Devilc's Den 2.0

Title: Promethius Unbound
Fandom: SPN/SGA
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Ronon Dex
Rating: Adult
Author's note: Blame it on delibby and tartysuz. This is a sequel to Promethius Unchained, and is also written for Pr0n Battle 8. Prompt: Ronon Dex/Sam Winchester, groove, wax, cut.

Legalese: Stargate Atlantis and Supernatural are copyright their respective owners. This is a freely given gift in response to a challenge, not a labor for profit.




Woolsey makes Sam sign for the package when it arrives, right there in the mess. Regulations, you see. And when it comes to Sam, Woolsey is by the book all about the book. "For good behavior," he informs Sam as he caps the pen.

"What is it?" Ronon asks.

"No idea." Sam eats a few more bites of chicken and says, "Probably my personals."

Ronon lifts an eyebrow.

Sam sucks in a deep breath through his mouth and blows it out his nose. He picks the table knife and uses it to slit the seal on box.

~oo(0)oo~

The knife is a wicked looking thing. A bone handle hafted to a long, grooved blade with an edge that became serrated half way down. There's something engraved on the fuller, too, but it's not in any language that Ronon knows. It makes him shiver just to look at it.

Aside from that blade, his "personals" as Sam calls them aren't much to look at: a cell phone, a worn leather bound organizer that Sam says is his father's journal, a white envelope with a few photos in it.

It's not a lot to represent a life, then again, it's not like Ronon has a whole lot left from his days on Sateda. Only, Sateda's just a gate away -- not that Ronon's inclined to visit -- and that's not the case with Earth. What's more, part of the deal that Sam made to spare his brother's life was a promise not to return.

Sam spreads the photos out, studies them for a split second, and is about to return them to the envelope when Ronon asks if he can see.

The first photo is small, creased, faded. A happy young couple on their wedding day. Ronon presumes these are Sam's parents.

"She died when I was six months old."

The next is about the size of Ronon's palm. The man from the first photo, grizzled now, and careworn, has his arms slung over two boys. Behind them is a glossy black motor vehicle. Ronon instantly recognizes Sam, rail skinny and all coltish awkwardness from his first growth spurt, hair too long and in his eyes, like he's trying to hide behind it. Dean Winchester's not at all what Ronon thought he would be -- he's got an almost delicate face and he's blonder, too. His hair is military short, and for all that he's got fine bones in his face, there's no mistaking the set of that jaw.

"I was 15," Sam says.

The third photo is also small, a formal portrait of a young man with sand colored hair. A school photo most likely.

"Adam, my half-brother. He's dead." Something about the timbre of Sam's voice tells Ronon that there's a whole world of things left unsaid in that statement.

The final photo is also the size of Ronon's palm. Sam's beaming, all dimples, dressed in a long sleeved button up shirt with a collar and clean pants (both are the kind you press) and he has his arms around a tall, stunningly beautiful woman in a dark blue dress. Her head is tossed back as she laughs and she's got a lush looking mane of long blonde curls.

Sam's eyes darken and his mouth tightens into a thin, bitter line. "Jessica."

"Bad breakup?"

"She died. Murdered." And again, Ronon knows Sam's leaving the most important parts unsaid.

Sam chews his lip musingly for a moment before reaching for the photo. "A whole 'nother life. A completely 'nother life."

Ronon swallows the last of his juice and thinks about his life on Sateda. "I understand."

Laughter dances in Sam's eyes as he says, "I was studying to be lawyer, you know. Like Woolsey."

Ronon chokes on his reply, because .... Because.

~oo(0)oo~

He finds Sam sitting cross legged on the floor of his room two nights later. Ronon knows that none of the items in his room have been touched. They've never talked about it. They don't need to. Ronon just knows that Sam doesn't snoop.

Ronon has no idea how Sam picks the lock, and he knows Sam doesn't have a pass key. The security footage never shows anything useful, either.

