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Dec. 19th, 2007 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cathybitesspectrum
[spn, sam/dean, nc-17, 3356 words]
why, yes, I am doing an end-of-year fic dump. a series of ficlets, unrelated other than a concept of moods associated with colors. first one was originally written for the first![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_gleeweek celebration. over a year later and I've finally finished the rest. many many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tvm for her betaing duties.
(and for those interested in the uber-geekness, word count for each falls within the wavelength interval for the associated color. because I'm a nerd that way.)
"Why can't you just drop it?"
Fists clenched so tightly he can feel blood trickle down his palms, all Dean can do is stare at Sam. He cricks his neck and counts to ten before speaking. "Because you're fucking leaving us," he spits out, nearly choking on the words.
Sam blows out a breath and shakes his head, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. "God, Dean, this isn't about you and me, it's about me, what I need. I can't do this anymore."
Deep down inside, Dean knows Sam is talking about hunting, about living life outside of the norm, but it still feels like he's talking about them, saying he doesn't want Dean in his life anymore. Sam is leaving, and the fear and hurt that thought brings forth simmer in his veins, burn his vision with the heat of anger. He turns abruptly, facing the rumpled bed where he and Sam had slept last night. Behind him, Sam still speaks, pleading, placating, asking him to understand why he's doing this.
But Dean doesn't understand, can't understand why this isn't enough for Sam. Why he isn't enough. He screws his eyes shut and bites down on his lip, gnawing until copper bursts against his tongue.
A hand touches his shoulder and Dean grabs it hard, yanking so that Sam stumbles around him, facing him uncertainly. "You're leaving me," Dean says, the words forced between his teeth. He shoves Sam and repeats them again. "You're leaving me," and Sam blurs before him until Dean swipes a hand at his eyes.
"No, not you, never you," Sam says, but Dean shoves him again until Sam falls against the bed.
"Shut up," he hisses, crawling over Sam, pushing his chin up with one hand and biting down on the soft skin of his throat. "Shut up, just shut up!" His hands dig into Sam's shoulders, pressing him down into the mattress while Dean attacks his neck, biting and licking and sucking, following the rapid pulse of Sam's heartbeat.
Beneath him, Sam whimpers and writhes, reaching up to pull Dean's hips against his. Already he's rock-hard, and Dean's dick swells at the feel of Sam's next to it. They grind their erections against each other. It's almost too painful to be good, but that's exactly what Dean needs, an ache to match the one lodged deep inside. Dean rears up and thrusts hard against Sam, his breath exploding out of him with each gasp of Sam's. "Sammy," he whispers before leaning back down to bite at Sam's mouth, snagging the lower lip between his teeth and trapping it, then forcing Sam's mouth open to push his tongue in, sweeping over the inside and luring Sam's tongue out so he can suck on it.
Sam moans into his mouth and Dean reaches a hand between them, fumbling as he unzips Sam's jeans, shoving them and his shorts out of the way. He wants to fuck Sam raw, wants to swallow him down so deep he'll be a part of Dean forever. Wants to mark him and bleed him and make him beg to stay by Dean's side for the rest of his life. Wants Sam to say he'll stay no matter how much he hates this life, how angry he gets with Dad.
No matter how miserable he is.
Instead, Dean takes Sam in his hand, fingers running gently over the shaft, thumb sliding over the head before his fist closes tightly around him, jerking him quick and rough, ignoring the pleading noises torn from Sam's throat. He braces himself on his free arm and watches Sam look up at him from half-lidded eyes, watches as those eyes fall shut and Sam cries out before biting down on his swollen lip. The muffled sound of his quiet and desperate moans fill the room. Dean's hand is slick with warmth and for one crazy second, he half-wishes it had been blood that had spilled between them, binding them together.
Sam lets out a shuddering breath and reaches a trembling hand for him, but Dean rolls away. He wipes his hand on the comforter and stands, adjusting himself before turning to grab his jacket.
"Wait-- Dean?" he hears Sam say, but he just grabs his keys and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.
