RockStarPeach

Okay, so there's this fic I've been wanting to write for a couple of weeks now and I just couldn't. Turns out, if you just launch Word and start typing? That helps!

Title: Between Asleep and Awake

Pairing: Dean/Sam, Sam/Lucifer

Rating: R

Word count: 1500

Summary: Set sometime after 7.02. Back in his own head with Lucifer riding shotgun, Sam doesn’t always know what’s real and what isn’t. Even when him and Dean are intimate. He tries really hard, though.

Warnings: Non-con. Non-con spooning (YAY!)



***

Sam’s fine.

He’s trapped, body held tight and still on his hands and knees with his ass tilted up and a ragged pillow between his teeth, but he’s fine. The pillow smells of blood and come and rot and the mattress is rough, a million tiny pinpricks scratching through his flesh so he can feel himself bleed down his shins and the skin rub raw on the palms of his hands with every thrust forward, but he’s fine.

He’s got Lucifer in his ear, reminding him over and over what a bitch he is, what a pretty little bitch. How hopeless and weak and pathetic. How nobody loves him, nobody’s coming for him, how his own brother sent him here, opened the gate and everything, the first time. How Lucifer’s all he’s got now, because Michael, for all his pious righteousness, doesn’t give two shits what happens to Sam.

He has his own problems and even though Michael and Lucifer have their issues, they’re brothers, family. Michael loves him and as long as Lucifer can’t get out, Michael’s willing to let him have his fun.

And it’s a whole lot of fun, Lucifer can’t help but remind him.

Over and over.

Shit yeah, Sammy Lucifer purrs, breath warm and wet over the shell of Sam’s ear as a shiver runs down Sam’s spine and freezes him from the inside out, but he’s fine.

He’s fine because it’s not Lucifer at all, he knows that. Knows it. It’s Dean. It’s Dean’s soft growl caressing his ear, Dean’s front pressed to his back, Dean’s lips ghosting over the skin of his neck and Dean’s tongue slipping out to lick over his pulse until he shivers with need.

It’s the stubble on Dean’s cheek brushing against his own, scratching and making him itch, pissing him off the same as it used to, making him want to bat Dean away and tell him to come back after he’s shaved. The sharp knobs of Dean’s hips, not anyone else’s, are pressing into the soft flesh of Sam’s ass and the thighs that are pressed up against the backs of Sam’s can’t belong to anyone but his brother.

It’s Dean. Around him, inside him, flesh to flesh and heart to heart, it’s Dean.

He can feel Dean’s heart beating against his back, feel Dean’s cock throbbing inside his ass. He concentrates on Dean’s whisper-soft mantra ‘Sam, Sammy, fuck, yes, mine, love you, you’re fine, you’re fine I promise’ and it almost means something.

He believes it, believes Dean, he does, he wants to. Because he should. He knows he should. He knows because he knows what he should feel, what he used to feel, when they did this before.

He wants to feel all that again, knows he will eventually and it’ll be easier if he doesn’t fight it, but for now he feels Dean’s teeth in the back of his neck as Dean speeds up, gets closer. Feels Dean’s fist around his cock as he pulls Sam along with him.

He feels Dean’s hand over his arm, sliding down and pinching, nails digging and it becomes clearer, more present, more perfect the harder Dean thrusts, the more it hurts.

The seconds tick by and he feels Dean spurt inside him, warm and wet and Sam loves it, knows he should love it and it’s not until Dean’s fingers slide over his wrist and press hard into the cut palm of his left hand that Sam joins him, comes over Dean’s fist and cries out in agony.

There’s probably some pleasure mixed in there too, but that’s not what pushes him over. Without the pain, it’s not real.

Sam takes three seconds out from concentrating on Dean Dean Dean to wonder if it’s always going to be like this, vacant and far away. But then Dean cups his chin and wrenches his head around, presses his lips to Sam’s and kisses him long and deep and dirty, splits Sam’s lip on his teeth and bruises them both, and Sam thinks it might be good enough.

It’s Dean. It’s Dean and he’s fine.

