Kink Bingo - Consent Play
Jun. 22nd, 2010 07:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
setos_puppyTitle: May
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Nick
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1 620
Warning: Consent play (extreme, explicit consent), kissing but no sex, angst
Summary: So much can be said in a question
Disclaimer: Not mine they belong to Kripke et al.
Notes: Part of my endeavor into![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo for my Consent Play square.
He isn’t quite sure how they got here. So messed up and broken that they’re beyond repair. Even to each other, and to themselves.
It had been a slow dance at first when some semblance of their lives had been regained. Dean was with Lisa and Sam didn’t want to tear his brother away. Not just yet. So he hotwired and car and drove and drove and drove.
He found himself in Pike Creek all too easily, sitting in a house that had no meaning to him but that seemed like home and familiar.
Creeping inside Sam found the place half boxed up and everything was filmed with a fine layer of dust. He made his way up the stairs; chasing half-shadows and echoes of memories that belonged to a man he hadn’t known but knew all too well. When he reached the bedroom Sam pushed on the door with one finger, watching it creep open.
He expected it empty. Yet as the door finally swung ajar there was a slumped figure on the bed, clutching to a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. When the haunted man looked up, fear and sadness so prevalent in his striking blue eyes, he flinched at the sight of Sam.
He wasn’t Lucifer.
He was Nick.
Silence passed between them. Thick and oppressive and everything. Sam thought he was going to choke on it and the stale musk in the air and the faint, so faint, lingering smells of baby powder and perfume.
Nick stumbled his way to his feet, which Sam noted were bare. The bottle of liquor fell from his fingers and thumped on the plush floor, spilling the amber contents over Nick’s feet and into the plush grey of the carpet.
He staggered towards Sam, harried and disbelieving. He was so frail, and wore his own body so differently than the being that once did. Instead of calm confident poise he was shy and withdrawn. He was scruffy and mussed. He collapsed against Sam and Sam caught him, his knees jerking under the sudden, unexpected weight.
Nick sobbed and said the words that started the whole damn mess. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
So Sam didn’t.
Sam fought to build up the man Nick once was. Ordered him around if need be, manhandle him if that’s what it took. Nick walked constantly on eggshells, especially around Sam, as if recalling with uncanny horror everything that Lucifer subjected Sam to while wearing Nick’s body. As if remembering thoughts that Lucifer never voiced. Things that Nick would never dare voice.
He asked for everything. Sam had found it annoying at first ‘may I go take a shower’ ‘can I sit here’ ‘can I watch TV with you’ but now the constant questions, the need for permission, Sam found comforting. It was new, and repetitive, and something so not Lucifer, that it was good. Human. Nick.
Nick still carried himself around with an air of wrongness. Like he didn’t deserve to live. Like he didn’t think he deserved to live. Sam strung him along, day by day, forcing him to live. For his wounds to heal. For him to gasp another breath.
Sam still didn’t know why.
Maybe he was lonely.
Maybe he was broken like Nick.
Whatever the case they smashed this haphazard life together and forced it to work, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
They shared a bed. It was purely non-sexual. Nick would curl, shuddering, against Sam, and sleep. He was haunted by nightmares of fire and ice and blood and of a lost wife and baby. Sam lay beside him, half-asleep, barely alive, and holding him.
Holding so tight it hurt.
He was the big brother now.
Living in a house shuddered and painted with memories and filled with boxes of a life on hold.
The boxes moved to the garage.
The fading grey paint was redone as a muted taupe.
Life. Maybe. Or some cheap but viable imitation of it.
Sam was cooking in the kitchen when Nick shuffled on in. His bare feet making an odd slap-slap on the floor. He was heavy and noisy, unlike Lucifer.
He hung behind Sam. Floating like a solid ghost. “May I…?” He drifted, unable to find the words. To say them.
“Hm?” Sam cocked his head to the side and pushed the sausages around in the pan.
“May I hug you?”
Sam pondered the question. Watched the grease spatter in the pan as he poured in boiled, sliced potatoes to fry. Finally he nodded.
