Burn prt 2

[stillrose]

Title: Burn prt. 2
Fandom: Supernatural  
Prompt:
Warnings:  pre-Slash (WILL be slash in later parts), wincest, language, dubious con, bondage
Rating: R-NC17
Summary: Sammy needs to get away from Dean.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Sam and Dean; just borrowing them. All I own is what my cats don’t want.

Ok, I honestly thought this would take me longer to write. I will credit all the wonderful feedback I've received for the momentum and energy to get this second part done (so please if you like it let me know-as I said before this is my first time out doing slash or fanfic at all).

It's now betaed; once again thanks to my sweetie.

…Sam opened his eyes and inched his fingers forward. Soon, Sam was caressing jagged metal. Quickly Sam hooked a finger over the keys and then began to ease them back out of Dean’s pocket.

    “Sam,” Dean’s voice was as tight, sudden and firm as the grip that clenched Sam’s wrist, “Bro, what do ya think you’re doing?”

Sam moved on instinct and jerked his hand and body backward. Dean moved just as instinctually and let Sam’s momentum aid in lifting him up, carrying him forward and crashing into Sam.

The brothers slammed together; as always the immoveable object meeting the unstoppable force.

“Let me go, Dean,” Sam pleaded.

“To her?” Dean growled. “Not gonna happen.”

“You know it’s the only way.” Sam maneuvered his left foot behind Dean’s right leg and swept upwards, using his lean strength and the extra leverage from his superior height to throw his brother. Dean’s left hand quickly reached up and grabbed a handful of Sam’s thick brown hair. Where the head goes, Dean mentally recited as gravity took hold, the body must follow.

“No...UMPH!” Dean grunted as he landed on the floor with Sam on top of him. Sam lost hold of the keys at the surprise move and impact.  Dean knew he had the advantage in a ground fight. Dean had the superior weight and lower center of gravity with his shorter height. Tactical mistake, little brother, Dean thought.

“No,” Dean repeated as he rolled with his right hand firmly tangled in Sam’s hair and his legs snaking around Sam’s waist. “I don’t know it’s the only way.”

Sam launched a roundhouse punch towards Dean’s face. Dean blocked the punch with his left arm and let his weight settle on Sam’s upper thighs. For a brief moment Sam froze, his eyes widened and he couldn’t draw air into his lungs fast enough.

Fuck! Dean!  Heat flared through Sam and where the desire for her had been a red flame, the heat from Dean touching Sam so close to his center of need was a pure blue flare of scorching heat.

Sam began to violently arch and buck underneath Dean. He wasn’t sure whether it was an attempt free to himself or if it had a darker purpose he couldn’t acknowledge.

“Oh god, Dean!” Sam exclaimed somewhere between a moan and a plea. “Please let me go.”

“Sammy,” Dean said in a voice gruff with exhaustion, fear and unshed tears, “if I let you go…if you go to that bitch you will die.”

“I don’t care!” Sam screamed as he stopped bucking and tried to launch another desperate flurry of punches to Dean’s face.

Dean kept his weight on Sam’s legs and pulled his knees tight against Sam locking his lower body as best he could into place. Dean had wrestled with his brother too many times not to know how quickly Sam could get the upper hand if he got his long legs up and round Dean’s neck. Sam got one solid punch across Dean’s left check before Dean was able to counter and then grab Sam’s wrists.

“I DO!” Dean snarled as he jerked Sam’s hands down in front of him and pinned them on top of Sam’s stomach.

Sam groaned. Oh god! Too close! His hands; his fingers were too close to Dean’s heat! Memories of his study of Dean while he slept flashed through Sam’s mind and the desire threatened to choke him.

Dean felt Sam still underneath him. His brother’s sweat-slicked hair was sticking to his forehead and his breathing was fast. Dean was reminded of when Sam was little and had had night terrors. Dean would find him with the same sweat-soaked hair and heaving chest. Then Dean could make it all better with a glass of water, a brush of fingers to smooth the hair away and a knock-knock joke.

Dean wasn’t a college boy, but he didn’t have to be to know they were long past water and knock-knock jokes. Hell, even if he was half as slow on the uptake as Sam thought he was, the tell-tale bulge in Sam’s jeans which had only increased during their fight, was enough to let Dean know they were well past knock-knocks and had streaked past “Letters to Penthouse.”

“Please,” Sam said softly and he looked at Dean with hazel eyes full of terror and need. “Please, Dean, I can’t do this any more.”

“Sam,” Dean replied softly, “and you know I can’t just let you go.”

“You could. I could go and it would be over.”

“Is that what you want? You really want to die?”

“I just want this to stop. It’s only going to get worse. If I go now…” Sam couldn’t finish. He couldn’t articulate the possibilities that might happen if he was forced to stay.

“Jess is dead,” Sam started again. “Without her there’s no hope this ends.”

Dean inwardly flinched. Why the fuck did it always come back to Jess? Yeah, he thought, she had seemed like a nice girl. Yeah, she had been hot too. And yeah, Sam had loved her, but how long was Sam going to suffer from her death? How long would he be tormented by it?

“Is that what you want me to tell Dad?” Dean asked.

Sam gave a bitter laugh. “Dad would have to care enough to return a call before you could tell him anything.”

“Don’t you say…,” Dean unconsciously leaned forward as he started the automatic defense of John Winchester. Sam seized the opportunity and snaked a long leg up around and in front of Dean, pressing him back.

Dean fell backwards, his hands releasing Sam’s wrists. However, Dean managed to rewrap his legs around Sam’s waist keeping him close. Now it was Dean who was flat on his back again with Sam on top. Once again Dean felt the firm feel of Sam’s length pressing against him. Sam’s hands pinned Dean’s shoulders to the floor. Dean looked up at Sam to see just how much control Sam really had.

Red and blue flames collided in Sam and he looked down to see Dean’s hazel-green eyes staring up at him with unasked questions.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, caught between two desires and being torn apart by the consequences of giving into either.

From the moment that terrible night twenty-two years ago when their father had placed baby Sam into four-year-old Dean’s arms and ordered him to get Sam out of the burning house, Dean had always taken care of his brother. Whatever the situation, whatever the cost, Dean put Sam first. It wasn’t just because his father had trusted him with the precious life; it was because in those terrifying moments Sam had looked at Dean and somehow Dean knew Sam trusted Dean. The fact was simple: Dean loved Sam without reservation, question or condition. So if the hard calls had to be made, Dean would make them.

“I’m sorry Sammy,” Dean whispered and then before Sam could react Dean crossed his wrists in front of Sam’s neck, grabbed the back of his collar and squeezed, cutting off the blood flow in the carotid arteries to Sam’s brain.

TBC in prt 3