tactile kinesthetic rating.
14A for violence and implied m/m.pairing.
For Susan's evil! and/or badass!Sam ficathon
. About 1000 words of SPN/Fight Club crossover, sort of, and much thanks to belovedsnail
Sam and Dean fight dirty.
Three minutes past two, and Dean could hear Sam pacing just outside the motel room door, as if he was trying to decide between coming in and never coming back.
As if, Dean thought. Couldn't take it, couldn't stand the pacing and the back-and-forth rhythm movement. He stripped the covers off and got out of bed, walked over to the door and pushed it open. Dean looked at Sam carefully, made a category listing of new injuries, and then nodded tiredly at the second untouched bed.
"You coming or going?" Dean asked, and Sam finally stopped being so restless.
"Coming, I guess," Sam said, and moved past Dean into the room, stepping carefully to avoid jostling sore muscles, bruises.
Sam left around midnight the next night, and Dean followed.
He didn't expect Sam to not catch on, but maybe Sam wasn't paying close enough attention because he didn't look back and make eye contact until they were both inside the dilapidated warehouse just off the main drag of this little shithole of a town, this building that had definitely seen better days.
"Coming or going?" Sam asked, mocking, and Dean gritted his teeth, followed Sam inside.
Dean spat, bounced on his heels. There was a tinny voice that said if this is your first night- but he wasn't listening.
Blood was pounding in his ears; he took a deep breath and let all that anger bubble up, like he did right before he had to kill something. Get the nerve together, gather up everything he couldn't say or do and make it cohesive, focused. And now he stood across from his brother, and all he could think about was landing the first hit, landing the last.
Sam stripped his shirt off, made it obvious with every motion that he had about twenty pounds of muscle and about four inches in advantage, longer reach and more weight. Made it obvious he wasn't going to back down, not if the dark hint of anger in his eyes was anything to go by.
Neither of them heard the start, the whistle or whatever it was that they used. Sam stepped to his left and Dean did likewise, circling, assessing the situation. Look 'em in the eye, Dad used to say. Watch for motion, keep 'em steady till you have a shot.
Sam feinted right; Dean reacted with a righthand hook, missed and nearly went down when Sam's uppercut left connected. Dean spat blood, shook his head and set his eyes back on his brother, crouched a little to present a smaller target, use his lower center of gravity to his advantage before making a move, before Sam fought back. Anybody watching, everybody watching, would have seen a blur; fighting so fast, something old and furious. The kind of thing that was just between loving and really fucking hating, bone deep and permanent.
"C'mon, Sammy-" Dean used the nickname that he knew his brother hated, loved. "Whatcha waiting for?"
Dean was flat on his back, knees bent at ninety and his shoulders pinned with Sam's full weight pressing down way too fucking hard.
"You left!" Dean hissed, sharp sounds against Sam's ear. Had Sam's arm bent up close behind him, wasn't about to let him weasel out of this, not when he was broken open wide and fucking hard. "You have any idea what it was like, Sammy?" Dean's voice was whisper angry; he kneed at the back of Sam's thigh, dropped him down to his knees, twisted just a little harder. He figured Sam would try for a drop and he was ready when Sam let his other knee go out from under him; Dean shifted and rolled with it, straddled across Sam's hips and pinned Sam's hands above his head.
"You gonna tap out, Sammy?" Dean's voice was mocking; "You gonna give it up?"
"Fuck you, Dean." Sam twisted under Dean's grip, under his hands and hips. "Fuck. you. Fuck, I asked you to come with me, you couldn't leave Dad – you fucking decided for yourself."
Dean shifted to hold Sam's wrists with one hand, then he tilted back and punched Sam in the face. Felt Sam's nose break, felt warm blood and sweat across his knuckles. Felt his own bones bruise.
"It gets them all riled up and then– well." Jack turned, faced himself and didn't hold back his laughter.
Dean spat blood onto the sidewalk, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. He glared at Sam - Sam glared back - and Dean flicked droplets of his blood at Sam's shirt.
"Hey!" Sam jumped back, frowned, punched Dean's shoulder and winced when he remembered too late that his hands were skinned and delicate.
Dean looked at Sam with a careful eye, then shifted a little to face the motel door. He unlocked it, balanced back on his heels but Sam pushed him through, bore down on him until Dean was backed up at the wall opposite, Sam's breath heaving in Dean's ear. Sam's hands slide down Dean's jeans, slipping past button flies and took hold.
Dean bucked his hips and Sam took him down, fought to stay above while Dean twisted and arched against him, their cocks trapped between their bellies and catching against their skin. Dean feinted, brought over an elbow and flipped them over, whispered harsh saying I'm gonna fuck you 'till we're dead, come back and do it again - they crashed into the cheap motel table and it rattled, cracked down the center.
"Stop," Sam said, because he knew his brother wasn't going to yield, neither of them was going to yield, and there were better places to finish this. "Enough." He climbed up off Dean, got to his feet all unsteady and shaking. He blew sweat out of his eyes, turned and reached for his brother. Dean leaned up a little, stuck his hand in Sam's grip and let Sam pull him up.
"You okay?" Dean asked. His right eye was already beginning to swell up, and Sam knew he didn't look any better. Dean swayed just a little, like he almost steady. Sam wrapped an arm over Dean's shoulders; Dean instinctively stuck his hand up over Sam's heart to balance himself.
"Easy," Sam said. "I got you."