Consciousness comes slowly, arriving first with the awareness of a warm body curled around him, then the sounds of the world outside - birds singing, the maid a few rooms down. His eyes open and he's in another nameless motel room, an unused bed across from him. Home sweet home, he thinks, the words sharp in his head. Then he notices the arm under his head, the hand outstretched and bandaged, fingers curling up towards the ceiling.
He shifts, stretches his legs out, and rolls over to see Dean smiling at him.
"Hey," Sam says, voice still rough from sleep. He aches all over, muscles protesting every movement, but he props himself up on one arm, pushing the dull aches aside. There's a bruise along Dean's jaw, vivid purple against his tan, and another lighter one at the base of his throat. Sam runs a finger over that one, pressing down lightly when Dean's breath hitches. "That from me?"
Dean nods, rolling onto his back as Sam straddles him. He touches the one on Dean's jaw and asks, "This one?" before bending down to trace the edge of it with his tongue. The skin is hot to the taste and Dean gasps, head tilting to the side.
"Ghoul. Last night. Before I took it out." The words come out in staccato bursts, punctuated by the urgent noises Dean makes as Sam's tongue leaves the bruise and trails up to Dean's ear, curling around the lobe before sweeping along the shell.
Outside a car horn blares in the parking lot, but in the room, all Sam can hear is the pounding of Dean's heart, the gasps and breathy moans he makes as Sam mouths his way down Dean's body, pausing to kiss every bruise and scrape that he encounters. The thought of Dean being hurt, even with the slightest injury, is enough to make Sam want to start up the old argument of leaving this life behind. But having him here, safe and whole and alive, is enough for Sam, for now.
He noses the dark thatch of hair at Dean's crotch, breathing his scent in so deeply Sam's sure it's engrained inside him, and he tilts his head to kiss the head of Dean's cock, tongue darting out to lick up the bead of moisture at the slit. Dean lets out a moan, and Sam opens his mouth and takes him in, hands gripping Dean's hips tightly. He takes his time, mouth moving up and down slowly, tongue sliding over the smooth hot flesh.
Dean keens, thrusting up, and Sam lays one arm across Dean's stomach to keep him still. His other hand reaches down to urge one knee up and to the side. He slides a finger into his mouth, stroking it against the side of Dean's dick until moisture runs into his palm, and Sam skims the finger down the crease of Dean's leg, leaving a wet trail as it travels down and under. He presses it into the tight heat of Dean's body as he tilts his head forward, throat opening for Dean's cock, and Dean's hands scrabble at his head in warning. "Sam, Sammy, I'm gonna--" he says, but Sam just backs off a little, hums and curls his finger, and Dean spills into his mouth with a sharp cry.
He slides up Dean's body, and as he kisses him, his dick pushes in, slowly, little by little. Sam buries himself in Dean, loses himself in the feeling of Dean surrounding him, and he thinks that no matter how many nameless motel rooms he wakes up in, this will always be home to him.
"Fuck you," Dean says. He glares at Sam, who's turned away, shoulders shaking from the effort of not laughing. "Seriously, fuck you," he repeats, but there's little heat to his words. He's annoyed, yeah, but, god, he'd make himself look like an idiot a thousand times over if it made Sam smile and laugh like that.
"Dean, I'm sorry, but you've seriously never--"
Although enough is enough. Dean growls and pounces, mouth over Sam's, silencing him. He can feel Sam's mouth curving up into a grin and he slicks his tongue along the seam of his lips, seeking entry. Sam nips at him but opens up all the same, and Dean can taste the laughter on Sam's tongue, golden and sweet. "No, I had no idea, okay?" he says, pulling away to see Sam's lazy smile. "So let's stop talking about it and get to doing it."
Sam snorts at that, but he lets Dean strip him, watching with dark eyes as Dean sheds his clothing as well and crawls on top of him. Dean drops his hips down, heavy cock sliding across Sam's abs, bumping into his erection and causing them both to suck in a sharp breath. He thrusts harder, shifting until their dicks are aligned, rubbing against each other, slick with sweat and precome. The feeling is worlds apart from fucking or a blowjob - Dean can't even begin to describe it - but it's just as intense as either. He glances down to see what it looks like and moans at the sight of Sam's dick next to his, the head flushed and wet, leaving a streak of moisture on Sam's skin every time Dean's dick pushes against it.
