Hi, can you tell school is out?
Visceral
Spoilers through 4x20, The Rapture, but not the previews.
Sequel to Sanguine, and a fair bit darker. R; is it bloodplay if there’s no sex?
Thanks to Thuvia and![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
giandujakiss for beta.
Dean knows Bobby had time to strip down the panic room, but no Winchester ever met a setting incapable of providing him a weapon and Sam’s a Winchester yet. Dean sags down into the chair next to Bobby and they watch Sam through the camera feed Bobby set up.
Sam curses; he shakes (Bobby turns his face away from Dean, but Dean knows it’s to spare him the sight of Bobby’s pity); he drinks a couple of the bottles of water Bobby left, then twists them apart, though the plastic is too soft to make even a crappy knife. He curses again; he searches for a weakness in the room, which he must know was never designed to hold anything in. He lies down on the thin mattress and stares up at the devil’s trap in the ceiling. The lights pattern his face like bruises. He curls himself up and shakes some more.
Bobby eventually goes to take a nap—he worked through the night to turn the panic room into a holding cell, and he ain’t gettin’ any younger. Dean wants to ask him: is anyone? But Bobby doesn’t deserve his anger so he keeps his fool mouth shut for once.
Sometime in the dead hours, Sam groans and raises his arm to his mouth.
Dean forgot: Sam brought his own weapons inside.
Moving as fast as he can without making a noise that might wake Bobby, Dean grabs a first aid kit and hauls ass down to the basement. He throws the locks without checking the window and charges in.
Sam hasn’t managed to hit a deep vein yet—teeth aren’t precision cutters—and by the look of him his own blood isn’t giving him the hit he needs. Dean takes a moment to bar the door, which will slow Sam down some in case he manages to get past Dean, and then drops to his knees by the bed.
Sam’s eyes are red and swollen. He doesn’t fight Dean when Dean pulls his arm away to inspect it. He just lies there on the cheap mattress, not like a corpse—Dean knows that for sure—but maybe like he’s dying.
Dean starts to fix what he can.
He doesn’t think Sam needs stitches, but the cut from the ghouls is barely healed and Sam’s ripped it apart, making it the worst wound by far. Dean gets out the surgical glue and presses the edges together. It’s not easy. He has to line the skin up just right, fast enough so that the glue can do its job. It’s messy and the light sucks and his head hurts, throbbing with his heartbeat like he just got another concussion even though the only thing that happened was that he found out just how far Sam was willing to go for his powers.
When the knife wound is closed again, he works on the bites: antibiotic ointment (the human mouth is filthy; he hears Sam’s bitter ‘so what?’ in his head, but Sam’s still not talking in reality so he ignores it), butterfly bandages, his fingers wiping away blood like it was just another kind of dirt.
“What are you doing, Sam?” he asks, without meaning to. He’s heard of guys in the desert drinking their own piss to survive, but it can’t be the same.
“You know what I was doing,” Sam says.
“You’re not possessed,” he says back, like that’s the flaw in Sam’s logic.
Sam smiles, his lips and chin dotted with his own blood. “It’s still in me. I can taste it. It’s just not enough to do anything.”
Dean’s supposed to roll his eyes, deny, yell.
He wasn’t lying all the way when he told Sam that he was tired. So instead of doing any of the things Dean Winchester (gripped tight and raised from perdition) is supposed to do, he brings up his bloody thumb and swipes his tongue across it, slow.
Dean knows this taste. It’s the flavor souls bleed in Hell their last time on his rack, just as their eyes start reflecting Hellfire in all its glory. The sense memory puts him there again, screams of the damned hot in his ears, stoking the rage inside him—their whining and their useless pain so much like his own; Alastair never said outright but maybe if Dean showed enough of them the error of their ways his own shredded insides would re-knit, seamless and shining like the damned were when they left him.
It’s not sulfur, this taste. It’s more like fire. Dean should know. He’s had his tongue burned out of his mouth enough times to recognize it.
“Dean,” Sam says, shock and something else ringing in his voice. He sits up, putting himself on the edge of the mattress so his legs bracket Dean, down there on the cold concrete.
“You tasted my blood,” Sam says, each word heavier now, swelling near to bursting. “Look at me, Dean.”
