This is Us (ficlet for shangrilada's Sammyverse)
Another ficlet for someone else's 'verse, since shangrilada refuses to satisfy my craving for Wincest, even though the boys in her 'verse have acknowledged they have those ~feelings~ and it's clearly been on John's radar since they were ickle.
There were big confrontations in one particularly amazing fic, The Unbearable Samness of Sam, and I had to write my Wincest AU ficlet, following the moment Sam drags Dean out of the cabin and they take off in the Impala.
You should definitely read that fic first, because shit goes down and I don't want to spoil it.
Title: This is Us
Rating: PG
Word count: 585
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: none for canon; set near the end of S1
Warnings: none
Summary: Sam always insisted on defining things his way.
Author notes: Again, this is firmly set in shangrilada's fic The Unbearable Samness of Sam; read that first, and you'll know exactly where this falls.
The road was clear and sharp in focus, though everything else fuzzy around the edges, and in his head too, except for Sam’s breathing. Which doesn’t sound as bad now; sometimes having a nice clean shock and shot of adrenaline will clear them up for a while. But Dean’s not thinking about that or anything but the sharply defined focus of the road, until Sam says, “Pull over.”
Dean does, because he guesses he’s still on auto-pilot and Sam’s calling the shots, and that’s okay, at least for right now.
When they’ve come to a stop, Sam’s moving again, coming toward him, knees up on the seat. Dean’s just started to turn his head when Sam catches his chin, calloused thumb under his jaw, fingers long and light over his cheek. And there are Sam’s eyes holding his. Sam’s eyes, the most steadfast thing in the world, and Dean feels himself breathing easier, as though he’d been held captive for the last ten minutes by Sam’s lungs.
“Never,” Sam says, quietly. He rests his forehead to Dean’s, warm exhale blowing over Dean’s mouth, and yeah, this is his kid, this is all that mattered in the world. Dean remembers that now. “Never,” Sam says again, and then brings his mouth to Dean’s, full contact.
That jolts Dean awake. He can’t say what’s going on in his brain (not alarms, but explosions, things that had been teetering on the edges of cliffs falling off and smashing to pieces below), but he moves automatically, attempting to pull back to look at Sam and say something, maybe what the fuck, Sam, now?
Sam doesn’t let him go, though. His big hand tightened around Dean’s head, other hand gripping his shoulder, and he isn’t letting Dean go.
He is kissing Dean.
This wasn’t ever supposed to happen (because, fuck you John, Dean was never ever going to let it), but now it is, and it’s Sam here, pinning him in the driver’s seat of the Impala, and that was certainly never supposed to happen either.
Dean may be in shock, may still be light-years behind, lost in all the mantras of carefully guarded vows, never ever, but Sam is here and now and twenty-three years old, here, kissing Dean like he’s never had a second’s fucking doubt, like he knows what Dean wants and isn’t the least bit ashamed, isn’t even going to slow down because Dean’s not exactly surging back with enthusiasm yet. So fucking sure of himself, his kid, God that just blows Dean’s mind.
But then Sam breaks away, panting, a gleam in his eye like Dean has maybe seen three times before, and still not quite like this. “You’re not making me do this,” he says, his hand still clenching Dean’s hair tight , not giving him an inch. “You don’t, you never, this is all me, got it? Don’t you fucking listen to anyone else.” He shakes Dean a little.
“Sam,” Dean says, because what else is there to say, and then Sam’s eyes fall shut, and he’s leaning back to touch Dean’s mouth, and this time Dean meets him.
It’s slower, now, as they take their time, feeling and tasting each other. This is Sam, Sam, the word ringing in Dean’s head, and for all the times he never let himself think about this, it’s fucking unbelievable. Sam’s shaking a little under Dean’s hands, unsteady breaths against his mouth, but Sam is here, and Dean does not intend to ever let him go again.
There were big confrontations in one particularly amazing fic, The Unbearable Samness of Sam, and I had to write my Wincest AU ficlet, following the moment Sam drags Dean out of the cabin and they take off in the Impala.
You should definitely read that fic first, because shit goes down and I don't want to spoil it.
Title: This is Us
Rating: PG
Word count: 585
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: none for canon; set near the end of S1
Warnings: none
Summary: Sam always insisted on defining things his way.
Author notes: Again, this is firmly set in shangrilada's fic The Unbearable Samness of Sam; read that first, and you'll know exactly where this falls.
The road was clear and sharp in focus, though everything else fuzzy around the edges, and in his head too, except for Sam’s breathing. Which doesn’t sound as bad now; sometimes having a nice clean shock and shot of adrenaline will clear them up for a while. But Dean’s not thinking about that or anything but the sharply defined focus of the road, until Sam says, “Pull over.”
Dean does, because he guesses he’s still on auto-pilot and Sam’s calling the shots, and that’s okay, at least for right now.
When they’ve come to a stop, Sam’s moving again, coming toward him, knees up on the seat. Dean’s just started to turn his head when Sam catches his chin, calloused thumb under his jaw, fingers long and light over his cheek. And there are Sam’s eyes holding his. Sam’s eyes, the most steadfast thing in the world, and Dean feels himself breathing easier, as though he’d been held captive for the last ten minutes by Sam’s lungs.
“Never,” Sam says, quietly. He rests his forehead to Dean’s, warm exhale blowing over Dean’s mouth, and yeah, this is his kid, this is all that mattered in the world. Dean remembers that now. “Never,” Sam says again, and then brings his mouth to Dean’s, full contact.
That jolts Dean awake. He can’t say what’s going on in his brain (not alarms, but explosions, things that had been teetering on the edges of cliffs falling off and smashing to pieces below), but he moves automatically, attempting to pull back to look at Sam and say something, maybe what the fuck, Sam, now?
Sam doesn’t let him go, though. His big hand tightened around Dean’s head, other hand gripping his shoulder, and he isn’t letting Dean go.
He is kissing Dean.
This wasn’t ever supposed to happen (because, fuck you John, Dean was never ever going to let it), but now it is, and it’s Sam here, pinning him in the driver’s seat of the Impala, and that was certainly never supposed to happen either.
Dean may be in shock, may still be light-years behind, lost in all the mantras of carefully guarded vows, never ever, but Sam is here and now and twenty-three years old, here, kissing Dean like he’s never had a second’s fucking doubt, like he knows what Dean wants and isn’t the least bit ashamed, isn’t even going to slow down because Dean’s not exactly surging back with enthusiasm yet. So fucking sure of himself, his kid, God that just blows Dean’s mind.
But then Sam breaks away, panting, a gleam in his eye like Dean has maybe seen three times before, and still not quite like this. “You’re not making me do this,” he says, his hand still clenching Dean’s hair tight , not giving him an inch. “You don’t, you never, this is all me, got it? Don’t you fucking listen to anyone else.” He shakes Dean a little.
“Sam,” Dean says, because what else is there to say, and then Sam’s eyes fall shut, and he’s leaning back to touch Dean’s mouth, and this time Dean meets him.
It’s slower, now, as they take their time, feeling and tasting each other. This is Sam, Sam, the word ringing in Dean’s head, and for all the times he never let himself think about this, it’s fucking unbelievable. Sam’s shaking a little under Dean’s hands, unsteady breaths against his mouth, but Sam is here, and Dean does not intend to ever let him go again.