"God, Dean," Sam breathes out, hands reaching down to grab Dean's ass, urging him to move faster, harder. His head tilts back, throat exposed, but Dean can still make out a grin on his face, tongue sneaking out to swipe at his lower lip.
Dean lowers his head to the taut cord of Sam's neck, scraping his teeth lightly over it, and Sam lets out a sharp burst of laughter, his hands clenching. Dean does it again, then runs his tongue over it before biting down hard, and Sam's head jerks to the side as he comes, gasping and laughing.
Thrusting into the slick mess between them, Dean chases Sam's smile with his mouth, kisses him until everything turns bright and incandescent. Heat and pressure build up, set him alight from the inside out. Sam's fingers skim down the crease of his ass, a teasing touch that has Dean trying to push forward and back at the same time. Finally, two fingers push in, dry but slow, and as they twist, Dean howls his climax into Sam's shoulder, shaking with the intensity.
They lay still for a moment, Sam's fingers withdrawing gently. Sam trembles beneath him, and he looks up sharply. "You okay?" he asks.
The trembling grows and Dean realizes that Sam is still laughing. He shoots him an angry look and gives Sam a hard shove, sending him out of bed.
That makes Sam laugh harder and he sits up, one arm curled around his stomach, smile brighter than the sun. "C'mon, Dean, I'm sorry! But, really. The look on the waiter's face when you asked--"
Dean throws a pillow, then himself, at Sam, muffling his laughter with his mouth. If that's what he had to keep doing to make Sam shut up about the whole thing, well, then so be it.
He wants.
All his life, he's wanted more, he's wanted less, he's wanted everything he's supposed to have and doesn't.
He wants a mother he's never known, someone who'll tuck him in at night and tell him the world is a safe place. He wants a father who'll teach him how to throw a baseball, not how to perform an exorcism, and who'll be proud of him no matter what he does, no matter who he becomes.
He wants a brother who doesn't twist him up inside, make him forget all about being 'normal'.
He wants to join the track team, wants to run because he can, not because he has to. He wants to be on the debate team, to prove that his opinions and thoughts are valid, that he doesn't have to resort to yelling and slamming doors to get his point across. He wants to date and go to homecoming and fall in love - with a girl - and get married and have a safe, normal family.
He wants to have parties of his own, not get dragged to whatever skankfest Dean finds that weekend. He wants to invite his friends over, and get drunk and high with them, to have fun and not watch some cheerleader grind down on Dean's lap.
He wants her to take her hands off his brother, wants Dean to stop squeezing her ass, to stop feeling her up under her blouse. He wants Dean to look up, to see him watching, wants that darkened gaze focused on him.
He wants Dean to shove the girl away, to come over where he's sprawled on the ratty sofa. He wants Dean to throw a leg over his lap so that he's straddling him, and to kiss him until they're both aching and hard.
He wants Dean mouthing at his throat, teeth scraping over his skin, wants Dean to slide a hand down past his waistband until his fingers are wrapped around his dick and tugging, hard and sure. He wants to push up into Dean's grip, wants to writhe and beg until Dean slides down, until Dean's mouth sucks him in, swallows him whole. He wants to feel Dean's throat close around his cock, wants to feel Dean's hands on his hips, urging him to fuck up into his mouth.
He wants to see spit and precome smeared over Dean's swollen and red lips. He wants Dean to smile, dark and sweet, before turning over, propping himself up on hands and knees, naked and ready for him.
He wants to know what it feels like to slide a finger into Dean's ass, wants to know how hot and tight it would be. He wants to hear Dean beg for another, wants to watch as two of his fingers move in and out, scissoring and stretching Dean open, wants Dean moaning at the feel of it, wants Dean's ass pushing back, taking them deeper.
He wants to shove his dick into Dean, wants to pound into him until all that cocky bravado disappears, wants to fuck him until there's nothing left between them, just the honesty of skin against skin. He wants to make Dean come and cry and forget that anything exists outside of them, that nothing else matters when it's just them, just this.
He wants.
