I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

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Fic: don't bet on the matador (SPN, Sam/Dean, NC-17)

don't bet on the matador
Author: Regala Electra
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Spoilers: S3, set after Fresh Blood
Word Count: 2,615
Summary: So here’s Dean getting shoved against a dresser that never saw a good day since the poor bastard put it together with rusty nails and a prayer, his boxers shoved down, and goddamn, Sam’s breathing down his neck.
Author’s Notes: ignited as always proved much assistance and deserves major thanks for listening to me during the middle of a sugar-and-caffeine induced high.
Feedback is appreciated.


Trouble is that they're too thick-headed to let anything quiet down.

Good in that there's no sign of this ending, bad in that there's no sign of this calming down into the comforts of routine, ordinary, something they can count on, more than that they'll always be there for each other except when they're not.


Trouble is that they’re both too thick-headed.

This isn’t going to work.


Sometimes it runs over them, more than just pressure building. Look at this here barometer going wonky, only, no man, first ya gotta look out, it's freak season and everyone's spoiling for a fight. Only way things are going: bad.

It's this kinda set up: fresh out of the shower and a want and need stretching to the breaking point. Tossing a wet towel smack in Sam’s face, and Dean's laughing as he starts getting dressed, only got underwear on, not enough. When Sam launches up from the bed, fuck, what should be a mistake, start of a fight that won’t last long. But then his arm’s twisted behind him ‘cause Sam’s putting all his weight into it and Dean’s too fucking surprised to retaliate.

So here’s Dean getting shoved against a dresser that never saw a good day since the poor bastard put it together with rusty nails and a prayer, his boxers shoved down, and goddamn, Sam’s breathing down his neck. Not just a figure of speech, he can feel it, hot and moist, Sam panting against skin, lips close but not touching.

Dean nearly knocks Sam out when he rears back, twisting his head to give Sam an evil stare, real challenge, and no, this isn't going to be nice, not at all.


It starts off with Dean wanting to go to the rodeo and Sam trying to figure out how to explain how much the idea of seeing some jerk showing off a questionable career of subjugating an enraged bull for entertainment disgusts him.

There’s a short argument and Dean only presses a few buttons, needles him with jabs intending to hurt. He asks if Sam's always been so tenderhearted around other critters and how maybe he should have given more consideration about those who don't have a sporting chance.

“Don’t—” Sam tries to say but Dean’s on a roll.

And here he does it, brings up a girl who had the misfortune to be possessed by a bitch who felt like jerking around Sam and oh, that settles it.

Sam storms out of the dinner and Dean doesn't chase after him.

Calls him, hours later but the dust's not settled, uneasy pause before Dean says, a little nervous, “Sammy?” and Sam finally tells Dean where he is. Announces that he'll walk back to the motel and ends the call before Dean can say another word.

It’s the sort of fighting that Sam should be accustomed to by now. It doesn’t dissipate by walking out his anger but Sam takes a page out of Dean’s book and starts lying to himself, foolish conviction in place that he doesn’t really care.


It's the kind of motel where the water looks like it oughtta be running brown but somehow it runs clear after knocking on the faucet once, twice, and oh yeah, third time's the charm. The horrible noise just means that the pipes are still working, that’s all.

Rundown’s a nice way of saying the place is shithole but it’s the only motel that’s had a vacancy in the last fifty miles.

The only thing that doesn't look like it's ready to fall apart is this creepy wood carving squatting on the shared bedside table between the two double beds. It’s pretty hideous too, has nothing to do with the bullfighting theme of the rest of the digs, and sticks out like a sore thumb. Which means Dean’s fascinated by it; this little totem pole man with unfinished edges, one of its faces disfigured, someone must've put out a cigarette a long time ago.

Dean picks the bed that isn't sagging in the middle and tries not to curse when a spring pokes through, mattress and all, snagging a new hole on his jeans, middle of his right asscheek, so he's out a pair of jeans.

It sets him off on a foul mood, 'cause there’s never been an occasion where he’s looked forward to getting a tetanus shot.

Sam’s hollow laugh doesn’t help matters, either.


Sam pushes back at Dean, not caring that there's a bleeding black encroaching in his field of vision. Doesn’t even care that Dean's distorted in the mirror because that at least isn't a surprise, the mirror was cracked long before. He makes a fumbling grasp for purchase, trying for Dean's shoulder but his fingers settle around Dean's neck, twisting in the cord of his necklace.

Distorted nostrils flare in the broken mirror and Dean hisses, “Don't you fucking grab my neck.”

“Don’t tell me—”

Doesn’t get to finish that because Dean grabs at Sam's wrist, a nasty twist that forces Sam to let go.

