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15 April 2010 @ 04:43 pm
CHEWYFICS Thicker than blood (Part one: Denim against silk)  
Title | Thicker than blood (Part one: Denim against silk)
Author | chewableprose 
Fandom | Supernatural
Spoilers | until mid season five
Pairing | Sam/OMC (slash), eventual you'll have to wait and see
Rating |
Word count | 4,200
Summary | Part one of a multi-part story in which Dean and Sam travel to Maine to investigate a 20-year-old possible haunting. Just when Dean thinks he's keeping Sam safe by taking him away from the demon front line of the brewing war, Sam finds new outlets for his forbidden desires that make his thirst for demon blood seem harmless in comparison. Will Dean at last have to act on the advice of his father and destroy the brother he loves, or are things not quite as they seem? And does Dean harbour some forbidden desires of his own?
Warning | sadistic, unsafe sex and the suggestion of alternate sexual drives as monstrous (wait for the punch line peoples)
Disclaimer | this is a work of fan fiction based on the CW series Supernatural, the author of this work does not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s)



Thicker than blood
Part one: Denim against silk



WATER STREAMED A CROOKED path down the windscreen of the Impala like the winding roads on the map Sam held open in his lap. Beside him Dean slapped the steering wheel to a beat all his own as if it were bongo drums, singing along to Hell’s Bells playing on the stereo as he put pedal to metal down US Route 1.

          “Dean,” Sam said. “Dean.”

          “Yeah?”

          “Turn it down, man.”

          Dean groaned. “What up little brother?”

          “Let’s talk about why we’re here.”

          “Ghosts to be smitten Sammy, ghosts to be smitten.”

          “Yeah, I know, but seriously man, don’t you think we have bigger problems?”

          “Sam we’ve been through this.”

          “Yeah I know, apocalypse can wait, training wheels can’t.”

 
          “That’s right, good ol’ haunting trip, just like the ol’ days and just what we need to tone that flabby team spirit.”

          “But this?” looking down at the yellowed newspaper clipping he’d retrieved from the inside cover of their father’s journal, “seriously dude, I’m not even sure there was anything here to begin with, let alone now. I mean, some jock picks up a geek from college, takes him back to his room, kills him, then dies himself a week later. We don’t even know for sure that the two deaths are related, or how they died, just that it was pretty brutal and that it happened more than 20 years ago.”

          “If dad thought there was something here that’s good enough for me, I mean, he hasn’t been wrong yet. Heck, he’s even given us an address, we’ve worked with less.”

          “Dad’s dead Dean, we pick the jobs now.”

          “Yeah, and we’re picking this one.”

          “Whatever.”

          “I’m hearing ya Sammy, and I’ll be first to admit that it is a bit ... stale. But it was the only …”

          “The only what?”

          “The only evil sonofabitch I could find in dad’s journal that we hadn’t already, um, smite-ed. Smit-ed?”

          “What’re you talking about there’s ple–” Sam tossed the journal onto the dash, “I see what this is about, you mean that this was the only non-demon evil sonofabitch you could find.”

          “The absence of demon blood did definitely work in its favour, but hey, it’s still evil.”

          “You’re unbelieveable,” Sam folded his arms. “It’s probably nothing, a waste of time.”

          “Don’t be a sook.”



Out his window Sam watched the woodlands the road was taking them through. His eyes stared back at him, swollen and hollow in the reflection in the glass. In them he could almost see the thirst, so thirsty. As much as he tried not to think about it, maybe Dean was right to keep him away from the demon front line.

          “It’s pouring out there, slow down Dean.”

          “Oh Sammy,” Dean said shaking his head, “and you’d been so good the whole trip.”

          “I think our exit’s coming up.”

          “Think?”

          “Fuck you dude, so I’m not intimately acquainted with the roads in this dung-coated corner of the continental US.”

          “Bitch.”

          “Jerk.”

          Sam returned his attention to the map in his lap, squinting to make out where the lines led with only torch light to help. “You tool,” he turned back to Dean when it dawned on him, “you and Cas were here like a month ago fraternising with archangels.”

          “So, it was a miracle we got where we needed to, chuckles ain’t so handy with a map,” Dean’s lip curled at the thought. “I should have taken him, wouldn’t have to put up with all your jabbering. Just give him a burger and he’d be happy all trip.”

          “How about we swap, I’ll drive and make smartarse comments while you get sick trying to read a map in the middle of the night,” Sam mumbled.

          “Huh?”

          “Take the next exit.” 