Sam doesn't smile for days. When one finally does appear, it's so paper-thin that Dean can see the fraying edges of Sam's sanity beneath it. It makes him edgy, sets his skin crawling and insides turning because he knows this might've broken Sam and he doesn't know how to fix it.
He tries for acting normal, being loud and obnoxious and pulling the old jokes that used to have Sam roaring with laughter, but it doesn't work. He tries leaving Sam alone, letting him deal with it himself, but that just sends Sam further into whatever dark place he's been hiding in.
Desperation drives Dean to try and talk about what happened, but he fumbles over the words, gets frustrated, and he and Sam end up screaming at each other for an hour before falling into a stony silence.
The weather is gorgeous on the day Jess is buried, and if Dean ever wanted proof that God is a jackass, that's it right there, in the sunlight beaming down on the casket. Sam's face is blank throughout everything, and when they leave for Colorado that night, he just sits and stares out the window.
He finally breaks somewhere in Utah. Small, hitching breaths that Dean's not even sure he hears at first, then a sob that scrapes out from Sam's throat, and Dean pulls the car over, twisting in his seat to look at him.
"Hey. Hey, Sam, c'mon," he says, reaching over to...he doesn't even know what, and his hand hovers by Sam's hip. Winchester men may know a hundred ways to kill the ugly things that hunt in the dark, but they're ill-equipped to deal with the things that can tear a man up from the inside. He watches as Sam cries himself out, unable to offer any comfort, not any kind that Sam would want now. When the sobs stop and Sam's breathing evens out, Dean pulls back on the road.
Close to an hour passes before Sam says, "Thanks," his voice wrecked. Dean doesn't think he's done anything to deserve it, but he nods all the same.
Soon after, they stop at a motel, the sign the only light for miles. They trudge into their room, and when Sam sprawls out, boneless, on one of the beds, Dean heads into the shower. He's not under the spray for more than a minute when Sam slips in behind him, arms going around his waist, head resting on his shoulder.
"I don't want this," he hears Sam murmur against his neck, lips skating over his skittering pulse. "I want her, Dean, I want her back." The words fall from his mouth in a harsh whisper, slicing straight through to Dean's core.
Dean swallows hard and nods, closing his eyes to the feel of Sam's hands grabbing hold of him roughly. "I know," he says. "I know."
Sam believes in Heaven. It only makes sense, really; the universe likes balance, strives for it in everything - light and dark, good and evil. He knows for a fact there's a Hell, seen it with his own eyes, felt the burning heat of it against his skin. Even if it's not a physical place, even if it's a little different for everyone, there has to be a Heaven, someplace where the blessed and weary can find peace at last.
He'd tried to find it before, searched religious texts to better understand it, better understand himself, but he's through with that. The sacred rites and rituals, the symbols and saints - none of them had done any good, not in the end. When it had come down to it, when the darkness inside of him threatened to swallow him up and the whole world along with him, there had been only one thing to push it all back, to remind Sam of who he was.
Sam knows it's fucked up, but his salvation is here, in Dean. It's in the taste of Dean's skin against Sam's tongue, the clench of Dean's body around him, holding him close, holding him together. It's in the broken sounds that fall from Dean's mouth as Sam presses inside him, more eloquent than any word could ever be.
Sam swears with his body, takes communion with his hands, vows with all he has that this is what he wants, that Dean is who he needs. His tongue traces out patterns of devotion; his hands grip tight, leave the marks of worship on Dean's hips. He pulls Dean closer, raises them both to their knees, clasps his hands over Dean's heart. He finds hope and forgiveness in the rhythm he finds there, pounding strong and sure as Sam pushes back in.
Dean gasps, sucks in air and cranes his head back, mouth open. Sam breathes a prayer into Dean, lets it hang for a moment before he kisses him. Harsh and sloppy, lips swearing devotions he can't say out loud.
