tebtosca | FIC: Looking For a Place to Start (Sam/Dean NC-17)

Title: Looking For a Place to Start
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2500
Warnings: fucking machine, handcuffs, current S8 canon

Summary: Dean learns the hidden treasure he finds is more useful than he thinks

Author's Notes: Written for

salt_burn_porn for

counteragent's prompt of "date night"

Thanks to

fiercelynormal and

cha for keeping me awake until 3am finishing this. I might have been delirious at a few points lol

It starts out innocently enough.

Sam’s got his nose stuck in another book and Dean’s getting restless just sitting there watching him. The bunker is cavern of secrets, full of hidden rooms and camouflaged trap doors that pop when you jimmy them just right. It’s only logical that Dean would explore.

He doesn’t think much of the scraps of metal at first. There’s so much antique junk in the joint that for one aching second it reminds Dean of Singer Salvage before the devastation. History, their shared history, gone in a heartbeat. It gives him a sudden appreciation for this new place and what it could mean, if it means anything at all.

Dean doesn’t like to hope because, in their lives, it’s usually pointless. But he thinks back on Sam’s face when they first walked into the bunker. The wonder. The need.

It’s a good look, that face.

In a tiny room at the end of a long corridor, Dean sits on the dusty floor and starts pulling lost would-be treasures from a wooden chest carved with unknown symbols that hopefully won’t turn his ass into a cat or something when he touches them.

The first few things are just parts. One looks like part of a printing press, another possible bits of a sewing machine. Some wood-working tools that might come in handy one of these days.

Dean figures a project can’t hurt. He can take the broken pieces and shine them up again.

Sam’s face is in his mind again. Dean smiles.

Dean likes fixing things.

It’s the next object that really gets his attention. Bigger than the others, without any obvious missing pieces. It’s about the size of a large bread box, with a long, smooth metal arm sticking out of one end. On the other end is what looks like a crank, and when Dean starts turning it, the metal arm begins sliding back and forth in a jabbing motion.

It takes Dean a second to realize what he’s actually looking at.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Granddad’s buddies were kinky sons of bitches.”

Dean chuckles, trying to figure out how to tell his brother that he just found what looks suspiciously like an antique fucking machine. He’s not sure if “Hey, Sammy, I found the sex dungeon!” is the best conversation starter these days.

Dean stills, wonders what would be the best starter these days. It’s better now, these past few weeks, but there’s still an uncertainty in Dean’s gut that he doesn’t quite know how to fix.

His fingers touch metal. He wants to fix it.

He puts the machine back in the wooden box with the symbols. Checks that he didn’t grow a tail because of them, just in case.

Dean heads back down the hall to his brother.

**

Having his own room is exciting for about a day and a half.

Dean puts up a Metallica poster and Sam tells him Henry would be ashamed to be related to him. Dean starts singing “Enter Sandman” in retaliation until Sam actually starts hitting him in the head with a pillow. They end up laughing so hard that Dean starts choking. Sam looks surprised by the sound coming out of his mouth, and, when he finally stops, he looks up at Dean with glazed-over eyes.

It’s a good day.

That night is harder. Dean doesn’t like silence, and here, alone in his own room with a Metallica poster and a pillow that no longer smells like Sam’s hands, the Earth stills.

Silence in Hell is about the horror of anticipation. Silence in Purgatory means the wolves are waiting to strike. Silence in the motel room means the lack of his brother’s life breath in his ear.

Dean doesn’t sleep that first night.

**

Dean moves the wooden chest into his room as Sam devours the library.

Things are comfortable between them, thankfully, but the drift of silence remains, and Dean fills it by repairing the things he can. He sticks to the tangible, because it’s easy, and easy doesn’t hurt.

There’s a line of gleaming metal objects on the dresser. Dean looks at himself in the mirror behind them and feels oddly accomplished. The man who helped save the world, bursting with pride over a sewing machine.

The one with the crank stays in the box, but if there is one thing Dean knows, it’s that out of sight is rarely out of mind.

A week later, on his way back from checking in on Kevin and his lack of progress, Dean stops to buy a plastic dick and the strawberry lube that the amused salesgirl insists tastes just like pie. Dean’s cheeks are only slightly pink as he gives her the obligatory wink and stumbles back out to the car carrying the discreet black bag.

