him
way too long to realize that he can.
From there the concept of breathing at regular intervals goes out the window.
There’s too much to feel; that heavy, silken slide against his insides, the
slippery skid of skin moving against his rim, the drier, tighter rasp of his
hand around his dick. It’s the opposite of coming, or coming from the opposite
direction – pleasure starting under his skin and burrowing deep instead of
building up to explode out.
And that’s important because he has to- the ritual-
Sam’s brain starts sputtering when Dean shifts somehow, legs spreading out,
forcing his knees farther apart until he can feel the stretchy burn through the
inside of his thighs. That immersive heat sparks into something fiery and
aggressive up close to the surface and his skin flashes hot-cold with it over
and over.
There’s an urgency to Dean’s voice this time when he says Sam’s name, repeats
it in the middle of tugging Sam’s hand away from his cock and pinning it to his
chest. “Look at me.”
Like a reflex, Sam feels his eyelids flutter, color peeping through before he
remembers why he closed them in the first place and squeezes them shut again.
Dean growls on the other side of the blackness, stills his hips and skids line
up Sam’s body with his fingers. Sam wonders for a second if it’s blood that
Dean just polka-dotted him with, if there’s magic in it that accounts for how
it tingle-fizzle-bites at his skin, then loses the idea entirely when Dean
yanks at his hair.
“Wasn’t a request,” Dean breathes, thick and sharp as the smoke off of green
wood.
Reluctantly, Sam lets his eyes crawl open. All he can register for a minute is
Dean, nudged in close enough that they’re pushing the same sticky, used air
back and forth between their mouths. The sky behind him is gold, bleeding
violet-pink beyond the spires of pine tree tops like a jagged wound. It’s doing
absolute wonders for Dean, which is just all kinds of unfair; morphing him into
this creature of jade and charcoal and honey-gilt highlights. Or maybe that’s
the fact that he’s glowing.
Glowing? Sam tries to shake his head just in case he’s seeing things but just
ends up pulling his own hair instead, since Dean hasn’t let go of it yet.
No, yeah, glowing. And it’s getting more pronounced by the second. The sun-
brushed-green is most obvious in his eyes, but it’s picking up elsewhere,
shimmers that turn into slivers that turn into slices. One cuts a path across
the curve of his left cheekbone, another over his opposite eyebrow that drags
down to lick at the crinkles that form at the corner of his eye when his lips
turn up. Sam’s not really in an ideal position to survey for more, but he gets
the feeling from the steadily increasing ambient light that there’s plenty of
them winding their way across Dean’s body like tattoos. Like the marks painted
onto Sam’s own skin.
His brain stammers back into gear over the thought, and Dean must have gotten
what he was after because his grip on Sam’s hair eases when Sam jerks his head
down to look at himself.
What ought to strike Sam is the lines, how the grainy pigment has turned
luminescent against the shadows of grass-stains and dirt on his skin; sleek
curves and thorny branches twining together in a deeper sea-green than the
shade lighting up Dean. How the brightness of them seems to ebb and surge with
the sudden spike of Sam’s heartbeat.
What he gets stuck on instead is how obscene he looks sprawled across Dean like
this, legs spread wide enough that it’s starting to ache, dick bobbing rock
hard between them.
There’s a fine thread of light curlicuing up the length of his hard-on, just
strong enough to make the bead of precome stringing down from the tip shine
like glass. It snaps when his cock leaps, sticking to the inside of his thigh
only to be replaced a moment later by another glossy pulse of fluid.
Oh god, it’s really hot. And kind of mind-numbingly embarrassing, because it’s
so obvious that he’s getting off on it, and everybody can see. All of them,
with their jeweled eyes and their predator smiles. The whole Seelie Court knows
that he’s not just enduring getting speared on his long-lost big brother’s dick
to earn back his birthright citizenship, that he likes it, wants it, that he-
That he’d grind back onto Dean to feel that friction against his untouched
places and moan for it, because that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Dean’s not offering anything but encouragement, though, hot panting breaths and
filthy half-sentences that melt like butter over Sam’s skin, so maybe that’s
okay.
“That’s it, give it up,” Dean hisses, gutted but no less like a command. He
leaves a cool racing stripe of sweat down Sam’s spine as he leans back on his
hands, giving Sam room. “Show them where you belong.”
Sam fumbles with his arms, trying to brace them on his own legs, then Dean’s
hips, nowhere really comfortable or natural to put them and too distracted to
honestly care. His legs are burning with the effort of lifting himself again
and again, skin singing with every brush of air where that unearthly light
touches him. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he knows he should be
freaking out about, like, every single part of what’s happening here, but the
sensation of Dean’s cock keeps rubbing it away like his brain’s a dry erase
board.
Dean’s hand settles on his hip, so hot he’s actually surprised he can’t hear
the flesh sizzle, and white bliss flares through his body like a closed
circuit. He presses back into it automatically, but it doesn’t really make a
difference at this point. He’s feeling Dean everywhere now, like a drug or a
poison, twisting along his nerves and prickling in his blood. It’s scary and
fantastic and too much. He never wants it to end.
