cathybites | (no subject)

and if I need a rhythm
[spn, sam/dean, nc-17, 2947 words]

this is pretty much unbetaed. I'd started it last year and kind of petered out on it, then ended up writing another story that I felt was too similar, as far as issues and such. but I'm trying to rid of myself of my five million WIPs, so here ya go. I wash my hands of it! title from "Ramalama (Bang Bang)" by Roisin Murphy, which inspired this in an odd sort of way.

Straight out of a bad horror movie, that's what the house was: shuttered windows, oversized cobwebs, and sheet-covered furniture in the dark, dusty rooms. Every part of it was a haunted mansion cliche, and Dean only needed one look at it before he nearly busted a gut laughing.

"No way," he wheezed in between snorts, catching his breath and glancing around the parlor, his 'are you shitting me?' look firmly planted on his face. "No fuckin' way. That lameass ride at Disney World is more authentic than place."

Cracking a smile, Sam had to agree as he stared up at a portrait of a sour-faced man; he half-expected the eyes to blink or Vincent Price to pop out. "Well, let's just take a look around, verify that the rumors are bullshit, and get out of here."

"Pfft," Dean huffed. "Verify." He crouched down to peer under a sheet, flapping it and sending up a volley of dust. "Hey, any ghosts here want to verify their bullshit existence?"

There was flash of movement just at the edge of his vision and by the time Sam figured out what it was, a silver tea tray was flying at Dean's head.

"Dean!" he warned, and Dean turned just in time to get slammed in the face with the tray.

"Motherfucker!"

Sam rushed over, but Dean was already on his feet, hand pressed to his forehead as he glared around the room. "You okay?" Sam asked. Dean's forehead glowed pink where he had been struck and Sam's hands itched to touch it, trace over it and soothe it with his fingertips. He dug his nails into his palms and kept his hands at his sides.

"Ornery little fucks!" Dean spit out, waving off Sam's concern. "I'm fine. Let's just take care of these assholes and get the hell out of-- shit!" He ducked, dragging Sam down with him, as the rest of the tea service flew at them.

Exorcising the ghosts was easier said than done. They weren't the angry, vengeful type - there hadn't been any reports of people disappearing or blood running down the walls or any other sign that things would get nasty - but they were annoying and persistent and sneaky with a wicked sense of humor Sam was sure he'd appreciate under any other circumstances.

"Can't we just burn the place down?" Dean asked an hour later, wiping soot from his face - Sam had warned him not to stick his head into the fireplace - and scowling up at the ceiling. They were holed up in the basement and while it was dark, damp, and smelled strongly of rot, it seemed to be spook-free; Sam said a silent prayer of thanks for small miracles.

He picked the feathers from his hair and rolled his eyes at Dean's question, refusing to acknowledge it otherwise. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a few small canvas satchels, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell. Tossing one to Dean, he said, "You take the west side and --"

He was knocked to the floor for a second time that night, Dean laying down across his body, his startled yelp muffled by Dean's hand. Dean raised a finger to his own mouth, hushing Sam. He jerked his head to the left and Sam craned his neck just in time to catch a whisper of black rags float by. Some sort of spirit, he guessed, but he couldn't tell what kind, not just from that. He made a questioning noise and Dean's hand pressed tighter against his mouth.

"A wraith," Dean whispered into his ear, his breath hot and damp against Sam's ear. He jerked away from the heat, but Dean just pressed in closer, hand still over his mouth; it smelled of ash and ozone, the scent curling into Sam's brain. "That's gotta be why all the other spooks are sticking to the upper floors, why they chased us down here," said Dean, but all Sam could hear was the pounding of his heart, slamming like a sledgehammer against his ribs; all he could think about was that it had been far too long since he was that up close and personal with another body. All he could feel was Dean, body melting against Sam's like it was made to be there.

A desperate little moan worked its way up from his throat, echoing inside his head as Dean settled in between his legs, his body warm and heavy and pushing against Sam, and Dean needed to get off him right then. He twisted his hips, but that only caused Dean to slide against him and -- fuck. Sam's dick went from half-awake to steeled up and ready to go. Dean froze on top of him, and Sam screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the freak-out.

His heart ran double-time for a few measures, and when nothing happened, Sam cracked an eye open. Dean stared down at him, eyes unreadable in the dark of the basement. His tongue slipped out to lick at his lips, and Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from the slow slide of it, the way Dean's mouth glistened afterward. His cock throbbed in time to the rhythm pulsing through his veins - bang bang, ba-bang bang - skipping a beat or two when Dean thrust against him and Sam could feel Dean's hard-on groove against his.

Sam moaned low and Dean's mouth breathed into his ear again, whispering, "Hush, Sammy, shhh," before his tongue snaked out to trace a wet trail along the swirls of his ear and, christ, was that supposed to be some kind of joke? He struggled to be as quiet as he could, but it proved to be near impossible, especially once Dean worked his hand into Sam's jeans, pushing into his shorts and wrapping callused fingers around Sam's cock.