Direct order like that, and Dean wants to disobey more than he wants to keep breathing, but wanting never did shit for him, so he lifts his head. Sam’s shoulders are shaking, his eyes bright as summer stars out in the middle of nowhere.
“You have to let me, now. It’s only fair.”
Dean just stares. He stares until Sam grabs his left arm, Sam’s thumb pressing down on the skin of his inner forearm, his fingers like steel cables. Sam holds Dean’s arm between them like it’s a precious artifact, like it’s a gun full of silver bullets and a werewolf’s at the door.
Dean doesn’t struggle as Sam tugs him into a crouch, enough that Sam can grab the knife out of his back pocket. Sam flicks it open, and Dean thinks for half a second that it was stupid to come in armed, but Sam isn’t trying to go anywhere. All his attention is on Dean.
Sam slices high, near the inner elbow, like he knows just where he wants to get the best angle. Before the pain hits, before a single drop has time to hit the floor, he’s got his mouth on Dean’s skin, sealed around the cut.
The sound Sam makes is like—it’s a sound from the bowels of Hell; it’s orgasmic. He sucks like he’s two minutes away from dying of thirst. He sucks like he needs Dean the way he needed him twenty-six years ago.
He pulls off just long enough to raise astonished eyes to Dean’s. “You—it’s not demon. I think—I think maybe it’s angel.”
And then his mouth is on Dean again. He’s making thrilled, desperate little noises. Dean’s balance is bad like this. He leans into Sam because he’ll topple otherwise.
Dean remembers Castiel and the little Novak girl, the one whose blood made her a host, and then he thinks about the scar on his shoulder. Sam got fed demon, and it changed him; Dean got angel burned into him, and it was the same. Angels are dicks and demons lie and Winchesters, they just have to take it.
Of course Sam figured it out first. Nobody ever claimed that Dean was the brains of the operation.
Sam pulls him onto the mattress. He’s straddling Sam’s lap, Sam’s arm wrapped around his back to keep him in place, pressed as close as possible. Dean doesn’t mean to flinch, but Sam feels it, and it’s even enough to make Sam stop. His face flushes obscenely pink, shocking contrast to his red-smeared mouth. “Sorry,” he says, his eyes still on Dean’s arm. “It’s just physical.” He bends again, and Dean lets him, says nothing back, because he seriously does not have the first idea why Sam would think that it was better that it’s the blood that makes Sam hard.
His tongue is hot and strong, chasing each spurt; he’s only just under Dean’s skin but it feels like he’s stuck his hands under Dean’s ribcage, arrowing towards his heart. Dean kind of wants to throw up and then he kind of wants to pass out, but he’s not that lucky. Would Sam stop if Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head and Dean went as limp as wet laundry? Probably, he thinks. Almost for sure. Don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Or maybe it should be, don’t buy a cow when you can get the milk for free. Fairytales are true, so no surprise about proverbs. Dean realizes that this is blood loss, fucking with his head, but it feels like revelation.
The suction slows. How much blood fits in a stomach, anyway? Sam would know, and Dean bites down hard on his lip (not hard enough to draw blood, not that hard) to keep from laughter.
Sam pulls off, presses his hand to the cut, fresh salt pain like another slice across Dean’s arm. Sam should go for the kit, more bandages for more scars, but instead he leans into Dean, tugging him close, hot palm pressing damply through Dean’s shirt and into his spine. His chin digs into Dean’s chest, and he’s shaking or Dean is.
“This, this is amazing,” he says. He sounds like Dean just gave him the best present ever, back when the best present ever was some dictionary the size of a spare tire or a full year in the same place. “I don’t need Ruby if I—I missed you,” Sam says, and Dean brings his free hand around to cup the back of Sam’s neck, tangling in the sweaty curls there. Sam smells of the road, sweat and blood and exhaust, things left over after the fire.
“You and me, not gonna let you leave me again,” Sam tells him, completely convincing. Dean’s cut throbs in time with Sam’s pulse. Sam curls even closer, strong and solid. Together they are an eight-limbed monster, like some giant deformed spider. Castiel would recoil in horror. Even Ruby might shut her fucking mouth and back away. “You and me,” Sam says again, “take care of each other, just like we’re supposed to,” and the worst of it, the thing that shuts the door of the torture chamber that is Dean’s life, is this:
The tears running down Dean’s cheeks are tears of joy.