“Honey, I’m home,” Dean calls four hours later when he walks into the bunker. The air is stale and yet smells strangely like home.

“Took you long enough,” Sam replies, but he hands Dean a beer and a bowl of something that smells edible enough, so Dean just smirks.

“Thank you, wife,” Dean says, falling down into a chair. Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t turn around fast enough to hide his smile.

**

The last time they fucked, it was quick and brutal. Spit and sweat and need mingled together over the hood of the impala. Jeans pulled down just far enough, boots laced up and balancing in the dirt. Sam had kissed the nape of Dean’s neck and it was “I love you” and “Don’t die” and “Everything will be okay” all in one motion.

Then they walked into the lion’s jaw and it hadn’t really been okay at all.

Sam’s sitting at the table now, back hunching, tip of a pencil tapping lightly against the pink of his lips. His features are calm, content, and Dean wants to touch them to have proof of it. So he goes over and straddles a startled Sam’s lap, his ass half on the table and whatever decades-old magical manuscript is sitting on top of it.

“Dean,” Sam sputters, but Dean just wraps his hands around the back of Sam’s neck and up into the chestnut strands, and waits for Sam to still.

Dean’s hair is wet, and he smells like sandalwood soap. He’s in sweats and socks, shell gone, his belly tender and open, and Sam can stab him right in the core with a few simple words.

“Dean,” Sam repeats, and his eyes are wary and hopeful all at once.

Dean just presses his face into the curve of Sam’s neck. “Please.”

Sam nods silently, cheek against Dean’s head, and Dean releases the breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

They enter the door of Dean’s room together and it’s already better like this. Sam in his space, in their space, same oxygen, same heat.

Dean spent a year cold, so fucking cold, and suddenly, standing here like this in sweatpants and socks, brother at his side, he’s warmer than he’s been in a very long time.

“What the hell is that?” Sam finally spits out, suddenly seeing the cranked up bread box with shiny peach dildo sticking out of one end where it’s lying propped up at the end of the bed.

“Hey, Sammy, I found the sex dungeon!” is what Dean decides to just go with, and Sam’s double take is funny enough for Dean to almost start choking again.

Sam still looks confused though, so Dean decides to take matters into his own hands and pulls the handcuffs out of the duffel on the chair next to the dresser. He holds them up to Sam, who just looks down at them and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“I want you to help me try it out,” Dean starts. Sam nods down at the cuffs again and Dean continues. “And I don’t want to be able to stop you.”

Sam sucks in a breath, and Dean wonders if this is all just a huge mistake, if he just fucked up whatever fragile truce they have going.

But Dean feels safe here, in this room, in these socks, with this man. For the first time in so goddamn long, there are no monsters under the bed, and he needs a moment to just let go.

“Why?” is all that Sam says, and Dean’s hands shake only a little bit.

“Because I trust you.”

Dean doesn’t expect the force of what happens next, as Sam slams into him, wrapping his giant paws around Dean’s head as his tongue cracks Dean wide open. Dean startles, noise sliding up his throat as Sam just holds Dean to him, biting at his lips and licking the inside corners of Dean’s mouth.

Sam pulls back to breathe and Dean curls his fists in his shirt, needing the contact, wanting to make sure Sam doesn’t leave.

“I, I’m…” Sam starts, leaning down to press kisses on Dean’s reddened mouth, these ones softer, achingly tender. “I’m really glad.”

Sam pulls Dean’s shirt off, and then lays him on the bed, sheets smooth against his skin. He slides Dean’s arms up against the bars of the head board and leans down, rubbing his mouth along the underside of Dean’s biceps, up the sensitive curve of Dean’s elbows. Sam blankets Dean as he brings the metal up and circles the handcuffs around Dean’s wrists.

Dean breathes into the dip of Sam’s clavicle, mouth open on a shudder, as a haze overwhelms his mind with the soft snick of the cuffs closing.

Sam sits back to pull off his own shirt and then it’s skin on skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, as Sam leans down and kisses him again. Dean opens for him, mouth wide and slick, as Sam’s hands drag down his sides and run over the softened grooves of Dean’s belly.