But this is how it is between them since that night on that planet a few months ago. Sam shows up in his room, or corners him in an out of the way place and they do, or they don't, depending on Sam's mercurial moods.

(Mostly they do.)

The knife sits on the floor about three feet in front of Sam, blade towards him, hilt towards Ronon. An offering.

Ronon slings his gear in its usual place before crouching down and placing his hand over the hilt. Not grasping, just touching. "I take it you want me to have this."

Sam smiles at him, but it doesn't light his eyes. "Yes. I had - I'm afraid you might need it some day."

Ronon nods and picks it up. It makes him uneasy, this knife does, but it is incredibly sharp, and the deep serrations on the lower half of the blade are more than just for a cut that will lay flesh open to the bone -- they're also good for trapping and deflecting and opponent's weapon.

He spins it like a top, and flips it in the air a few times, and each time he catches it, each time the handle falls into his hand, it's a right thing; it feels like an extension of his arm. In other words, the balance is exquisite. He'll have to have a sheath custom made, but that's no issue, some of Teyla's folk are superb leather workers.

Ronon opens his foot locker and makes a show for Sam of carefully wrapping the blade in an oil cloth before setting it inside. (You'd think that fucking like they do would have made them familiars. No. It's brought a kind of odd formality and ritualism to their relationship, but Sam seems to welcome it. And in its own way, it's incredibly intimate.) Ronon fishes around and pulls out a small bone charm a child gave him once and offers it to Sam. "On Sateda we had a custom," he says, "if somebody gave you a knife, you gave them a coin or a small gift back so the knife couldn't cut your friendship."

Sam laughs with pleasure as he takes it. "Thanks." Then, in a grave voice, barely above a murmur, he says, "There's not another knife like that in the universe, Ronon. Guard it with your life."

"That's a charm against Wraith. Not that you need one." More like the other way around.

Sam studies it for a moment before slipping it into a pouch on his belt. "You never know." Pause. "There's something else I need to ask."

Ronon shrugs. "Ask."

"I want you to get a tattoo." Sam pulls down the neck of his T-shirt to reveal the small geometric design on his upper chest. "It's a hex ... against things far worse than the Wraith."

Ronon's not exactly eager to go back under the needle, but if this is what it takes to humor Sam -- skittish, half-crazy, Post Traumatic Stress (that's what they say), wakes-screaming-from-dreams Sam .... If this is what it takes to earn another measure of Sam's trust, then it will be a small price to pay. "Sure."

Sam gives an immensely relieved sigh and there's only the barest pause before he springs to his feet and tackles Ronon to the bed, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Finally! Ronon grabs a double fistful of Sam's hair and kisses him, hard. He then rolls them over, and sits up, straddling Sam's hips, pulls off his shirt and sends it flying.

Something amber flickers in the depth of Sam's eyes. "Think you've turned the tables on me then?"

Ronon laughs. "Only because you've let me."

Sam's hands reach up and he claws at Ronon's chest with his fingertips, leaving a line of pinkened stripes in his wake -- not scratches, not nails, not yet -- making Ronon gasp. "Yeah, there is that." And Ronon can't help but groan a little under his breath when those hands go to work on his belt buckle. "But that's not what you want, is it?"

Ronon bites his lip and shuts his eyes as Sam's finger teases along just under the waistband of Ronon's pants, which are tented something fierce now. He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out slowly. "Not today." He opens his eyes and locks them with Sam's. He's not ashamed of who he is and what he likes.

Sam shuts his eyes and Ronon feels him shiver. "Get off of me and strip," he says in a throaty growl that's all command.

Ronon's knees feel like gelatin as he steps on to the floor and slowly, methodically, removes his boots and socks, then unbuttons and unzips, eases his pants and undershorts off and steps out of them. Sam never once opens his eyes, just keeps breathing in and out, rhythmically, but somehowRonon knows Sam's cataloged and savored every move he's made.