Gasping for air behind the hand still covering his mouth, Sam thrust up into Dean's fist, whimpering as it stripped his cock nearly raw, squeezing and pulling until Sam could feel the white-hot promise of release kissing its way down his spine, coiling onto itself until it snapped and shattered, spilling out over Dean's hand. Sam groaned and bit down into the flesh of Dean's palm, sucking the skin in between his teeth.

Dean's breath hitched counter-rhythm to Sam's as he finally moved his hand. Sam cracked his jaw open, gulping in air, and tried to think of anything he could possibly say at the moment.

It was Dean who finally broke the silence with a cautious, "Sam, I--"

He rolled off Sam so suddenly that it took a moment for Sam to actually realize that Dean had moved. His confusion disappeared as Dean grabbed his shotgun and shot the wraith behind them. The spectre shrieked as it dissipated into nothing and Sam pushed up to a sitting position, trying not to think about the rapidly cooling mess in his jeans or - definitely not - about what it would take to get Dean to do that again.

------

Three weeks after clearing out the haunted mansion - three weeks after Dean jerked him off in front of a wraith was how Sam usually thought of it - and they were down in New Orleans doing zombie control.

Ninety-nine percent of the time when they dealt with zombies, it was traditional voodoo-style zombies - poor schmucks who'd been zapped with zombie powder and went around doing the bidding of whichever power-hungry bokor had control of them. In those cases, it was all a matter of releasing the person from the spell.

Rarely did they have to deal with re-animated Romero-style corpses hungry for human flesh.

Of course, this was one of those times.

"God, I fucking hate zombies," Dean griped as he swung his shovel, smashing it into the head of the nearest one. He yanked the bandanna covering his nose and mouth down and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "The fucking smell, man."

Sam grimaced behind his own bandanna, agreeing with a nod of his head, but all he could think about - even then, surrounded by stinking corpses - was how it had felt to have Dean's hand on him. Every night since it had happened, he had jerked off to the memory, spending way too much time trying to figure out what it all meant, if anything. He'd tried to bring it up to Dean but somehow the topic always got changed and eventually he had gotten the point - We are not talking about this ever.

Not talking about it, though, hadn't meant that it wasn't constantly hanging over them. It was as if everything they did only reminded them of what had happened. Dean would pass him the salt at dinner and all Sam could see was the way Dean's fingers curved around the shaker. Sam would stretch his arms over his head after a long car ride and when he glanced at Dean, Dean would look like he was two seconds away from knocking Sam to the floor and dry-humping him until they both passed out. They bumped into each other in tiny motel bathrooms and jumped apart, doing everything to avoid eye contact. They sat across from each other in diner booths and couldn't look away, feet sliding together beneath the table.

Sam gave a mental shake; concentrate on the job, he scolded himself. He turned to say something to Dean just in time to see two zombies shamble towards him, Dean oblivious as he readjusted his bandanna.

"Dean!" he shouted; Dean paused and looked up, eyes curious over the red slash of fabric, growing only wider as one of the zombie's hands closed around his neck.

How he got to where Dean stood so fast was a mystery; one moment he was watching Dean get attacked, the next he had Dean pushed up against the side of a tomb, two headless corpses sprawled out behind them. Dean's eyes were wide, almost completely black as he looked up at Sam, bandanna slipping past his chin. In between them, Sam could feel a pounding heartbeat; whether it was his or Dean's or both, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that it was achingly familiar, a rhythm so bone-deep inside of him that he couldn't help but follow it.

"Dean," he said again, softer this time, just a whisper of breath as he pulled his own bandanna down and bent his head towards Dean's.

Dean mumbled something, the words lost as Sam kissed him, tongue sliding across that full bottom lip before pushing in. A small sound of protest came out of Dean, but Sam didn't care, not anymore, not when Dean's mouth was open and hot under his.

Then Dean pushed him away and Sam got out a "Wha--?" before Dean spun him around to face the approaching zombies.

"Dude, time and place!"

Oh. Right. Sam hoisted his machete, then looked back at Dean, who already had his bandanna back in place. His eyes were hard, unreadable, but then something softened and he gave Sam a tiny nod. Later, it said, we'll deal with this later.

Sam nodded back and turned his focus back to the undead horde, grinning as he pulled his own bandanna over his nose and heard Dean mutter, "Fucking zombies."

---

Of course, Sam should've realized that 'later' in Dean-time meant 'never'. They cleaned out the cemetery, laid down some wards, and headed back to the motel. He tried to start the conversation several times on the ride back, but Dean just said, "Not yet," and Sam left it at that.

They got back and Dean shoved past Sam before he could say anything, making a beeline for the bathroom. "I fuckin' reek," was all he said before the door slammed shut in Sam's face.