But Dean doesn’t let go. Digs his blunt fingers hard, leaving bruises, marks, waiting for Sam to give in, to cry out. Because Dean needs Sam to do something that’ll end this before it starts.

Sam won’t say a word and Dean lets go, worried eyes in the funhouse distortion clashing with the angry black-and-blue shadows of the face, the flared nostrils, annoyed twist of mouth.


There were no towels in the motel room when they got there but Dean charmed some towels out of the bleary-eyed maid while she was making the rounds. Sure, sometimes stealing's easier, but it's better to have no questions asked and this ain't exactly the kind of place where they keep track of towels.

Plus, this way he knows he got clean ones and he’s learned the hard way that it’s damn important to make sure you’re not getting a crusty towel.

Dean lobs one at Sam's head before Dean heads off in the bathroom, calling first dibs on showering as he's the one that scored 'em towels.

“Only enough room for one at a time, ya know?”

Says this after, after the argument at the diner, after they’d barely survived another fight against a monster that they should have been ready for, says it like what they’re doing doesn’t mean anything to him.


Sam kisses the back of Dean’s neck, a sucking kind of kiss, open-mouthed and clumsy.

Dean bucks up against him, hard, even with the bursting bloom bruise on his ass (evilest spring in the goddamn universe has to attack my fuckin’ ass, Dean had complained, before), he’s merciless and Sam’s pretty sure he isn’t doing it as a favor for Sam.

If Sam angles his head just right he can tell where the cheap shampoo ends and the generic soap begins, somewhere right at the back of Dean’s neck.

He doesn’t. Instead he bites the corded muscle at the juncture of neck and shoulder, counts down how many days ago Dean was bitten, and hates himself because he knows the exact time.

He’s been keeping count since the moment he learned one year left.


Sometimes you just gotta let the blood flow. Dean’s following that advice now as blood dribbles out of his nose onto cracked pavement. He’s pressing on the bridge of his nose with his right hand, still holding onto the bloody Kleenex, it’s red all over, only a coupla patches of white at this point, and when Sam tries to take it, Dean waves him off.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You stopped a wall with your face—”

“Nose. My nose,” Dean says, thickly, sounding for all the world like a pissy kid.

It’s when Sam tries to angle Dean’s face upwards, tries to see, that Dean stiffens, has to push Sam away, probably getting his blood all over Sam’s jacket and not caring one fucking bit.

“Stop it.”

“You need to stop acting like this doesn’t matter, Dean.”

Yeah, I ain’t concerned about the fucking river gushing out my nose, he wants to say but he just shoves Sam off of him, lumbering his way back to the Impala. Maybe by the time he gets there the bleeding’ll stop.

Old annoying saying: time heals all wounds.

Ain’t that a fuckin’ lie.


The swelling went down, amazing, even visible in the distorted mirror. Dean’s healing, changing back as he was, as he always will be, twenty-eight going on twenty-nine and nothing more than that.

Sam’s hand still hurts but it’s his left hand at least, not dominant, so he tugs down Dean’s boxers more, Dean’s only half-hard but all it takes is a little contact, disruptive strokes, alternating his grip, smooth and rough. Right hand on Dean’s dick as Dean hardens, his left hand on Dean’s hip, not to steady him but to return the favor, dig in bruises that won’t fade in the morning.

Dean’s gripping the top of the dresser like it’ll fall apart and Sam can’t bother to worry that it might.

Then he increases the speed, a jolting pump that has Dean bowing his face, not wanting to reveal what’s there. But he can’t hide it, the admission of it written all over his skin—tinge of red at the tips of his ears, familiar tell.

“You can’t do this,” Dean gasps, one hand over Sam’s, not stopping him, following the strokes, keeping the rhythm intact.

“What can’t I do?” Sam’s voice is bitter and he audibly swallows, something acidic in the spit, little wheeze. “What are you afraid of?”

Dean’s left hand snaps back, grabbing a fistful of Sam’s hair, yanking hard. “Not a-fuckin’-fraid, asshole. Shoving your dick up my ass ain’t gonna make you win.”

And like that, Sam’s mind almost clears but he clamps down on it, ignores the stinging pain as Dean continues clutching at his head.

“No, it won’t. But I’m doing this.” Adds, a lame finish, but it’s just the start, “Fucking you.”


Dean had said, long time ago, we’re goddamn fuckups, Sammy, an apology, the morning after, Sam’s spunk coated over Dean’s stomach. He was ready for round whateverthefuck—how many times did they go at it the night before?—lost count.

Things got weird and then things got back to being them and pretty soon Dean didn’t think, I’m fucking my brother but I’m fucking Sam.