Afterward, with Dean lying sprawled on top of him, sated and warm, Sam closes his eyes. He doesn't pray, he doesn't ask for answers that will never come from a god who never listens. He just listens to Dean's breathing, soft and steady, his back rising and falling under Sam's hand, and lets himself feel at peace.
thank you for reading
[spn, sam/dean, nc-17, 3356 words]
why, yes, I am doing an end-of-year fic dump. a series of ficlets, unrelated other than a concept of moods associated with colors. first one was originally written for the first
spn_gleeweek celebration. over a year later and I've finally finished the rest. many many thanks to tvm for her betaing duties.(and for those interested in the uber-geekness, word count for each falls within the wavelength interval for the associated color. because I'm a nerd that way.)
"Why can't you just drop it?"
Fists clenched so tightly he can feel blood trickle down his palms, all Dean can do is stare at Sam. He cricks his neck and counts to ten before speaking. "Because you're fucking leaving us," he spits out, nearly choking on the words.
Sam blows out a breath and shakes his head, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. "God, Dean, this isn't about you and me, it's about me, what I need. I can't do this anymore."
Deep down inside, Dean knows Sam is talking about hunting, about living life outside of the norm, but it still feels like he's talking about them, saying he doesn't want Dean in his life anymore. Sam is leaving, and the fear and hurt that thought brings forth simmer in his veins, burn his vision with the heat of anger. He turns abruptly, facing the rumpled bed where he and Sam had slept last night. Behind him, Sam still speaks, pleading, placating, asking him to understand why he's doing this.
But Dean doesn't understand, can't understand why this isn't enough for Sam. Why he isn't enough. He screws his eyes shut and bites down on his lip, gnawing until copper bursts against his tongue.
A hand touches his shoulder and Dean grabs it hard, yanking so that Sam stumbles around him, facing him uncertainly. "You're leaving me," Dean says, the words forced between his teeth. He shoves Sam and repeats them again. "You're leaving me," and Sam blurs before him until Dean swipes a hand at his eyes.
"No, not you, never you," Sam says, but Dean shoves him again until Sam falls against the bed.
"Shut up," he hisses, crawling over Sam, pushing his chin up with one hand and biting down on the soft skin of his throat. "Shut up, just shut up!" His hands dig into Sam's shoulders, pressing him down into the mattress while Dean attacks his neck, biting and licking and sucking, following the rapid pulse of Sam's heartbeat.
Beneath him, Sam whimpers and writhes, reaching up to pull Dean's hips against his. Already he's rock-hard, and Dean's dick swells at the feel of Sam's next to it. They grind their erections against each other. It's almost too painful to be good, but that's exactly what Dean needs, an ache to match the one lodged deep inside. Dean rears up and thrusts hard against Sam, his breath exploding out of him with each gasp of Sam's. "Sammy," he whispers before leaning back down to bite at Sam's mouth, snagging the lower lip between his teeth and trapping it, then forcing Sam's mouth open to push his tongue in, sweeping over the inside and luring Sam's tongue out so he can suck on it.
Sam moans into his mouth and Dean reaches a hand between them, fumbling as he unzips Sam's jeans, shoving them and his shorts out of the way. He wants to fuck Sam raw, wants to swallow him down so deep he'll be a part of Dean forever. Wants to mark him and bleed him and make him beg to stay by Dean's side for the rest of his life. Wants Sam to say he'll stay no matter how much he hates this life, how angry he gets with Dad.
No matter how miserable he is.
Instead, Dean takes Sam in his hand, fingers running gently over the shaft, thumb sliding over the head before his fist closes tightly around him, jerking him quick and rough, ignoring the pleading noises torn from Sam's throat. He braces himself on his free arm and watches Sam look up at him from half-lidded eyes, watches as those eyes fall shut and Sam cries out before biting down on his swollen lip. The muffled sound of his quiet and desperate moans fill the room. Dean's hand is slick with warmth and for one crazy second, he half-wishes it had been blood that had spilled between them, binding them together.
Sam lets out a shuddering breath and reaches a trembling hand for him, but Dean rolls away. He wipes his hand on the comforter and stands, adjusting himself before turning to grab his jacket.
"Wait-- Dean?" he hears Sam say, but he just grabs his keys and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.