Nick pressed his body against Sam’s flush and heavy and needy. His face pressed against the solid mass of Sam’s back, arms hugging him about the middle. So like a child. So desperate and sad and pathetic and broken.
He wasn’t Lucifer.
Sam’s hand had instinctually curled around the knife on the cutting board and let it go. Even with the humanness and the permission, sometimes out of the corner of his eye Sam would see Nick and flinch. Nick would plead and beg and ask for permission even harder when he saw it happen; as if attempting to apologize for his very existence, his living imposition.
Sometimes he would ask Sam things – ‘may I kiss you’ ‘would you like me to help with that’ – and catch Sam off guard. Sam would look at him, stern and confused, and tell him no.
They weren’t gay.
Or maybe they were.
Maybe all they had was each other.
Nick’s whole existence was two big questions to Sam ‘may I live’ and ‘am I worthy’. Sam was still trying to figure out the answer.
Sometimes he would ask Sam to hurt him and Sam was too afraid to say yes. Too afraid to know his power over Nick, even if he liked it and reveled in it.
Even if there was a sick, twisted want of having the Devil on his knees.
He wasn’t Lucifer.
Sam finished cooking dinner and set the table. Nick waited by the stove, watching Sam with unreadable eyes. They sat across from each other. Sam would eat and Nick would watch, steaming plate sitting untouched in front of him.
Until finally – “may I eat?”
“You may eat.”
He would eat with slow, careful bites. Taking time to chew each one and swallow. Sam wondered if he tasted it at all or if it tasted like ash. Sam never dared to ask. He was the one who was asked nowadays.
Nick would wordlessly clear the table when ordered and wash the dishes and put them exactly where they belonged. Then he would trail behind Sam, feet still making the quiet slap-slap as he plodded along.
As he lived.
They watched TV. Or rather, Sam watched TV alone and Nick hovered until Sam gave him permission to sit and watch.
Sam wondered why Nick was the way he was; aside from living day to day, aside from needing the assurance to live day to day. Had he been like this with his wife? When he was a child? Should he be more concerned with Nick’s well-being? He already was concerned. He watched Nick closely, maybe too closely, and never did anything to injure Nick and stopped Nick from hurting himself.
Still…
Sam shifted his attention towards Nick, who was still focused intently on the screen. It wasn’t even like he was watching. Just staring at the colours as they whizzed by.
“Nick?”
Nick’s attention shifted instantly. He didn’t speak but he focused fully on Sam.
“Why do you do this? Were you like this before with…” He paused, letting the unsaid word hang. “Why are you like this with me? I don’t understand.” He stopped, waited a moment, and then chided himself. “You may speak.”
“I need it.” Nick’s voice was soft, hidden under the loud music of the commercial. “I’m not worthy of anything else. I enjoy being told what to do; I need to be told what to do. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I’m left to my own devices. Please don’t stop Sam; please don’t leave me alone in the dark where he can find me.”
Sam swallowed thickly. He hadn’t thought of it like that before. He just thought that maybe he was taking control of a good guy. It had never occurred to him that Nick needed this or wanted it.
It wasn’t really about control, even though it was, it was about what comforted Nick after losing so much control. After Nick had given all he had to Lucifer, just thrown it away to someone who used and abused him, Sam could understand why Nick was hesitant to make a choice on his own. To think for himself. To say yes.
Fuck, it all made such perfect sense.
Nick wasn’t Lucifer. He so very much wasn’t.
Sam’s hands trembled when he placed them against Nick’s cheeks. So hot, solid and scorching under his fingers, so human and alive. Sam pressed his mouth to Nick’s. It was rough and dry and in no way sexual, but it was comfort and forgiveness and compassion, as much as Sam could muster, and folded up into a kiss.
Nick trembled against him, tears seeped from his eyes and down his cheeks, over and under and through Sam’s fingers.
He shook as Sam breathed life into him again.
When Sam pulled away his eyes searched Nick’s, which were wet and wide and filled with hope. He sucked in a breath, his whole body shaking with the effort, as if remembering how to live.
His eyes sought out Sam’s, which were still locked on Nick’s face, which was still held in his large hands.
