kitchen scene rewrite Just My Imagination: au bdsm wincest
In which Sam has a lot on his plate. Okay, they both do–swamped and at their wits end with The Darkness. Despite it all, they’ve rested. Researched. Quiet naps, unexpected and delicious privacy. Visions and short brotherly talks in the car that are once again a stutter start-stop are all but forgotten for a spell.
Now, though? Sam has messy bedhead that gets in his eyes, his comfortable sleep clothes tousled, and his fist fucking hurts. It’s too damn early. There’s this interruption. This matter of one intruder being completely at ease in slicing through their sanctuary.
Sully smiles at Sam, fleeting hope of recognition coloring his face. Confuses Sam, and he hasn’t time to think when Dean appears, groggy, sleep warm flushed. Dean’s gruff observations fly out before he even takes a second to cinch his robe tight. He asks Sam about his arm mid-air, fist pulled back and trigger ready–man but it’s going to shit real quick. Two minutes ago, all Sam wanted was a cup of coffee. Now there’s a situation: M&M’s and nachos and invisible suspenders to reckon with, and Dean switches gears past one concern to another. Big brother protector along with the Dom role the confines of the Bunker allow.
Dean, Dom, brother. Sam is frozen in defense, has no idea what the hell is going on except that he just clocked his once imaginary friend. Sam thinks he should be allowed a little floundering when his mention of something else in the room has Dean’s Dom role fucking blossoming into full blown character.
Dean steps fully into the kitchen and eyes the Mt. Everest of Sugar Comas that is their kitchen table. Comments on the bright cacophony–worries out loud. Jabs carrying the undertone repercussions of a junk food binge. Gone off their diet without Dean’s permission.
The Diet. The diet that Sam, as his brother’s sub, agreed to adhere to until Dean felt a splurge worthwhile. Necessary spoils, those endless trips in the car, not a carrot and avocado wrap to be seen. Here in their sanctuary, it’s egg whites and salads and organic red meats. Agreements made with shaky nods, Dean steady pushes between Sam’s legs. No complaints. Sam’s all about their deals, can get sideways warm stupid thinking about Dean post fuck. Freckled nose buried in Sam’s pillow–sticky, sated hips against Sam’s own. Pliable Dom. They eat healthy, in for a penny, and Dean takes his role seriously.
Just as now, Dean showcases how not on board he is to indiscretions, measures up the table horror scene with an ingrained barometer of ‘officially worried about Sam’ magnified. He damn near growls when Sam mentions imaginary friends and stares hard at the blue icing cake he thinks Sam made when Dean wasn’t looking. Which is stupid seeing as Sam’s lucky he can walk to the kitchen without a limp with as much ‘looking’ at Sam that Dean’s been doing.
Point is, Dean’s pointing out the marshmallow topping–Dom side incredulous and puffing and is going to flat out Hulk his robe to shreds.
Sam is stringent in his behavior. Sam likes his rewards. Sam enjoys satin/silk bindings and indulgent scenes. He craves the control of chastity (cringes at the thought of the plastic device he’s wearing being noticeable through his sleep pants), worships the payoff. Dean’s praise. Joint effort. Sam’s worked damn hard to avoid the paddles and ball binding punishments that ‘Retrain wayward little brothers,’ praised encouragement be damned. So this, this nasty little matter of a grumpy Dom, his brother not even trying to bite back the disappointment and confusion, is highly disconcerting for Sam.
Not a single good thing can happen to and about and in Sam’s ass with what Dean has walked in on.
Sam panics, control slipping to make this right, to shift the blame. Announces his innocence, gets closer to the table and gestures circles above the food. Sully did it. All of it, that imaginary friend right there.
Fear isn’t the actual motivation. This is an actual case if he heard Sully right. He’s not forgotten helping people, helping others. Beneath that though: This is–it’s a sudden, nauseating desperation. Sam is being reduced to a needy, basic want that radiates a throbbing ache between his thighs, balls taut in sympathy. Deep-rooted concern for the result of a hard-battled week. One solid week of consensual denial and cold, rigid chastity.
That table, that invisibility (oh man does Sam appreciates his past friend, but now is not the time) is the dying promise of deft fingers and pale thighs straddling his face. All down the drain as training punishment for bad behavior. Echos of past problematic events, “Subs who obviously don’t mind another week. Maybe two. Right, Sammy?”
A saving grace when Dean sees the culprit for himself, Sam sends a positive mental thumbs up to his dick . Childhood mystical friend serious problems or not–Sam is going to get his before they leave the Bunker to solve the case. Surely, Dean won’t let them step one foot on soil until Sam’s dick is unlocked. Sam won’t make it; he won’t, and the blasted table and the chipper Sully attitude that ticks off Dean more than anything and his own mind telling him this case is bigger than his dick…
Dean stands across from them, imposing authority, cracks flustered pissed jokes. Face a riddle of disgust and amusement as he barely listens to Sully’s concerns. This case. Sam spouts research for the win. He gets those words in edgewise, defends his justifiable reason to hear his old friend out. Real, honest concern for Sully and his friends, imagine that..
He watches Dean’s slippered feet shuffle, bowlegs peeking through his robe. Sees clenched fingers relax and reach into a robe pocket , trace of those fingers clutching what Sam knows to be the key. The actual key to a week of sub perfect behavior.
And for one brief, shiny moment…
“Library. Now.”