Consciousness comes slowly, arriving first with the awareness of a warm body curled around him, then the sounds of the world outside - birds singing, the maid a few rooms down. His eyes open and he's in another nameless motel room, an unused bed across from him. Home sweet home, he thinks, the words sharp in his head. Then he notices the arm under his head, the hand outstretched and bandaged, fingers curling up towards the ceiling.
He shifts, stretches his legs out, and rolls over to see Dean smiling at him.
"Hey," Sam says, voice still rough from sleep. He aches all over, muscles protesting every movement, but he props himself up on one arm, pushing the dull aches aside. There's a bruise along Dean's jaw, vivid purple against his tan, and another lighter one at the base of his throat. Sam runs a finger over that one, pressing down lightly when Dean's breath hitches. "That from me?"
Dean nods, rolling onto his back as Sam straddles him. He touches the one on Dean's jaw and asks, "This one?" before bending down to trace the edge of it with his tongue. The skin is hot to the taste and Dean gasps, head tilting to the side.
"Ghoul. Last night. Before I took it out." The words come out in staccato bursts, punctuated by the urgent noises Dean makes as Sam's tongue leaves the bruise and trails up to Dean's ear, curling around the lobe before sweeping along the shell.
Outside a car horn blares in the parking lot, but in the room, all Sam can hear is the pounding of Dean's heart, the gasps and breathy moans he makes as Sam mouths his way down Dean's body, pausing to kiss every bruise and scrape that he encounters. The thought of Dean being hurt, even with the slightest injury, is enough to make Sam want to start up the old argument of leaving this life behind. But having him here, safe and whole and alive, is enough for Sam, for now.
He noses the dark thatch of hair at Dean's crotch, breathing his scent in so deeply Sam's sure it's engrained inside him, and he tilts his head to kiss the head of Dean's cock, tongue darting out to lick up the bead of moisture at the slit. Dean lets out a moan, and Sam opens his mouth and takes him in, hands gripping Dean's hips tightly. He takes his time, mouth moving up and down slowly, tongue sliding over the smooth hot flesh.
Dean keens, thrusting up, and Sam lays one arm across Dean's stomach to keep him still. His other hand reaches down to urge one knee up and to the side. He slides a finger into his mouth, stroking it against the side of Dean's dick until moisture runs into his palm, and Sam skims the finger down the crease of Dean's leg, leaving a wet trail as it travels down and under. He presses it into the tight heat of Dean's body as he tilts his head forward, throat opening for Dean's cock, and Dean's hands scrabble at his head in warning. "Sam, Sammy, I'm gonna--" he says, but Sam just backs off a little, hums and curls his finger, and Dean spills into his mouth with a sharp cry.
He slides up Dean's body, and as he kisses him, his dick pushes in, slowly, little by little. Sam buries himself in Dean, loses himself in the feeling of Dean surrounding him, and he thinks that no matter how many nameless motel rooms he wakes up in, this will always be home to him.
"Fuck you," Dean says. He glares at Sam, who's turned away, shoulders shaking from the effort of not laughing. "Seriously, fuck you," he repeats, but there's little heat to his words. He's annoyed, yeah, but, god, he'd make himself look like an idiot a thousand times over if it made Sam smile and laugh like that.
"Dean, I'm sorry, but you've seriously never--"
Although enough is enough. Dean growls and pounces, mouth over Sam's, silencing him. He can feel Sam's mouth curving up into a grin and he slicks his tongue along the seam of his lips, seeking entry. Sam nips at him but opens up all the same, and Dean can taste the laughter on Sam's tongue, golden and sweet. "No, I had no idea, okay?" he says, pulling away to see Sam's lazy smile. "So let's stop talking about it and get to doing it."
Sam snorts at that, but he lets Dean strip him, watching with dark eyes as Dean sheds his clothing as well and crawls on top of him. Dean drops his hips down, heavy cock sliding across Sam's abs, bumping into his erection and causing them both to suck in a sharp breath. He thrusts harder, shifting until their dicks are aligned, rubbing against each other, slick with sweat and precome. The feeling is worlds apart from fucking or a blowjob - Dean can't even begin to describe it - but it's just as intense as either. He glances down to see what it looks like and moans at the sight of Sam's dick next to his, the head flushed and wet, leaving a streak of moisture on Sam's skin every time Dean's dick pushes against it.