“May I please kiss you?”
“You may.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Nick
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1 620
Warning: Consent play (extreme, explicit consent), kissing but no sex, angst
Summary: So much can be said in a question
Disclaimer: Not mine they belong to Kripke et al.
Notes: Part of my endeavor into
kink_bingo for my Consent Play square.He isn’t quite sure how they got here. So messed up and broken that they’re beyond repair. Even to each other, and to themselves.
It had been a slow dance at first when some semblance of their lives had been regained. Dean was with Lisa and Sam didn’t want to tear his brother away. Not just yet. So he hotwired and car and drove and drove and drove.
He found himself in Pike Creek all too easily, sitting in a house that had no meaning to him but that seemed like home and familiar.
Creeping inside Sam found the place half boxed up and everything was filmed with a fine layer of dust. He made his way up the stairs; chasing half-shadows and echoes of memories that belonged to a man he hadn’t known but knew all too well. When he reached the bedroom Sam pushed on the door with one finger, watching it creep open.
He expected it empty. Yet as the door finally swung ajar there was a slumped figure on the bed, clutching to a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. When the haunted man looked up, fear and sadness so prevalent in his striking blue eyes, he flinched at the sight of Sam.
He wasn’t Lucifer.
He was Nick.
Silence passed between them. Thick and oppressive and everything. Sam thought he was going to choke on it and the stale musk in the air and the faint, so faint, lingering smells of baby powder and perfume.
Nick stumbled his way to his feet, which Sam noted were bare. The bottle of liquor fell from his fingers and thumped on the plush floor, spilling the amber contents over Nick’s feet and into the plush grey of the carpet.
He staggered towards Sam, harried and disbelieving. He was so frail, and wore his own body so differently than the being that once did. Instead of calm confident poise he was shy and withdrawn. He was scruffy and mussed. He collapsed against Sam and Sam caught him, his knees jerking under the sudden, unexpected weight.
Nick sobbed and said the words that started the whole damn mess. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
So Sam didn’t.
Sam fought to build up the man Nick once was. Ordered him around if need be, manhandle him if that’s what it took. Nick walked constantly on eggshells, especially around Sam, as if recalling with uncanny horror everything that Lucifer subjected Sam to while wearing Nick’s body. As if remembering thoughts that Lucifer never voiced. Things that Nick would never dare voice.
He asked for everything. Sam had found it annoying at first ‘may I go take a shower’ ‘can I sit here’ ‘can I watch TV with you’ but now the constant questions, the need for permission, Sam found comforting. It was new, and repetitive, and something so not Lucifer, that it was good. Human. Nick.
Nick still carried himself around with an air of wrongness. Like he didn’t deserve to live. Like he didn’t think he deserved to live. Sam strung him along, day by day, forcing him to live. For his wounds to heal. For him to gasp another breath.
Sam still didn’t know why.
Maybe he was lonely.
Maybe he was broken like Nick.
Whatever the case they smashed this haphazard life together and forced it to work, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
They shared a bed. It was purely non-sexual. Nick would curl, shuddering, against Sam, and sleep. He was haunted by nightmares of fire and ice and blood and of a lost wife and baby. Sam lay beside him, half-asleep, barely alive, and holding him.
Holding so tight it hurt.
He was the big brother now.
Living in a house shuddered and painted with memories and filled with boxes of a life on hold.
The boxes moved to the garage.
The fading grey paint was redone as a muted taupe.
Life. Maybe. Or some cheap but viable imitation of it.
Sam was cooking in the kitchen when Nick shuffled on in. His bare feet making an odd slap-slap on the floor. He was heavy and noisy, unlike Lucifer.
He hung behind Sam. Floating like a solid ghost. “May I…?” He drifted, unable to find the words. To say them.
“Hm?” Sam cocked his head to the side and pushed the sausages around in the pan.
“May I hug you?”
Sam pondered the question. Watched the grease spatter in the pan as he poured in boiled, sliced potatoes to fry. Finally he nodded.
Nick pressed his body against Sam’s flush and heavy and needy. His face pressed against the solid mass of Sam’s back, arms hugging him about the middle. So like a child. So desperate and sad and pathetic and broken.