          Sam scrunched up the map and stuffed it under his seat.



GILBERT HEARD THE CAR enter the street from beneath his blankets, followed by the choke of the engine’s roar. Leafless branches scratched the pane of his window as behind his closed eyes he saw shifting shapes and dark castles.

          “Cross your arms over your chest like this,” he whispered to himself as his mother had once whispered in his ear, “and a guardian angel will protect you while you sleep.”

          Although he hadn’t been to Sunday mass since he was old enough not to, crossed arms and the promise of an angel’s protection made him feel safe. So completely safe, it was as if he believed that following the flick of the switch and dive under the covers, should he not have his chest crossed quick enough, then whatever lurked in the shadows of his room would tear his arms from him. And so he’d cross his arms and hold his breath until he was red and blue all over, and until the noises stopped and the images in his head cleared.



SAM SMOOTHED OUT THE crumpled map of Maine over the hood of the Impala, still warm from a long night on the road. It covered the bonnet like a plastic picnic cloth on a park bench, Sam tracing its lines and the suburb’s surrounding streets, navigating coffee rings and sauce stains like a child finding Hamburglar in a maze on the box of a McDonald’s happy meal.
 
          Dean stretched himself on the overgrown nature strip, angled to face the rundown wooden house that Sam had said was their destination — sandwiched two doors down between two graffiti painted factories.

          “What a dump,” he said.

          “It’s not all bad,” said Sam, dipping his head toward the strip club opposite.

          “Sammy, I’m impressed.”



The house had been subletted into rooms for rent, many of which, with their busted locks, seemed more likely to house drifters than paying tenants.

          “That would explain the lack of press in the last 20 years,” Sam said.

          There was no light coming from under any of the doors. With a torch gripped in his hand, Sam shone light on the numbers, counting them out as they came.

          “Two, three ...”

          What would have once been bronze were now rust coated grey, standing apart from the rotted wood of the doors they were bolted to only by the shine of his torch.

          Dean came behind in steel capped boots caked with mud and clay and jeans crusted with red dirt and grease — that crackled and flaked as he walked. The shirt he wore was tight and once white, but now stained too. Over it he wore a leather jacket, the collar pulled up. Sam wore a jacket too, only his had wool around the collar, the occasional hole patched over with a mixture of suede and different coloured leather.

          Sam’s skin was not pale in parts or freckled or brown in others like Dean’s, but a grapefruit orange. He was taller too. They looked nothing the same. You wouldn’t even think they were brothers. Dean walked a street strut, like he was rounding himself up for the limbo — he used ‘awesome’ a lot when he spoke, as he did ‘dude’ — while Sam was more rigid, often walking like said limbo pole were inserted up his behind.

          Sam stopped, Dean ran up his back.

          “Dude.”

          Sam brought a finger to his lips and shone the torch on the door. It was marked: 9.

          “You sure,” Dean said, pointing to the door opposite, which was: 4.

          “Dad’s journal said room nine. This is where is all happened, this is the hotbed.”

          “Hotbed, huh? OK Shaggy.”



THE WHISPERS WERE CLEARER now, the demons that owned them sending a glow around the door frame.

          “Hotbed?” Gilbert mouthed, scrunched into a ball, the covers over his head, his body a lump from its centre.



SAM REMOVED THE JOURNAL from his jacket pocket and shone light on its pages to check once more the number.

          “It looks like a nine.”

          “Good enough for me,” Dean said, jostling Sam aside and kicking in the door.

          Inside was a dishevelled studio moonlit a dirty blue. The door now on skewed hinges, the studio seemed more college geek than supernatural cesspool.

          Dean moved directly to the bed. Where something cowered beneath the covers. He then pushed the barrel of his shotgun into its side as Sam lick-thumbed his way through the journal looking for the appropriate entry.

          “Got you now bitch,” Dean said.



THE VOICE WAS A cartoon cocktail, a swirling of Schwarchenegger’s Terminator with The Addams Family’s Lurch, followed by a jab in the ribs.

          He considered slowly peeping his head from the covers, telling the perpetrators that he had nothing worth stealing, but if by chance there were anything they wanted — for a garage sale, or the furnishing of a fun house, perhaps? — hed ‘be much obliged, gentlemen’, if they’d be so good as to take it off his hands. However if one thing was to be learnt from renting in an invasion prone neighbourhood it was that running away was usually the safest option.