He’s fine until Dean slows the kiss, gentles the press of his lips and loosens his tongue. His heart stutters, stops and beats double because Lucifer did this too, after. After Sam was used and beaten and bloody, past fighting, past sobbing and far away, Lucifer would draw him back, slow and sweet and gentle with perfect kisses and impossibly soft touches. Whispers and promises of freedom so easily broken and declarations of affection and vows to love him forever and ever.

When he was feeling particularly cruel, Lucifer would wear his brother’s face.

But this is Dean. It is.

It’s Dean who smiles at him now, kisses the corner of his mouth and tells him, “It’s okay, Sammy. I got you.”

It’s Dean who rubs his nose along the hard line of Sam’s jaw and laughs when Sam wrinkles his nose when it tickles.

It’s Dean who lets go of his injured hand and rubs the protruding bones of his wrist in slow circles and it’s Dean who forces Sam down on the bed underneath him when he collapses.

Lucifer couldn’t hope to emulate that lack of style if he had a step by step manual. It’s a thought that makes Sam smile.

And then suddenly he’s bare, he’s alone and cold, he’s empty as Dean rolls away from him and he’s caught between relieved and desperate to have Dean closer again.

Desperate wins out, but not for long.

Because it’s not Dean. It’s not because there’s an arm around his waist then, pulling Sam back as a body moves forward, fits Sam into the curves and groves of ribs and hips and thighs. Dean never does this, never has. He’s never curled up behind Sam after sex, usually just kisses him, makes a face and rolls over.

Lucifer’s the one who… Lucifer likes to spoon. Dean doesn’t. It’s how Sam could always tell the difference, even when he was crazy.

Sam struggles, flails his arm and wrenches it backward, hoping to hit something, to knock free, but the arm just grips him tighter.

No. No.

This can’t happen. This didn’t happen. Dean’s face, Dean’s lips, Dean’s fingers. Dean. Dean. Dean.

But it’s Lucifer’s arm around his waist now, Lucifer’s hand holding hard over his hip. It’s Lucifer’s mouth against the tip of his spine and Lucifer’s leg hooked over his own, holding him down so he can’t get away.

“No,” Sam whimpers and he hates himself for it, for begging like he always does. “Please.”

It’s Lucifer’s voice in his ear when Sam hears “It’s okay. Sammy, calm down, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Lucifer can sound like anybody. He sounds like everybody but he only sounds like Dean when he wants to teach Sam a lesson, when Sam fights too hard.

“Let me go,” Sam pleads again, voice wet with tears and if his eyes were open his vision would be blurred. He can’t open them. Not now. Not without Dean.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice again and Sam wants to believe. He almost can. He’s so close. But he knows how that goes. He’s believed before. A hundred times. A thousand. “It’s me. It’s Dean.”

“I hate you,” he says and gives one more ineffectual struggle before he deflates and allows himself to be held tight.

“I love you,” the devil says in Dean’s voice and it’s the worst thing Sam has ever heard. “Please, Sammy, I…”

The arm around his waist pulls him so tight he almost can’t breathe and the body behind him heaves a heavy sob. Sam freezes and the arm doesn’t let go, not yet. Sam’s not sure if he wants it to. There’s a kiss below his ear, a hitched, wet breath and the hand on his stomach moves to his hip.

He’s not free, the fingers are tight, twitching and nervous and Sam’s still not going anywhere without a fight but it’s different.

This isn’t how it goes.

Usually he’s crushed and hot and immobile, hands and arms and legs holding him still. There’s no begging. There’s Sam’s ears filled with talk of how he has a perfect body and of what it’s good for.

When it’s Dean’s voice, even that’s good enough.

“Sammy, relax,” the voice tells him, Dean’s voice and Sam can’t help but obey. “That’s it. It’s okay, Sam. I need you to calm down. If you want me to let you go, I will. I swear. I just need you to think. Think about it, hear me and let me know. Okay?”

Sam hears him. Sam’s done nothing but hear him. He nods.

“Okay. Okay, good. It’s me. It’s Dean. Do you want me to let you go?”

Sam’s not sure if it is Dean. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s not. But that doesn’t change his answer because he can’t help himself. This fantasy is all he’s got.

“No,” he says, breathy and desperate, hand clamping down over Dean’s hand on his hip. “No, Dean. Please stay.”

Dean stays and Sam sleeps better than he has in longer than he can remember.

END