Dean’s dick is a heavy weight in his sweats, tenting the cotton in proud declaration as Sam straddles his thighs and presses one big palm alongside it. The weight of Sam’s hand is both calming and possessive, and Dean lets himself drift for a moment as Sam bends himself enough to suckle the rosy tip of one of Dean’s nipple.

The cuffs bite into the tender skin of Dean’s wrists as he startles at the way Sam is grazing his teeth in a line down Dean’s chest. He starts worrying a mark right above Dean’s heart, hand now kneading Dean’s cock through the material, and Dean feels like he’s about to come in his pants like a teenager.

Dean realizes that he must have said that out loud because Sam, the bastard, lets out a chuckle as the weight lifts.

“Lube?” he asks, and Dean opens his eyes enough to see how dilated Sam’s pupils have to be to match the dark haze in his voice.

Dean nods towards the tube he stashed next to the machine and Sam laughs again when he picks it up. “Strawberry Delight?”

“It tastes like pie!” Dean begins to protest, but Sam shuts him up with another kiss.

Dean hisses as the sweats are pulled down, the material grazing against the stiffness of his cock until it pops out and slaps against his belly. Sam shushes him, teeth tugging on Dean’s bottom lip as he reaches down and untangles Dean from his pants.

Sam leans back suddenly and just looks at Dean, flushed and bare, cloaked only in sweat and soap and the shine of metal at his wrists. Dean feels more vulnerable than in any single moment in Purgatory and it’s exhilarating.

Sam makes him wait and Dean’s not sure if it’s because he’s taking the moment in, or just because he can. It doesn’t quite matter though, because the moment that Sam’s slick, pie-flavored fingers slide into him is the moment that Sam chooses him. Chooses them.

“You and your toys,” Sam grumbles, and Dean smiles both because the tip of the plastic dick is breaking him wide open, and because that’s the little brother he knows and loves.

“Not my fault I have talented hands,” Dean replies, grunting as Sam huffs and cranks the machine with vicious glee.

“I’ll show you talented hands, dick,” Sam says, proving his point with a twist of his free hand around the base of Dean’s cock straight up to milk pre-come from the slit.

“Dick, yes, I like dick,” Dean grunts, trying to lift his ass up from the pillow that's shoved underneath it, but the plastic cock spearing him is unyielding.

It’s good, full, but it’s not hitting the spot that Dean needs and he starts twisting in frustration. Suddenly, the machine stills and the dildo is being pulled out of him in one long slide, the squelch of lube loud and obscene in the silence of the room.

Dean whines, hips twisting, metal clanging against the headboard and biting red lines into his flesh. He spreads his legs, open, waiting, and Sam slides in, home, the perfect fit. Sam’s dick is so far up inside of him that Dean can feel it in his throat, and this is exactly what Dean needed. No toys, no tricks, just Sam and Dean, the slip-slide of recreated bodies and the mingled emotion of experiences shared.

Sam covers him completely, pressing him into the mattress until Dean is cocooned in his scent and his warmth. Dean’s legs are hiked far up along Sam’s ribcage as Sam presses in, grinding tight figure eights around Dean’s pelvis as Sam wraps his hands around the cold metal cage at Dean’s wrists.

Dean comes likes that, just from the friction of rubbing along the cut of Sam’s abs, and his hole constricts tightly enough that he can feel his body pulling the orgasm out of his brother. Sam’s coating him wet inside, the rush of it filling Dean up until he can’t bear it any longer and just leans up to press his mouth to Sam’s. It’s not kissing, just connection, and Dean’s limbs tremble at the intensity of it.

Sam manages to pull out with a hiss before collapsing next to Dean on the bed. He turns and looks at Dean, the expression in his eyes soft. It’s that face again, the face of wonder and need, but this time it’s Dean who put it there. Dean has a feeling that the expression on his own face is a matching set.

Dean likes fixing things. Sometimes he forgets that the first thing he needs to fix is himself.

“So,” Dean says, when his breathing finally calms. His biceps burn from the stretch in his arms, but he feels alive. “If we put on one of those fancy old records and shimmy around a bit, this could almost be romantic.”

The bed rumbles from the vibrations of Sam’s low laughter. Sam puts one warm hand on the curve of Dean’s thigh.

“Or a shower? Sammy, I’m telling you, the shower.”

They just need a place to start.