Curse: Toccata & Fugue in D-Minor
by Maygra
Sam/Dean
NC17Remix challenge based on arby-m'sGift for the Spn_Remix Challenge.
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
Thanks to Bone and Raynedanser for the beta. Author's notes to follow.
(1,273 words)
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Sometimes, Sam pretends he's dreaming.
Given the current state of his overactive mind when he actually tries to sleep, he can see the irony of it.
But his dreams, his real dreams, even if they don't make him wake up sweating and screaming, are rarely pleasant.
So he pretends.
It's not that hard. It's not like he's pretending to sleep.
It's not like he isn't fully awake when Dean sits on the edge of his bed, hip pressed to Sam's with only the blankets separating them. In this dream, when Dean pushes his fingers through Sam's hair and sweeps his palm along Sam's skull and down along his neck with his thumb trailing along the outer edge of his jaw, Sam can turn his cheek into that caress and not worry about whether Dean thinks he's being too girly to crave that touch. In this dream, when Dean leans down and Sam reaches up, and their mouths come together, he doesn’t have to worry if finding the taste of his brother's mouth, with its mix of toothpaste and the ever lingering memory scent/taste of beer and the cigarettes Dean sometimes sneaks, isn't sweeter than summer wine.
In this dream, Sam doesn't have a brother, he has a lover.
Again.
Still.
In this dream he doesn't have to worry about Dean making fun of him for wanting to make love instead of just having sex. It doesn’t have to be hot or hard or urgent, tinged with guilt or fear or desperation. It doesn’t have to be lust alone or frustration, or even irrational, unreasonable affection.
He's dreaming. He doesn’t have to justify desire or want.
Or need.
In this dream he can pretend he doesn't know every place on Dean's body that makes him shiver, or sigh or gasp or moan, or chuckle against Sam's mouth. They are all new, every time and it's instinct, not knowledge that drives his touches, the pressure of his hand there just at the flat place along Dean's hip where the skin is thin and he can trace the line to the crease of Dean's pelvis. Or there, where the scrape of his teeth just under Dean's ear, along the tendon makes Dean suck in a deep breath and cant his head so Sam can bite lightly.
He discovers all over again that Dean's nipples are sensitive -- too sensitive to be bitten with much pressure, but not so sensitive that Sam can't suck and tease with his tongue until they bud small and hard against his lower lip. That if he blows on them Dean will curse softly and twist under him but not try to pull away.
He can palm Dean's dick hard and firm, press down with his thumb on the head of Dean's cock and suck on a nipple and Dean will buck up and grip Sam's hair and his shoulder, fuck Sam's hand and ask for more.
In his dream, it doesn't matter that the only man's dick he's ever had in his mouth is his brother's, that everything he knows about cock-sucking is customized for Dean and Dean alone.
He doesn't blush when Dean's voice settles soft and warm in his ears, "God, Sam…yes, like that, Jesus, your mouth is perfect…there, God there…yes, please…please, Sammy…" he only smiles and sometimes laughs when Dean can't form a coherent sentence, when his body loses all its grace and natural control.
He can close his eyes and press his hands to Dean's hips when he thrusts, when the hand in his hair tightens and pushes. He doesn't have to worry that his mouth and his throat and his tongue all seem to wrap around his brother's dick with just the right tension and pressure and suction without him thinking about it. He doesn't have to find anything unnerving about the fact that when Dean fucks his mouth, when Sam can feel his brother's cock at the back of his throat, pushing in, pushing down that Sam will consciously try not to breathe until dark spots dance on his closed eyelids and he feels light headed, and his body shakes and trembles and that being that close to passing out only makes him fall forward and down and push Dean's dick that much further into his throat.
That when he finally has to breathe, all involuntary and instinct, he gets a head rush and a jolt that sends heat and sensation all through him and makes him hard, sometimes makes him come without Dean ever touching his dick.
But like most of his dreams, he doesn't have a lot of control over it, and even as Dean's pleasure crests, Sam can't deny the thoughts pressing in unwanted and unbidden. We shouldn't do this. What am I doing to him? This is wrong, wrongwrongwrong…I shouldn't want this so badly…
It makes him work harder, take Dean deeper, teasing and taunting until Dean says, "Yes. Please, God, yes, Sam…" He comes in Sam's mouth, and Sam chokes a little and swallows, taking everything his brother has to offer, swallowing it like the guilt.
He doesn't know what Dean thinks, only what he says. Sometimes he wishes his erratic curse spilled over to telepathy or empathy, so he'd know that when Dean tugs him upward, when his hands curve around Sam's hips and his ass, when his mouth seeks out Sam's tongue, that it is more desire than obligation, more than reciprocation. He'd like to be sure that the thoughts crowding in on him are his own and not some spillover from Dean, that when Dean's hand strokes his dick in that perfect rhythm and level of pressure, it's because Dean knows him better than anyone. That when Dean murmurs against the skin under his ear, "I've got you, Sammy. I'll take care of you, baby," that it's because Dean wants it and not some reaction to a need Sam's projecting, forcing onto his brother.
It's still just a dream when Dean pulls on his shoulder, laying him out flat, still working his dick, eyes intent on Sam's face as he strokes and tickles and teases. "Let me see it, Sam…come on. I've got you. Let it go." His fingers dig into Sam's hair and his thumb strokes Sam's jaw, and in his dream, when Sam comes, Dean smiles, his pupils dilated and intent, face flushed and lips parted when Sam's come spills over his hand.
It's harder to keep it fixed as a dream when they clean up, when damp cloths and towels wipe away the come and the sweat, when Sam feels the lethargy in his limbs, and sees the lax grace in Dean's when he drops to the bed and puts his back to Sam, surrendering to sleep with an ease that should be reassuring.
The guilty don't sleep well.
So Dean sleeps and Sam lies awake for as long as he can, staring into the darkness, knowing the dreams he will have will be much less kind.
And later, when Dean wakes him from his nightmares, his voice soft and low and urgent, his breath warm and close on Sam's face, Sam will grip his wrist and say, "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Dean will say and wipe the tears from his face.
But in those moments between waking and sleeping Sam knows the guilt he feels isn't his alone, that the fear and regret that chase him in his sleep aren't his alone.
So, he won't sleep. Not until he has to, and let his waking dreams give him the forgiveness he needs more than he needs his brother.
~end~
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09/15/2006Author's Notes: I've never done a remix before, and this was certainly a challenge in the best sense of the word, in trying to find some aspect of another writer's work to take a spin on.
's story was significantly lighter and more fun and playful, and I found myself focusing on suggested bits rather than substance. I'm very, very thankful that she let me do this to her story. Comments? Send them to me at maygra [@] bellsouth.net or leave me a not in my livejournal.