"God, Dean," Sam breathes out, hands reaching down to grab Dean's ass, urging him to move faster, harder. His head tilts back, throat exposed, but Dean can still make out a grin on his face, tongue sneaking out to swipe at his lower lip.
Dean lowers his head to the taut cord of Sam's neck, scraping his teeth lightly over it, and Sam lets out a sharp burst of laughter, his hands clenching. Dean does it again, then runs his tongue over it before biting down hard, and Sam's head jerks to the side as he comes, gasping and laughing.
Thrusting into the slick mess between them, Dean chases Sam's smile with his mouth, kisses him until everything turns bright and incandescent. Heat and pressure build up, set him alight from the inside out. Sam's fingers skim down the crease of his ass, a teasing touch that has Dean trying to push forward and back at the same time. Finally, two fingers push in, dry but slow, and as they twist, Dean howls his climax into Sam's shoulder, shaking with the intensity.
They lay still for a moment, Sam's fingers withdrawing gently. Sam trembles beneath him, and he looks up sharply. "You okay?" he asks.
The trembling grows and Dean realizes that Sam is still laughing. He shoots him an angry look and gives Sam a hard shove, sending him out of bed.
That makes Sam laugh harder and he sits up, one arm curled around his stomach, smile brighter than the sun. "C'mon, Dean, I'm sorry! But, really. The look on the waiter's face when you asked--"
Dean throws a pillow, then himself, at Sam, muffling his laughter with his mouth. If that's what he had to keep doing to make Sam shut up about the whole thing, well, then so be it.
He wants.
All his life, he's wanted more, he's wanted less, he's wanted everything he's supposed to have and doesn't.
He wants a mother he's never known, someone who'll tuck him in at night and tell him the world is a safe place. He wants a father who'll teach him how to throw a baseball, not how to perform an exorcism, and who'll be proud of him no matter what he does, no matter who he becomes.
He wants a brother who doesn't twist him up inside, make him forget all about being 'normal'.
He wants to join the track team, wants to run because he can, not because he has to. He wants to be on the debate team, to prove that his opinions and thoughts are valid, that he doesn't have to resort to yelling and slamming doors to get his point across. He wants to date and go to homecoming and fall in love - with a girl - and get married and have a safe, normal family.
He wants to have parties of his own, not get dragged to whatever skankfest Dean finds that weekend. He wants to invite his friends over, and get drunk and high with them, to have fun and not watch some cheerleader grind down on Dean's lap.
He wants her to take her hands off his brother, wants Dean to stop squeezing her ass, to stop feeling her up under her blouse. He wants Dean to look up, to see him watching, wants that darkened gaze focused on him.
He wants Dean to shove the girl away, to come over where he's sprawled on the ratty sofa. He wants Dean to throw a leg over his lap so that he's straddling him, and to kiss him until they're both aching and hard.
He wants Dean mouthing at his throat, teeth scraping over his skin, wants Dean to slide a hand down past his waistband until his fingers are wrapped around his dick and tugging, hard and sure. He wants to push up into Dean's grip, wants to writhe and beg until Dean slides down, until Dean's mouth sucks him in, swallows him whole. He wants to feel Dean's throat close around his cock, wants to feel Dean's hands on his hips, urging him to fuck up into his mouth.
He wants to see spit and precome smeared over Dean's swollen and red lips. He wants Dean to smile, dark and sweet, before turning over, propping himself up on hands and knees, naked and ready for him.
He wants to know what it feels like to slide a finger into Dean's ass, wants to know how hot and tight it would be. He wants to hear Dean beg for another, wants to watch as two of his fingers move in and out, scissoring and stretching Dean open, wants Dean moaning at the feel of it, wants Dean's ass pushing back, taking them deeper.
He wants to shove his dick into Dean, wants to pound into him until all that cocky bravado disappears, wants to fuck him until there's nothing left between them, just the honesty of skin against skin. He wants to make Dean come and cry and forget that anything exists outside of them, that nothing else matters when it's just them, just this.
He wants.