          Gilbert kicked away what had felt like a lead pipe in his ribs, and it fired. It was more than a pipe, it was a shotgun that showered black water and splintered wood over them all. After a quick undercovered rubdown confirmed that everything was where it should be — or at least, where he’d last left it, his little gut spilling over the elastic of his boxer shorts, not from gun pellets but a lack of sit-ups, and an excess of Crunchy Nut — he made a bolt from the bed as the gun perp unattached his butt from the coffee table he’d been knocked down into — the one piece of furniture in the studio of enough value that it may have been bartered in exchange for his life.

          He didn’t get far. He couldn’t see for a start, taking the bedcovers with him. And then there was the second perp he bumped into on his way, who dragged him to the ground. “Got ’im,” said the second in a much less ridiculous rendition of Arnold.

          Him?

          Then it came to him, “there’s been a mistake,” he shouted, “I’m not the one you’re after.”

          The lesser of the Arnolds pulled him to his feet, pinning his arms and blankets to his body.

          “Don’t listen to ’im,” the other said, followed by the sound of splintered valuable coffee table being cast aside. “He’d say anything to get out from under that blanket, it’s all that’s keeping him here.”

          “Yeah about that, why is it keeping him here?” the one who held him said.

          Gilbert rolled his head allowing the frayed edge of the blanket to fall down over his shoulders.

          “Watch out he’s—”

          “—not a gh—”

          “—ahem—”

          “—not what we thought.”

          Gilbert shrugged himself free, “took you long enough,” and went for the light switch.

          It was two men, mid to late twenties, the one with the gun bulky and angry looking with hedgehog hair, the other less so with longer hair, both attractive.

          “We’re sorry about that,” said the lesser but taller Arnold, still holding the blankets in his fists, “aren’t we Dean?”

          “Nice one chief, now he knows m’ name.”

          “And Dean’s such a unique name.”

          “It’s unique enough, Sam.”

          “Maybe,” said Sam through gritted teeth, “if we explained why we totalled his place, he might actually help us.”

          “Maybe we’ve got bigger problems than that,” and on ‘that’ Dean leapt at Gilbert spraying water from a hip flask.

          Gilbert wiped his eyes and mouth, “excellent.”

          “Just checking,” said Dean, recapping the flask and returning it to his waist. “What are you worried about anyway, look at him, how’s a kid who wears Mickey Mouse shorts gonna help us?”

          Mickey Mouse was all he was wearing. He flicked the switch again and the room became blue once more, with the exception of the flashlights, unheld, still bumping into debris from the rough and tumble; light chasing dark over woodchips and uneven floorboards. He scooped up one of them, fumbling it at first, switched it off and handed it to Sam, grabbing the blankets in exchange. Wrapped up and shivering in the wet covers, Gilbert cleared bits of the floor above from the corner of his bed and sat.

          “Just go,” he said. 

          “Gladly,” said Dean, “and I am sorry,” scooping up the other flashlight and rubbing his butt as he left.

          Water dripped on Gilbert’s head, “please,” he said to Sam without looking his way.

          “Come on man,” Dean said from the corridor.

          “I’ll be out in a minute.”

          “Whatever, find out what you can, I’ll be across the road,” Dean said with a grin, “take your time if you know what I mean.”

          “Dude, gross.”



Sam cleared a space for himself on the bed next to the boy and watched as the light from Dean’s torch disappeared down the stairs at the end of the corridor.

          “What’s your name?”

          “Gilbert.”

          With the torch still off and gripped in Sam’s lap, the room was washed blue in light from the window. Sam looked around him at the soiled mattress, “sorry about this man, this was really not our intenti—”

          “—Just go.”

          “We thought you were someone else.”

          “Yeah I figured that, that guy, he’s your ...”

          “Brother.”

          “Right, sure he is.”

          Sam raised an eyebrow, but chose to ignore it.

          Gilbert reached into Sam’s lap in search of the torch to bring further light to the room as well as to light Sam’s passage out of it, but what his hand found was soft denim, not metal. A sharp intake of breath by Sam told him what he held, a penis clamped along the inside of Sam’s leg, right of the seat of his pants. Instead of letting go, he gripped tighter as Sam’s breathing got heavier. The cock grew hard and thick. Gilbert pulled at the stitched join in the denim, running his palm along the length of Sam’s shaft, the cock throbbing under his touch.

          “Stop,” Sam said, shoving the boy so violently he fell from the bed to land on his back on the floor. On top of debris and dust and muddy filth, he lay in the path of the light from the window, his legs apart, his cock tenting the soft material of his silk shorts.