The chanting is getting louder, loud enough that Sam can make it out over the
war-drum beat of his heart and the wheeze of his breath. There’s too much to
focus on to pay attention to those voices, but they’re there, driving him on,
cranking the glass-smooth rush inside of him until it’s nearly unbearable. He
doesn’t realize he’s matched the urgent fuck of his hips to it until Dean leans
up and starts husking out words against the nape of his neck.
Sam’s been working at it, but most of the Seelie words he knows are
kaleidoscope fragments of nouns and verbs that don’t fit together in any
particular order. There are bits he catches, the important parts, gone
sandpaper rough in Dean’s voice; family, acceptance, belong. Brother.
The razor-and-ecstasy tension balled up at the base of Sam’s spine loops
outward, coils out like a barbed wire snare. Sam comes like the world is ending
and that’s exactly what it feels like; ears ringing and spots dancing behind
his eyes as he doubles over. The dirt leaves a cool kiss on his forehead as he
slumps forward into it, point-counterpoint to the hot spatter of come hitting
his chest.
Dean follows, wrapping his hands around Sam’s shoulders from underneath and
shoving in deep, pulling out almost all the way and then doing it again
dragging Sam back into every thrust. He loses track of how many there are, only
that they keep going, reigniting tiny explosions under his skin every time he
thinks he’s coming down.
Dazedly, he opens his eyes to watch his own fingers web with electricity as
Dean’s thread between them, a miniature thunderstorm snapping between their
hands. It’s beautiful and strange and nothing compared to the hard twitch he
feels just before Dean groans and fucks into him like he’s planning to take up
residence in Sam’s body.
The sparks flash and stretch, hopscotching along his body with sudden pinpricks
of sensation that burrow down into his marrow and keep going until there’s no
part of him that doesn’t feel lit up with it.
The next thing Sam is aware of is grunting softly through the struggle to catch
his breath. Dean is still hunched over him, subduing the clutching, empty
feeling where he was buried to the hilt a minute ago by soothing his hand up
and down Sam’s side.
When Sam manages to actually open his eyes and look, they’re alone in the
clearing. The sky above is steely blue, lit only by the moon just beginning to
climb over the treeline. Their bodies look normal; no glow, no paint, just a
lot more skin than he’d really like to expose to the elements, covered in a
variety of bodily fluids and his big brother.
This is really not how he expected to lose his virginity. In about ten minutes
when he’s capable of processing coherent thought again he’s going to have a
nice long internal touchdown dance about that.
Choking twice on his dry throat, Sam manages to croak out a sluggish, “Did it
work?”
Dean’s laugh shakes through Sam, barely anything and still enough to smack him
upside the head with the need to lie down. And at this point, he’s pretty well
beyond the concept of shame, so he does.
A wave of night-cool air fills the space against his back as Dean rolls off of
him. He’s obnoxiously artfully disheveled spread out there in the starlight,
all sweaty and flushed with his kilt hiked up over the soft, wet hang of his
dick.
Considering what just went down, Sam should probably have some kind of
psychological trauma about this that will further complicate his personal and
sexual development. Probably should not feel his stomach clench with a flood of
want like a fist in his gut and his cock jerk, sticky and almost painful,
through the dirt. On the other hand, those things might be one and the same. He
finds he doesn’t mind all that much.
“Did it work?” he repeats, pointlessly, really, when he can feel something he
can’t put words to thrumming at the back of his head. Something new and yet
familiar, like a wall in him just got torn down and he can finally get a feel
for what was on the other side all this time.
Dean smirks and ruffles a hand through Sam’s hair, spreading more grime around,
he’s sure. At this point it’s not like a little more is going to make a
difference.
In one terrifying second it pings in Sam’s head how bad this could go. He can
see it all playing out in front of his eyes, Dean slapping him on the back and
telling him he did good and never ever touching Sam with anything more than
brotherly intent ever again. Because the sex wasn’t a big deal, just something
they had to do because Seelie laws are screwy and so old-school it’s scary, but
it wasn’t like Dean really wanted to fuck him, never said what would come of it
after, and Sam had been trying so hard not to think about it. Dean was just
doing his job as leader of the clan, sealing the bond with his blood and his
body and if it had to be his own little brother, then whatever, while Sam was
there gagging for it, eager and obvious and not even having the decency to care
that he was giving all his own secrets away. Dean probably has people falling
all over themselves all the time trying to get him into bed. Why would he want
skinny, awkward Sam who never fits in and never feels the way he’s supposed to
and-
God, Dean’s mouth is hot. Wet, slick heat and suction and enough tongue to make
Sam forget how to breathe when it rubs at the underside of his own.
“Welcome to the family, kiddo,” Dean murmurs, lips dragging damp against Sam’s.
Everything dragging against Sam’s, because then Dean’s rolling him over onto
his back and stretching out over him, tacky skin and gritty soil and the
shuddery, too-much friction of wool on his spent-but-getting-hard-anyway dick.
Sam’s not really sure what to make of that, but with Dean sucking little bites
into his neck and running the rough pad of his thumb over Sam’s nipple in these
endless, teasing circles, he’s not sure it matters.
He’ll ask later.
Much later.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