Sam stared at the cracked paint of the door, mouth snapping shut in annoyance; he could already see how this was going to play out, a never-ending cycle of 'Not yet' and 'Later.' There was only a moment's hesitation before he grabbed a hold of the doorknob and twisted it, banging the door open.

The shower was on but Dean sat on the toilet, still dressed, hunched over with both hands fisted against his forehead. When the door opened, he jumped and stared at Sam for a long moment, expression on his face so raw that Sam felt it like a kick to the gut.

It was gone in an instant, replaced by irritation and a scowl, Dean's eyes narrowing as he stood. "You mind, Sam?" he snapped out. "I'm showering." He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, shoving to spin Sam around and out the door.

Heels digging in, Sam refused to budge, reaching up to grab a hold of Dean's arm and yank him closer, throwing him off-balance. He anticipated the push from Dean, braced for it, then used the rebound to drive Dean back to the opposite wall.

The annoyance on Dean's face slid right into anger, and his mouth tightened into a thin line before he fought against Sam's hold, trying to elbow past him. "What the fuck?" he hissed, snarling when Sam laid a forearm across his colllarbone and planted him right back against the wall. Dean looked about ready to spit, and he tried to shake Sam off before saying, "I'm not talking about this."

"Fine," Sam bit out, "then we won't talk," and he leaned in to lick a hot stripe along the side of Dean's neck before reaching down to palm Dean's dick through his jeans.

Dean gasped sharply, arching into Sam's touch. His hands shot up, digging into Sam's biceps before trying to push him away again. "The fuck? Sam, we can't--"

"We already did," Sam said, pushing a thigh between Dean's, a small smile playing across his lips as they fell open easily. He bent his head to Dean's throat, mouth blazing a trail along the heated skin until his lips were brushing against Dean's. "We did it and I wanted it. I still want it." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he squeezed the outline of Dean's erection as he said, "You want it, too."

"Fucking asshole," muttered Dean, a shiver going through him, but he didn't stop Sam from pressing his mouth harder against Dean's, tongue flickering out before urging Dean's mouth open.

Sam rocked his hips into Dean's, letting his cock drag against the hard press of Dean's, swallowing down his moan. Breaking off the kiss, he pulled back slightly, just enough to get a hand between them and unbutton Dean's jeans, tug them open. One finger traced along the waistband of his shorts, flicking at it as he said, "Ask me, Dean. I'm not doing anything until you tell me to, until you say you want this."

Dean jerked his head to the side, jaw tense, swallowing hard. Sam scratched his nails against Dean's skin, over the coarse hair leading down from his navel, and Dean swore, banged his head back against the wall and nodded. He said, "Fine, yes, okay? Okay? Just--" The words cut off, lost in the inhale of breath Dean took as Sam pushed his jeans and shorts down and wrapped his hand around Dean's dick.

Hot and heavy in his grip, and Sam couldn't stop staring at the way it fit in his hand, at the flushed head that only grew darker as he moved his hand up and down, twisting and swiping his thumb over the tip. Dean pushed up into his fist, urgent and impatient, but Sam kept the rhythm steady, timing it to the pounding beat of his heart. Just in case...just in case this was his only chance, the only time Dean would let him do this, he wanted to stretch it out, make it last.

Not that it could, not when Dean scrabbled at Sam's belt, his fly, shoving everything out of the way until he got his hand onto Sam, pulled his dick out, bumping into Sam's fist. "C'mon, Sam, c'mon," he said, pausing to lick his palm before grabbing hold of both their cocks. His other hand tugged at Sam's hair, yanking until Sam tipped his head back and Dean could get his mouth on his throat.

It didn't take long. Dean's hand stripping their cocks, Dean's mouth warm and damp against his neck and gasping out, "god" and "fuck, yeah" and "Sammy", and Sam came so hard it was almost painful, like Dean had just reached down and pulled everything out of him. He clung to Dean and fought to catch his breath, even as Dean's cock pulsed next to his and Dean's fist clenched in his hair.

A few moments of silence, then Dean said, "So. Is that it? You happy now?" He sounded snide, but there was a tremor to his voice that matched the one Sam could feel in the hand still fisted in his hair. He shook Dean's hand off, then slumped forward, forehead resting on the wall next to Dean's head. The cool plaster was in sharp contrast to his overheated skin and he could feel his heartbeat against it.

He smiled against Dean's ear, skated his hands down Dean's arm until he could hook his fingers into Dean's beltloops, and said, "Completely."

Dean squirmed at that, but Sam didn't budge, just kept pressing into Dean until he finally huffed in resignation and brought one arm up around Sam's shoulders. "Yeah," he said, head tilting back so Sam could press a kiss to his throat, feel his heartbeat steady and strong. "Yeah."

thank you for reading!