          Jumping from the bed and switching on the touch, he shone it on Gilbert’s crotch and the twitching beneath the silk, his breath hoarse and unmeasured. Sam watched him there, clearly hurt and in shock from the fall, he licked his lips, so thirsty. “Fuck it,” he said, tossing aside the torch and pulling the boy up from the ground, pushing him down onto the bed and pressing himself on top of him.

          Gilbert, this boy who was so white and soft and clothes-less, slotted so neatly between his legs. Sam ground cock against cock, denim against silk. The bed was wet and covered in splintered mess that made the boy moan with each grind. The crunching of plaster and floorboards and nails that pinched and pierced the boy’s skin made Sam only want to grind harder so that the boy would moan louder.

          Sam pushed up unto his knees and saw that Gilbert’s cock had escaped his shorts, poking through the side. Pushing the boy’s cock back under, he grabbed the material in his fists and slowly tugged them down his legs, the cock fighting against the shorts until it reached the elastic waist, where it flung free and slapped against the boy’s stomach like the floppy arm of a tree pulled then let go of. Gilbert lifted his legs allowing his underwear to slide freely, past his knees and to his ankles. Then, with one hand, Sam held Gilbert’s ankles together above his head, and with his other removed the undies and threw them aside.

          Mickey Mouse to one side — being soiled along with torch and debris — he continued holding Gilbert’s legs in the air by the ankles, like a parent would a baby at change time. Looking down the boy’s pale and hairless legs to his anus reminded him of a Christmas turkey about to be stuffed. Moving Gilbert’s legs toward his head — his bottom arched up — he took the cock in his mouth. It tasted of cold chicken and mayonnaise, his teeth scraping along the veins of its shaft, teasing him. He wanted to bite, to taste what was inside, to see whether it was different in a human, whether it was less appetising. But he didn’t, allowing the cock to slide from his mouth and slap back against the boy’s tummy.

          Still holding the ankles, he pushed even further, until the feet touched the bed over the boy’s head and created a circle and a moan that told him if he pushed any further the kid might just snap in two. Pushing Gilbert’s cock against his chest, he then moved his fingers so they pulled at his scrotum. With his thumb he traced a line from the saggy flesh of ball sack to the knotted flesh of his anus. It was so small and so tightly shut. He took his thumb from the anus and put it in the boy’s mouth, and then put it back at his arse hole and drew tiny circles around its opening.

          Gilbert moaned and as he did the knots that keep Sam’s thumb from entering began to unfold one by one like peel off an orange, until all at once he slide through. Gilbert was warm and tight inside, his anus pulling Sam in as if Gilbert had taken the thumb in his mouth and suckled on it. Sam’s cock still confined to his leg by his jeans, he removed his thumb, unbuttoned his denim and slide his cock free through the Y in his briefs. His cock was thick and long and horse hung, the kind that in junior high made the other boys in gym class cover up in envy; red and bloated, it jerked up straight with its new found freedom as more blood rushed to its tip.

          Sam spat in his palm and slicked up his cock — whether it would prove lube enough he didn’t care. Sitting back on his feet and guiding Gilbert’s legs to dangle over his shoulders, he lowered the boy until his cock was pressed firm against his entrance. With both hands now free he gripped Gilbert’s waist and began to pull. At first it looked like squeezing his cock into that knotted hole would be impossible, his shaft bending as Gilbert’s anus refused entry. But Sam kept pulling, until his knob slid through, the force of the hold he had on Gilbert’s hips so much that Sam slid almost all the way in all at once.

          Gilbert screamed out in pain at the sudden penetration, and in response Sam griped tighter, pulling himself further into the warmth of the boy’s insides. He rose up onto his knees to allow himself in completely, Gilbert’s arse cheeks hard up against his pubes, his body angled almost vertical with the bed. Sam held him there a moment, watching how Gilbert’s face distorted with pain, fascinated by it. He then lowered himself — and Gilbert with him — back to the bed and withdrew almost to the tip before driving his dick back in. There was no starting slow, it was fast and furious thrusts, yelps of pain with each pounding stroke.

          Sam’s rhythm scraped the bed across the floorboards, forward and backward, as it did Gilbert’s bare torso, pulled over the rubble caused by the fallen floor above, where from water and muck and the occasional chunk of debris still fell, soiling Gilbert’s white chest. Sam rubbed in the grain and grime, pressing Gilbert deeper into the mattress as his cock slid in and out. Occasionally he’d spit at his cock as he pulled it out so as to make it slide back in easier, and soon Gilbert’s pain seemed to have transformed into groans of pleasure, that grew louder as Sam’s pace quickened. Sam even began to make noises of his own, the slap of his ball sack against Gilbert’s arse followed by a grunt and the odd, “fuck yeah”.