Sam doesn't smile for days. When one finally does appear, it's so paper-thin that Dean can see the fraying edges of Sam's sanity beneath it. It makes him edgy, sets his skin crawling and insides turning because he knows this might've broken Sam and he doesn't know how to fix it.
He tries for acting normal, being loud and obnoxious and pulling the old jokes that used to have Sam roaring with laughter, but it doesn't work. He tries leaving Sam alone, letting him deal with it himself, but that just sends Sam further into whatever dark place he's been hiding in.
Desperation drives Dean to try and talk about what happened, but he fumbles over the words, gets frustrated, and he and Sam end up screaming at each other for an hour before falling into a stony silence.
The weather is gorgeous on the day Jess is buried, and if Dean ever wanted proof that God is a jackass, that's it right there, in the sunlight beaming down on the casket. Sam's face is blank throughout everything, and when they leave for Colorado that night, he just sits and stares out the window.
He finally breaks somewhere in Utah. Small, hitching breaths that Dean's not even sure he hears at first, then a sob that scrapes out from Sam's throat, and Dean pulls the car over, twisting in his seat to look at him.
"Hey. Hey, Sam, c'mon," he says, reaching over to...he doesn't even know what, and his hand hovers by Sam's hip. Winchester men may know a hundred ways to kill the ugly things that hunt in the dark, but they're ill-equipped to deal with the things that can tear a man up from the inside. He watches as Sam cries himself out, unable to offer any comfort, not any kind that Sam would want now. When the sobs stop and Sam's breathing evens out, Dean pulls back on the road.
Close to an hour passes before Sam says, "Thanks," his voice wrecked. Dean doesn't think he's done anything to deserve it, but he nods all the same.
Soon after, they stop at a motel, the sign the only light for miles. They trudge into their room, and when Sam sprawls out, boneless, on one of the beds, Dean heads into the shower. He's not under the spray for more than a minute when Sam slips in behind him, arms going around his waist, head resting on his shoulder.
"I don't want this," he hears Sam murmur against his neck, lips skating over his skittering pulse. "I want her, Dean, I want her back." The words fall from his mouth in a harsh whisper, slicing straight through to Dean's core.
Dean swallows hard and nods, closing his eyes to the feel of Sam's hands grabbing hold of him roughly. "I know," he says. "I know."
Sam believes in Heaven. It only makes sense, really; the universe likes balance, strives for it in everything - light and dark, good and evil. He knows for a fact there's a Hell, seen it with his own eyes, felt the burning heat of it against his skin. Even if it's not a physical place, even if it's a little different for everyone, there has to be a Heaven, someplace where the blessed and weary can find peace at last.
He'd tried to find it before, searched religious texts to better understand it, better understand himself, but he's through with that. The sacred rites and rituals, the symbols and saints - none of them had done any good, not in the end. When it had come down to it, when the darkness inside of him threatened to swallow him up and the whole world along with him, there had been only one thing to push it all back, to remind Sam of who he was.
Sam knows it's fucked up, but his salvation is here, in Dean. It's in the taste of Dean's skin against Sam's tongue, the clench of Dean's body around him, holding him close, holding him together. It's in the broken sounds that fall from Dean's mouth as Sam presses inside him, more eloquent than any word could ever be.
Sam swears with his body, takes communion with his hands, vows with all he has that this is what he wants, that Dean is who he needs. His tongue traces out patterns of devotion; his hands grip tight, leave the marks of worship on Dean's hips. He pulls Dean closer, raises them both to their knees, clasps his hands over Dean's heart. He finds hope and forgiveness in the rhythm he finds there, pounding strong and sure as Sam pushes back in.
Dean gasps, sucks in air and cranes his head back, mouth open. Sam breathes a prayer into Dean, lets it hang for a moment before he kisses him. Harsh and sloppy, lips swearing devotions he can't say out loud.
Afterward, with Dean lying sprawled on top of him, sated and warm, Sam closes his eyes. He doesn't pray, he doesn't ask for answers that will never come from a god who never listens. He just listens to Dean's breathing, soft and steady, his back rising and falling under Sam's hand, and lets himself feel at peace.
thank you for reading