Wraith-fast, Sam's off the bed and behind him, one hand lifting the dreds off the back of Ronon's neck as he sniffs deeply, the sound of it and the feel of cool bursts of air along the nape of his neck make Ronon throb and he's got to close his eyes to keep it all in. Unbidden, a sort of keening sound starts in the back of his throat as the air becomes hotter and humid, and Ronon can tell that Sam's opened his mouth slightly as he sniffs, like an animal does when it wants to savor every last nuance of a scent. He feels the briefest most delicate lick there a split second before Sam shoves him face down onto the mattress, kicks his legs apart, and twists one handful of hair to the edge of pain.

It's a moment Ronon's dreaded as much as he's wanted it.

"Ronon?" And although it's phrased as a question, Sam's voice even rises a bit at the end, it's not. It's really not.

He replies in the loudest, clearest voice he can muster over the blood hammering through his veins. "Yes, damn you."

Sam's answering chortle is low and throaty. "Oh, I was damned a very long time ago." Ronon hears him unbutton and unzip.

There's a slurping sloppy noise that can only be the sound of Sam spit-slicking his fingers. There's only the barest touch of their of cool wetness before Sam drives them in and begins a methodical pistoning. It's too much and not enough and Ronon's jittering with both dread and anticipation and he struggles to find the barest words of "Sam" and "Oh, yes" and "Please."

The fingers leave and there's the sound of fishing in a pocket for something crinkly and then the sound of a condom packet being opened and Sam's other hand leaves his hair and Ronon hears himself say, "Fucking hurry up" and Sam answers with laughter.

The hand snakes back into his hair, tight enough to make Ronon's eyes water and his cock twitch, just as he feels the first slick probing and with a snarl from Sam, he's in and those fingers were not enough, not nearly enough.

(Thank goodness.)

Sam never has words at times like this and Ronon knows he's going to lose his own in less than a minute as Sam clamps his free hand over Ronon's hip and gives that first good, perfect I-am-going-to-hammer-your-ass thrust and Ronon rocks back against him and prays for him to find the groove because yeah, it fucking hurts, but his mind is frying because the feeling of Sam in him like this is so good and he wants better and best ASAP.

There's no reach around. There's never going to be a reach around. And the short, gasped cry that Sam makes when Ronon manages to get a hand down and around his steel hard dick speeds things along. Ronon gets in two strokes before the word whites out and it's electric pain of Sam biting the back of his neck as he shoves in hard and deep that jolts Ronon fully back into the here and now. Sam shudders against him for a few seconds, panting as his body goes slack.

Ronon lays in his own puddle of congealing wet and he silently damns the condom as Sam gives one last set of licks to the bite he just made, and pulls out, because Ronon wants to feel come leaking out of him, wants to feel used like that by Sam. He inches up on the bed, 'cause he doesn't have the strength for more, and oh yeah, he's going to be feeling this tomorrow. Ronon closes his eyes and listens as Sam strips the condom off and tosses it in the wastebasket. There's the sound of water running and the mattress sags as Sam sits next to him and cleans the bite with a cool washcloth before rubbing a little ointment on it.

He doesn't say sorry.

Because he's not and they both know it.

Sam pitches the washcloth on the floor and flops on the bed, face up, next to Ronon. "You smell like my brother, you know," he says wistfully.

What?

Ronon turns his head and looks at Sam, who's staring up at the ceiling with a far-away, almost dreamy expression on his face.

"All my life, since I was a baby, ever since that demon murdered my mother, it was me and Dean in the Impala. My first word was 'Dean'. All my life, he ...." it trailed off into a heavy, heartbroken sigh. "You smell like Dean. You smell like home."

Ronon's tongue struggles, tries to find words, but it's sticking to the roof of his mouth, feels alien, like it's coated in wax.

Sam sighs again, sits up, and slips from the room before Ronon can speak.

And really, it's just better that way.