He wasn’t Lucifer.
Sam’s hand had instinctually curled around the knife on the cutting board and let it go. Even with the humanness and the permission, sometimes out of the corner of his eye Sam would see Nick and flinch. Nick would plead and beg and ask for permission even harder when he saw it happen; as if attempting to apologize for his very existence, his living imposition.
Sometimes he would ask Sam things – ‘may I kiss you’ ‘would you like me to help with that’ – and catch Sam off guard. Sam would look at him, stern and confused, and tell him no.
They weren’t gay.
Or maybe they were.
Maybe all they had was each other.
Nick’s whole existence was two big questions to Sam ‘may I live’ and ‘am I worthy’. Sam was still trying to figure out the answer.
Sometimes he would ask Sam to hurt him and Sam was too afraid to say yes. Too afraid to know his power over Nick, even if he liked it and reveled in it.
Even if there was a sick, twisted want of having the Devil on his knees.
He wasn’t Lucifer.
Sam finished cooking dinner and set the table. Nick waited by the stove, watching Sam with unreadable eyes. They sat across from each other. Sam would eat and Nick would watch, steaming plate sitting untouched in front of him.
Until finally – “may I eat?”
“You may eat.”
He would eat with slow, careful bites. Taking time to chew each one and swallow. Sam wondered if he tasted it at all or if it tasted like ash. Sam never dared to ask. He was the one who was asked nowadays.
Nick would wordlessly clear the table when ordered and wash the dishes and put them exactly where they belonged. Then he would trail behind Sam, feet still making the quiet slap-slap as he plodded along.
As he lived.
They watched TV. Or rather, Sam watched TV alone and Nick hovered until Sam gave him permission to sit and watch.
Sam wondered why Nick was the way he was; aside from living day to day, aside from needing the assurance to live day to day. Had he been like this with his wife? When he was a child? Should he be more concerned with Nick’s well-being? He already was concerned. He watched Nick closely, maybe too closely, and never did anything to injure Nick and stopped Nick from hurting himself.
Still…
Sam shifted his attention towards Nick, who was still focused intently on the screen. It wasn’t even like he was watching. Just staring at the colours as they whizzed by.
“Nick?”
Nick’s attention shifted instantly. He didn’t speak but he focused fully on Sam.
“Why do you do this? Were you like this before with…” He paused, letting the unsaid word hang. “Why are you like this with me? I don’t understand.” He stopped, waited a moment, and then chided himself. “You may speak.”
“I need it.” Nick’s voice was soft, hidden under the loud music of the commercial. “I’m not worthy of anything else. I enjoy being told what to do; I need to be told what to do. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I’m left to my own devices. Please don’t stop Sam; please don’t leave me alone in the dark where he can find me.”
Sam swallowed thickly. He hadn’t thought of it like that before. He just thought that maybe he was taking control of a good guy. It had never occurred to him that Nick needed this or wanted it.
It wasn’t really about control, even though it was, it was about what comforted Nick after losing so much control. After Nick had given all he had to Lucifer, just thrown it away to someone who used and abused him, Sam could understand why Nick was hesitant to make a choice on his own. To think for himself. To say yes.
Fuck, it all made such perfect sense.
Nick wasn’t Lucifer. He so very much wasn’t.
Sam’s hands trembled when he placed them against Nick’s cheeks. So hot, solid and scorching under his fingers, so human and alive. Sam pressed his mouth to Nick’s. It was rough and dry and in no way sexual, but it was comfort and forgiveness and compassion, as much as Sam could muster, and folded up into a kiss.
Nick trembled against him, tears seeped from his eyes and down his cheeks, over and under and through Sam’s fingers.
He shook as Sam breathed life into him again.
When Sam pulled away his eyes searched Nick’s, which were wet and wide and filled with hope. He sucked in a breath, his whole body shaking with the effort, as if remembering how to live.
His eyes sought out Sam’s, which were still locked on Nick’s face, which was still held in his large hands.
“May I please kiss you?”
“You may.”