Visceral
Spoilers through 4x20, The Rapture, but not the previews.
Sequel to Sanguine, and a fair bit darker. R; is it bloodplay if there’s no sex?
Thanks to Thuvia and
giandujakiss for beta.Dean knows Bobby had time to strip down the panic room, but no Winchester ever met a setting incapable of providing him a weapon and Sam’s a Winchester yet. Dean sags down into the chair next to Bobby and they watch Sam through the camera feed Bobby set up.
Sam curses; he shakes (Bobby turns his face away from Dean, but Dean knows it’s to spare him the sight of Bobby’s pity); he drinks a couple of the bottles of water Bobby left, then twists them apart, though the plastic is too soft to make even a crappy knife. He curses again; he searches for a weakness in the room, which he must know was never designed to hold anything in. He lies down on the thin mattress and stares up at the devil’s trap in the ceiling. The lights pattern his face like bruises. He curls himself up and shakes some more.
Bobby eventually goes to take a nap—he worked through the night to turn the panic room into a holding cell, and he ain’t gettin’ any younger. Dean wants to ask him: is anyone? But Bobby doesn’t deserve his anger so he keeps his fool mouth shut for once.
Sometime in the dead hours, Sam groans and raises his arm to his mouth.
Dean forgot: Sam brought his own weapons inside.
Moving as fast as he can without making a noise that might wake Bobby, Dean grabs a first aid kit and hauls ass down to the basement. He throws the locks without checking the window and charges in.
Sam hasn’t managed to hit a deep vein yet—teeth aren’t precision cutters—and by the look of him his own blood isn’t giving him the hit he needs. Dean takes a moment to bar the door, which will slow Sam down some in case he manages to get past Dean, and then drops to his knees by the bed.
Sam’s eyes are red and swollen. He doesn’t fight Dean when Dean pulls his arm away to inspect it. He just lies there on the cheap mattress, not like a corpse—Dean knows that for sure—but maybe like he’s dying.
Dean starts to fix what he can.
He doesn’t think Sam needs stitches, but the cut from the ghouls is barely healed and Sam’s ripped it apart, making it the worst wound by far. Dean gets out the surgical glue and presses the edges together. It’s not easy. He has to line the skin up just right, fast enough so that the glue can do its job. It’s messy and the light sucks and his head hurts, throbbing with his heartbeat like he just got another concussion even though the only thing that happened was that he found out just how far Sam was willing to go for his powers.
When the knife wound is closed again, he works on the bites: antibiotic ointment (the human mouth is filthy; he hears Sam’s bitter ‘so what?’ in his head, but Sam’s still not talking in reality so he ignores it), butterfly bandages, his fingers wiping away blood like it was just another kind of dirt.
“What are you doing, Sam?” he asks, without meaning to. He’s heard of guys in the desert drinking their own piss to survive, but it can’t be the same.
“You know what I was doing,” Sam says.
“You’re not possessed,” he says back, like that’s the flaw in Sam’s logic.
Sam smiles, his lips and chin dotted with his own blood. “It’s still in me. I can taste it. It’s just not enough to do anything.”
Dean’s supposed to roll his eyes, deny, yell.
He wasn’t lying all the way when he told Sam that he was tired. So instead of doing any of the things Dean Winchester (gripped tight and raised from perdition) is supposed to do, he brings up his bloody thumb and swipes his tongue across it, slow.
Dean knows this taste. It’s the flavor souls bleed in Hell their last time on his rack, just as their eyes start reflecting Hellfire in all its glory. The sense memory puts him there again, screams of the damned hot in his ears, stoking the rage inside him—their whining and their useless pain so much like his own; Alastair never said outright but maybe if Dean showed enough of them the error of their ways his own shredded insides would re-knit, seamless and shining like the damned were when they left him.
It’s not sulfur, this taste. It’s more like fire. Dean should know. He’s had his tongue burned out of his mouth enough times to recognize it.
“Dean,” Sam says, shock and something else ringing in his voice. He sits up, putting himself on the edge of the mattress so his legs bracket Dean, down there on the cold concrete.