“Please,” Sam said, once, in the middle of it, chaos and furniture upended, pushed against the walls, windows and doors, lame defense. “Please.”

And Dean lost that battle, heat of the moment, came needy and said, so goddamn stupid, “Yes.”


There’s all kind of familiar abuses that by the time Sam and Dean work at them, it’s almost a kindness. Like shoving down Dean’s boxers until Dean can spread his legs, better stance and Sam making him cant his hips just so, directions without words.

Yes, they might be saying stuff, but it isn’t helpful, Dean’s especially, cursing a blue streak at Sam in a way that he’s never done before. No thought is ending in a logical conclusion and his stream of consciousness rant dribbles away to “If you don’t use fuckin’ lube, I swear...”

“You’ll do the same to me?”

Sam unbuckles himself, shoving his jeans down enough, letting Dean feel his dick, pressing right against the crack.

Refrains from saying, don’t we deserve worse?


Dean leaves the weirdo totem-pole man in Sam’s bed after coming back from his tetanus shot. Pushes it under Sammy’s pillow, expecting a jolt, a what the hell is that?

Not even a friggin’ flinch, Sam snatches it out of the hiding spot, turning the unfinished and disfigured faces over to Dean’s side; his fixed bed that’s been rendered deadly spring-free.

“Not funny.”

“I’m bein’ serious. That was an invite. Get over here and suck my cock.”

It isn’t but Sam climbs over Dean, all frowns and little stress lines in his forehead.

“Too serious,” Dean tells Sam, nearly knocking Sam off the bed when he tries getting Sam under him, tussle that leaves them out of sorts.

“That’s okay,” Sam says, bumping into Dean’s still-bruised nose, which totally kills the goddamn mood.


Too many ifs to think about and Sam’s honestly not too concerned about thinking right now.

The mirror gets knocked off the flimsy support holding it up, another rusted nail, figures, everything’s falling apart.

It’s knocked behind the dresser and for a fleeting moment Sam wants to continue, fuck Dean up against this dresser until it breaks, pieces of broken mirror scattered across the floor.

He’s fingering Dean’s ass, keeps massaging right there, ignores Dean bitching, saying how he can do so much better.

But it’s one too many hard slams of the dresser against the wall, sudden sound of cracking, and it’ll end too soon. Only way to stop it is for Sam to pull out his fingers, shoving Dean towards the closest bed.

Dean doesn’t get up on his knees easy, Sam has to use every dirty trick he knows and still, Dean’s playing unfair, letting lube slick sheets, skin.

“Christ, Sam, condom,” Dean shouts when Sam has the head of his dick bumping against the hole.

It’s bumbling moments, almost lets the anger die down, fluttering somewhere deep inside, little question, how far can we go?. Could make it hurt for both of them, but Sam pays it no mind, rolling the condom on.

“You suck so bad.”

Sam’s pushing his dick into the tight entrance, Dean awkwardly splayed on elbows and knees, twitch of muscle, little ripple across his back. Dean grunts.

Slides in and out, slow at first, then a little quicker, little more force. A groan drags out of Dean, past clenched teeth.

“You were saying?”


It’s not fuckin’ perfect, Dean keeps on saying that much, doesn't give up anything.

When Sam thinks he’s got into the swing of things, Dean's right there to say congratulations, sarcasm almost as thick as the stink of sex in the air. What, like finding the prostate after how many past times that they’ve screwed around is some kinda friggin' reward?

It’s a way to be cruel that’s okay. Hurting in a good way, it's dirty talk, that's all, talk, psyching out the competition. But he and Sam, even playing the same field, never took it the same.

Sure, Dean might be a bastard for knowing that and not stopping but there’s more that Sam’s good at. Moment where it all slows down, stills, Sam coming inside of Dean.

It doesn’t mean it’s over—takes a breath, long and deep, not a sigh, not an ending—not by a long shot.


“This didn’t settle anything.”

Dean doesn’t seem to be interested in walking over to the other bed, or getting a pair of boxer-briefs that haven’t been messed up with sweat and semen and lube, so Sam doesn’t know why he thought Dean might have any interest in talking.

He’s already said exactly what he meant to say before.


In the morning, Dean waits until he’s sure Sam’s about to wake up before he starts jerking him off.

Enough practice—whole lotta fucking—has taught him when, how to catch Sam unawares and get him up by getting him off. It’s awesome, seeing Sam shooting his load all over his stomach, hadn’t even cleaned up from last night, so it’s extra nasty.

“Looks like the stubborn bastard won,” Dean says.


The most brutal lie of all: that there’s anything to be won or anything to be gained.

Trouble is that they’re both Winchesters.

Tags: fic, spn fic, wincest
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