          Gilbert arched his back and forced himself down onto each of Sam’s thrusts, allowing Sam’s cock to reach even further into him. Sam spun Gilbert over and continued fucking him from behind, his fingers hooked on either hip for leverage. With his thumbs he pulled apart Gilbert’s arse cheeks to get even further in. Gilbert’s back was red and raw, scratched and bleeding in parts, whole chunks of wood, mud and plaster caught in its cracks. Letting go of his hips, Sam grabbed Gilbert’s shoulders and forced him flat onto the bed; whether the groans that followed were the result of pleasure or pain he couldn’t tell, probably both.

          With Gilbert’s face and upper chest grating along the bed — like oak on sandpaper — and his arse in the air, Sam watched mesmerised as his cock disappeared inside the boy, there then gone, like a magician pulling the bunny in and out of the hat. He felt the tip of his cock swell as he came close to climax, his hands still clamping Gilbert’s shoulders to the bed. His grip tightened, the tips of his fingers disappearing into the boy’s muddy flesh the same way Sam’s cock disappeared up his arse. His body began to tremor as he pounded as fast and hard as he could, in and out of the meat on the bed, forcing himself further and further in.

          He thought of Dean sitting in the titty bar just over the road, how his cock would be twitching in the briefs Sam saw him put on the morning before. He took a deep breath and instead of the smell of rotted wood and spit, could almost smell what would be Dean’s scent down there. How ripe it would have been after a full day on the road. How the too small panties of the topless dancers would have made Dean’s privates all sweaty and the head of his dick all gooey. And then he blew, more violently than he ever had, wads of cum far up inside the boy. With each pump of cum he pounded his fists into Gilbert’s back, forcing him further and further into the bed and the mess they’d made.

          When he was completely spent, he pulled out, cum spilling out the wide open hole of the boy’s behind, dripping down onto the bed. He grabbed the corner of the bed sheet and wiped clean his still stiff shaft and slotted it back into place on the inside of his leg, buttoning up his jeans. He left the boy a mangled mess of blood and sores, dashing out to the car.



From the backseat of the Impala he scrubbed mud from the knees of his jeans with the crumpled map. In that light, his reflection in the rearview mirror made his eyes appear black, and his cheeks full of colour; he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so strong. Squirting his groin with cologne, he then headed over to the bar to join Dean for one last beer before checking into a hotel they passed on the highway.



“I thought you’d decided to move in with the kid,” Dean said as they climbed into separate beds.

          “Funny,” said Sam, “you left plenty for me to smooth over.”

          “Did you get much out of him?”

          “A little,” Sam said, his cock twitching at the thought, “I got from him what I could, some leads I can follow up tomorrow.”

          “We can go back in the morning.”

          “If we do, I should go alone,” said Sam. “I don’t think he likes you.”



GILBERT WAS STILL ON the bed when he heard the engine start up. As sore as he was all over, he dreaded the silence that would follow. Drip, drip, drip, all there was, of stale water on his head from the floor above.

          His door hanging only on one hinge, much like the number bolted to his door, which had spun from a 6 to form a 9.

          Drip, drip, drip.

          I see dark castles every time I close my eyes.

          Drip, drip, drip.

          Cross your arms over your chest like this, if you do that your guardian angel will protect you while you sleep.

          Drip, drip, drip.

          He turned himself over on the bed, wiping from his chest what he could, anything solid that wasn’t wedged beneath his skin. He looked up at the hole above, directly into room 9 and the shadows were gone ... and in their place, staring down at him, something far worse. Only this time, his arms weren’t fast enough.

          Drip, drip, drip.

Comments are ❤.
 
 
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timrigs on April 28th, 2012 03:49 am (UTC)
I have food in the oven and I stumbled upon this story...and it just burned! So good couldnt stop reading...eh hem!
chewableprose on May 5th, 2012 11:24 am (UTC)
*blushes* You're very kind, it's nice to know that at least one person read this. Thanks for taking the time.
marki_fungi on December 30th, 2012 01:51 pm (UTC)
Hey again,
Fascinating story. Very detailed and draws you in for the net instalment. Going to read that now.
chewableprose on January 1st, 2013 11:30 pm (UTC)
Wow, this is a blast from the past ... never got around to completing this, soon after writing this I caught the manip bug :) Thank you for your kind words