“You tasted my blood,” Sam says, each word heavier now, swelling near to bursting. “Look at me, Dean.”
Direct order like that, and Dean wants to disobey more than he wants to keep breathing, but wanting never did shit for him, so he lifts his head. Sam’s shoulders are shaking, his eyes bright as summer stars out in the middle of nowhere.
“You have to let me, now. It’s only fair.”
Dean just stares. He stares until Sam grabs his left arm, Sam’s thumb pressing down on the skin of his inner forearm, his fingers like steel cables. Sam holds Dean’s arm between them like it’s a precious artifact, like it’s a gun full of silver bullets and a werewolf’s at the door.
Dean doesn’t struggle as Sam tugs him into a crouch, enough that Sam can grab the knife out of his back pocket. Sam flicks it open, and Dean thinks for half a second that it was stupid to come in armed, but Sam isn’t trying to go anywhere. All his attention is on Dean.
Sam slices high, near the inner elbow, like he knows just where he wants to get the best angle. Before the pain hits, before a single drop has time to hit the floor, he’s got his mouth on Dean’s skin, sealed around the cut.
The sound Sam makes is like—it’s a sound from the bowels of Hell; it’s orgasmic. He sucks like he’s two minutes away from dying of thirst. He sucks like he needs Dean the way he needed him twenty-six years ago.
He pulls off just long enough to raise astonished eyes to Dean’s. “You—it’s not demon. I think—I think maybe it’s angel.”
And then his mouth is on Dean again. He’s making thrilled, desperate little noises. Dean’s balance is bad like this. He leans into Sam because he’ll topple otherwise.
Dean remembers Castiel and the little Novak girl, the one whose blood made her a host, and then he thinks about the scar on his shoulder. Sam got fed demon, and it changed him; Dean got angel burned into him, and it was the same. Angels are dicks and demons lie and Winchesters, they just have to take it.
Of course Sam figured it out first. Nobody ever claimed that Dean was the brains of the operation.
Sam pulls him onto the mattress. He’s straddling Sam’s lap, Sam’s arm wrapped around his back to keep him in place, pressed as close as possible. Dean doesn’t mean to flinch, but Sam feels it, and it’s even enough to make Sam stop. His face flushes obscenely pink, shocking contrast to his red-smeared mouth. “Sorry,” he says, his eyes still on Dean’s arm. “It’s just physical.” He bends again, and Dean lets him, says nothing back, because he seriously does not have the first idea why Sam would think that it was better that it’s the blood that makes Sam hard.
His tongue is hot and strong, chasing each spurt; he’s only just under Dean’s skin but it feels like he’s stuck his hands under Dean’s ribcage, arrowing towards his heart. Dean kind of wants to throw up and then he kind of wants to pass out, but he’s not that lucky. Would Sam stop if Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head and Dean went as limp as wet laundry? Probably, he thinks. Almost for sure. Don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Or maybe it should be, don’t buy a cow when you can get the milk for free. Fairytales are true, so no surprise about proverbs. Dean realizes that this is blood loss, fucking with his head, but it feels like revelation.
The suction slows. How much blood fits in a stomach, anyway? Sam would know, and Dean bites down hard on his lip (not hard enough to draw blood, not that hard) to keep from laughter.
Sam pulls off, presses his hand to the cut, fresh salt pain like another slice across Dean’s arm. Sam should go for the kit, more bandages for more scars, but instead he leans into Dean, tugging him close, hot palm pressing damply through Dean’s shirt and into his spine. His chin digs into Dean’s chest, and he’s shaking or Dean is.
“This, this is amazing,” he says. He sounds like Dean just gave him the best present ever, back when the best present ever was some dictionary the size of a spare tire or a full year in the same place. “I don’t need Ruby if I—I missed you,” Sam says, and Dean brings his free hand around to cup the back of Sam’s neck, tangling in the sweaty curls there. Sam smells of the road, sweat and blood and exhaust, things left over after the fire.
“You and me, not gonna let you leave me again,” Sam tells him, completely convincing. Dean’s cut throbs in time with Sam’s pulse. Sam curls even closer, strong and solid. Together they are an eight-limbed monster, like some giant deformed spider. Castiel would recoil in horror. Even Ruby might shut her fucking mouth and back away. “You and me,” Sam says again, “take care of each other, just like we’re supposed to,” and the worst of it, the thing that shuts the door of the torture chamber that is Dean’s life, is this:
The tears running down Dean’s cheeks are tears of joy.
Tags:
From:
no subject
Dean is so fucked.
is it bloodplay if there’s no sex?
Whaddya mean, "no sex"?! Or, er, yes. I would say so.
...still with the Wow
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Dude, I wasn't even referring to that. ::grin:: ::is kinky::
I've been catching up on your SPN fic, lately, and am really loving it. I mean you did the thing with the car and the genderfuck het and I, just, could read a lot more. So, Thank You! :D
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
And yet, yeah.
Oh, boys. You're so fucked up.
From:
no subject
From:
I might drink Dean's blood if it tasted like angel food cake, but...
It's interesting, because I didn't think this story was darker than the first, though Dean is a bit. But Dean is always darker from his own pov. Sammy's just so elated that Dean tastes of angel, like omg I'd hoped you'd be better than Ruby, but WOW you are even better than my wettest of wet dreams! Sam is always creepiest when he's little boy sweet.
It makes me go OH DEAN that he's crying tears of joy that he's the center of Sammy's universe again, and willing to let Sammy drink his blood to keep it that way. Oh, Dean. BABY. Next thing I know, you'll be wearing black eyeliner and a trench coat. Actually, never mind. I approve!
From:
Re: I might drink Dean's blood if it tasted like angel food cake, but...
Really, is anyone surprised that Dean would offer up pieces of his own body to be Sam's touchstone again?
From:
no subject
Seems like with the Winchesters some passions go right out the other side of sex into something else--something you've really captured in these fics! And blood*play*...I don't know about the *play* part...
And yeah, darker, because it's for real this time! But I like how you've kept Sam's (crazy) childlike desire for presents, for Dean to give him stuff. And, no, Dean can't ever refuse! So true, in a stomach-clenching kind of way!
Also, I love how it connects up with Dean's memories of Hell--
thanks!
From:
no subject
I'm glad you liked it!
ETA one of the key phrases!
From:
no subject
To me it did not feel like bloodplay at all, it was all about Dean suckling his baby Sammy. I don't know what to call it, it's not really a kink if it makes me laugh and laugh, rather than turn me on, is it?
I associate bloodplay with S/M and symbolic cannibalism or death-sacrifice, and it tends to turn me off, which sometimes made reading Buffy fic a challenge. This fic focuses on Dean nourishing and loving Sam, and does not give me masochistic/cannibalistic associations any more than breastfeeding or blood-donation does.
I understand how dangerous what they're doing is, and that Dean is too willing to give too much of himself, but still, "Visceral" is not even a little dark to me, the way "Sanguine" was by having Sam have predatory fantasies about Dean.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
The pelican thing sounds vaguely familiar. My primary nurturing someone with blood association is to Clytemnestra nurturing the serpent on her breast, which is rather dark, but it's the betrayal by the snake, not the selflessness of Clytemnestra which is dark.
The focus of Visceral is on Dean's love and self-sacrifice, which fills me with bubbly glee rather than any angst or sympathetic fear. I think I often understand the word "dark" differently than other people use it. I've seen it used to describe schmoopy h/c with an uplifting hopeful ending, because the h part was deliberately inflicted wounds, and I've seen horribly depressing and bleak fics about the futility of love and life as "not as dark as my usual stuff".
My personal use of it also depends on canon context. If Chuck developed an addiction to sucking people's power through their blood, and Sarah had to sacrifice herself to keep him out of the clutches of soul-destroying evil, I would think that was a very dark fic indeed. But Sam's dangerous addiction is canon, and Dean's over the top self-sacrifice likewise, so your fic is really about finding some sort of equilibrium, a tolerable state of lesser evil that allows the brothers to regain their lost closeness, which makes it comparatively happy fun times.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Seeing Dean's actions in that light, even with my idiosyncratic use of the word, I would agree that your fic is very dark indeed. I must admit I hadn't read it like that. I saw Dean more as temporarily giving in to his possessive need to be needed, since they are at Bobby's place, and Dean has let Sam go before - of course that was while he still had his dad.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject