Taking Lessons (Sam/Dean, R)
I may be out of contact for a few days. Going to spend some time with parents in a rented house.
Not technically a holiday, and not only because said house has no wifi nor TV (*twitch*). It's not too far from London, and I'm going to commute in most days as I can't take leave. (Tbh didn't want to spend the whole time with parents, aunt and uncle in this case anyway.) But it should be a beautiful old house, at least.
So it's going to be me and my phone for a few days... Meep.
Meantime, have a fragment of Firefly/SPN fusion fic, since I posted it a bit skewy in the commentficathon. Come on, imagine Sam as Inara? How (again) could I not fill that?
Title: Taking Lessons
Rating: R
Warning: references to underage sex
Words: 1050
Prompt: I don't actually know more than like three episode's worth of canon for Firefly, but I've always loved the idea that Dean is a tight pants wearing captain of a rogue spaceship called Impala and Sam is the ship's companion and Dean has this impossible mix of jealousy and pride over how good baby brother is at his job.
From standing on the gantry, looking down at the yawning emptiness of the cargo bay, the two human figures working their way across the echoing space look pretty puny. But Dean barely has to raise his voice to ask, "Was he good?"
The client looks up, blinks at Dean once, unenthused, and continues on his way.
The ambassador gives a courteous farewell salute, and waits till the bay doors are closed before- "Fuck it, Dean. That's guy's connected like you wouldn't believe. But he likes discreet. And I'm thinking you just blew whatever chance you had of a deal on this moon."
"Happier with that than what you just blew, thanks," Dean responds. Which is childish. But. "Why the hell's he on my ship?"
Sam is speaking through his teeth, which with his head upturned to look where Dean's standing makes it sound strangulated. And pissed, which is probably accurate enough to pass. "Because he likes discretion. And a Companion's shuttle landing in his backyard is not sufficiently discreet to count. The ship's supposed to be deserted. I assured him of invisibility, and of my colleagues' respect for my profession."
"Well, I ain't your colleague, Sammy."
"No, and you'll never let me forget that, will you?" Sam pauses. "You're actually still mad about it."
Which he says with incredulity, and that would be dead on exactly why Dean never will let Sam forget it. After all they went through in the war, for Sam to walk out on them, turn pro, turn to the Core planets, dammit, everything he was brought up to despise. Get himself a fancy Companion education and come back discreet, rich and reeking of culture that couldn't be more foreign if he'd gone out of the verse entire? No wonder Dad-
But Sam's right about this, if about nothing else in their lives. It's done and past, and Dean may be angry but there's business to be done.
"You want some tea," asks Sam. "We never drank it." He gestures down to the shuttle he and the client just left. It's an olive branch, and a way of ending an argument that has no logical end, so Dean takes it.
Whore's tea, but also expensive and rare, something Dean gets to drink maybe once or twice a year, except when Sam throws him scraps like this. Pride and family and needing a little of the finer things, just now and again, it’s an uncomfortable mix. Dean's not pretending consistency here.
Sam's shuttle don't feel like the rest of the Impala. All that Sihnon silk and solemn, tinkly music. Makes Dean itchy. But the tea's good. And sometimes, it's nice to be brothers together, away from the smuggling and the crime, the crew and the enmity. Admittedly, less so in a shuttle with only a thin curtain between the brothers and the big bed where Sam was lately working. As the reek of spunk in the air testifies silently, Sam is very good at his job.
Dean tries not to inhale too obviously. Tries not to remember.
"Truth is," says Sam, after enough fragrant steam has passed between them that the raw edge is off their anger, "You need me more than ever. Even if you hate it."
It's true, and Dean knows it, and he doesn't acknowledge it on principle. Baby brothers shouldn't ever hold the power in a relationship. He grunts, sips at his cooling tea.
Sam continues, "Do you really think we'd have made it this far without the goodwill I bring? Do you know how many mayors and magistrates have turned their backs on suspicion in favour of-"
"- Turning your ass to them?" Dean spits it out, Sam shrugs it off.
"You think Cas and Anna would still be with us, and alive, and us free, without me?"
"Nope," says Dean, careless and like it doesn't matter a fig, though he's awful fond of that crazy pair these days. "Gotta admit, you're handy bait."
By the time the tea is done, Dean's feeling mellow. Horny, too, and weeks off dealing with that, given the state of his coffers just now. So he takes to speculating, something he's done often since Sam took off and the white-hot rage subsided. "Sammy, when you were training-"
Sam looks up from cleaning his tea kit, big hands still cradling a small piece of porcelain, pale green and fragile against roughened skin. Dean never talks about that time, and surprise is large-writ across the kid's face.
"Yeah," Sam breathes, light questioning tone. "What do you want to know?"
Dean swallows. He wants, but doesn't want. Wants to break the silence that's been splitting them ever since Sam came back, all their angry exchanges notwithstanding. And, finally, he does.
"At the Academy, you ever tell them where you learned what you already learned? Who- Who had you first?"
Sam puts the drinking bowl down, perfectly in line with its pair, and the pot. Precision moves. There's maybe a flash of red on his cheekbones, just a line, a mark of memory that Dean shares.
Sam at 15, all hands and confused desire, tempting beyond sanity, legality and right. Sam at 17, looking backward with an inviting grin, wriggling down his naked spine in invitation. Sam at 18, tasting like come, his mouth on Dean's, while he's fucking down hard, someone's salt tears leaking between them in lieu of goodbye.
"Yes," says today-Sam, a talented whore who hasn't touched his brother in a decade. "They always enquire. It's important to unlearn habits, in the service of pleasing new clients."
Dean blinks hard, trying not to picture Sam telling them everything, all that private secrecy spread out for teachers to pick over. All that brotherliness that never should have been, and that keeps Dean awake nights still, though that Sam is long gone. Which is a good thing.
"Well," he manages, rusty-throated. "What did they say?" Dirty, scornful words, no doubt. Incest. Illegality. Freaks. He wonders how Sam stood it.
Sam folds the silken cloth, precise corner to precise corner, skilfully keeping the slippery fabric steady. Something else they taught him on Sihnon, no doubt. Dean struggles to picture Sam taking fabric-folding class, but the evidence is before him.
"They said," says Dean's little brother, mouth curling a little at one side in a way that could be amused or angry. "That, taking everything into consideration, you weren't so bad in bed as they'd have expected."
And, truth to tell, that's something Dean's awful glad to hear.
***
Not technically a holiday, and not only because said house has no wifi nor TV (*twitch*). It's not too far from London, and I'm going to commute in most days as I can't take leave. (Tbh didn't want to spend the whole time with parents, aunt and uncle in this case anyway.) But it should be a beautiful old house, at least.
So it's going to be me and my phone for a few days... Meep.
Meantime, have a fragment of Firefly/SPN fusion fic, since I posted it a bit skewy in the commentficathon. Come on, imagine Sam as Inara? How (again) could I not fill that?
Title: Taking Lessons
Rating: R
Warning: references to underage sex
Words: 1050
Prompt: I don't actually know more than like three episode's worth of canon for Firefly, but I've always loved the idea that Dean is a tight pants wearing captain of a rogue spaceship called Impala and Sam is the ship's companion and Dean has this impossible mix of jealousy and pride over how good baby brother is at his job.
From standing on the gantry, looking down at the yawning emptiness of the cargo bay, the two human figures working their way across the echoing space look pretty puny. But Dean barely has to raise his voice to ask, "Was he good?"
The client looks up, blinks at Dean once, unenthused, and continues on his way.
The ambassador gives a courteous farewell salute, and waits till the bay doors are closed before- "Fuck it, Dean. That's guy's connected like you wouldn't believe. But he likes discreet. And I'm thinking you just blew whatever chance you had of a deal on this moon."
"Happier with that than what you just blew, thanks," Dean responds. Which is childish. But. "Why the hell's he on my ship?"
Sam is speaking through his teeth, which with his head upturned to look where Dean's standing makes it sound strangulated. And pissed, which is probably accurate enough to pass. "Because he likes discretion. And a Companion's shuttle landing in his backyard is not sufficiently discreet to count. The ship's supposed to be deserted. I assured him of invisibility, and of my colleagues' respect for my profession."
"Well, I ain't your colleague, Sammy."
"No, and you'll never let me forget that, will you?" Sam pauses. "You're actually still mad about it."
Which he says with incredulity, and that would be dead on exactly why Dean never will let Sam forget it. After all they went through in the war, for Sam to walk out on them, turn pro, turn to the Core planets, dammit, everything he was brought up to despise. Get himself a fancy Companion education and come back discreet, rich and reeking of culture that couldn't be more foreign if he'd gone out of the verse entire? No wonder Dad-
But Sam's right about this, if about nothing else in their lives. It's done and past, and Dean may be angry but there's business to be done.
"You want some tea," asks Sam. "We never drank it." He gestures down to the shuttle he and the client just left. It's an olive branch, and a way of ending an argument that has no logical end, so Dean takes it.
Whore's tea, but also expensive and rare, something Dean gets to drink maybe once or twice a year, except when Sam throws him scraps like this. Pride and family and needing a little of the finer things, just now and again, it’s an uncomfortable mix. Dean's not pretending consistency here.
Sam's shuttle don't feel like the rest of the Impala. All that Sihnon silk and solemn, tinkly music. Makes Dean itchy. But the tea's good. And sometimes, it's nice to be brothers together, away from the smuggling and the crime, the crew and the enmity. Admittedly, less so in a shuttle with only a thin curtain between the brothers and the big bed where Sam was lately working. As the reek of spunk in the air testifies silently, Sam is very good at his job.
Dean tries not to inhale too obviously. Tries not to remember.
"Truth is," says Sam, after enough fragrant steam has passed between them that the raw edge is off their anger, "You need me more than ever. Even if you hate it."
It's true, and Dean knows it, and he doesn't acknowledge it on principle. Baby brothers shouldn't ever hold the power in a relationship. He grunts, sips at his cooling tea.
Sam continues, "Do you really think we'd have made it this far without the goodwill I bring? Do you know how many mayors and magistrates have turned their backs on suspicion in favour of-"
"- Turning your ass to them?" Dean spits it out, Sam shrugs it off.
"You think Cas and Anna would still be with us, and alive, and us free, without me?"
"Nope," says Dean, careless and like it doesn't matter a fig, though he's awful fond of that crazy pair these days. "Gotta admit, you're handy bait."
By the time the tea is done, Dean's feeling mellow. Horny, too, and weeks off dealing with that, given the state of his coffers just now. So he takes to speculating, something he's done often since Sam took off and the white-hot rage subsided. "Sammy, when you were training-"
Sam looks up from cleaning his tea kit, big hands still cradling a small piece of porcelain, pale green and fragile against roughened skin. Dean never talks about that time, and surprise is large-writ across the kid's face.
"Yeah," Sam breathes, light questioning tone. "What do you want to know?"
Dean swallows. He wants, but doesn't want. Wants to break the silence that's been splitting them ever since Sam came back, all their angry exchanges notwithstanding. And, finally, he does.
"At the Academy, you ever tell them where you learned what you already learned? Who- Who had you first?"
Sam puts the drinking bowl down, perfectly in line with its pair, and the pot. Precision moves. There's maybe a flash of red on his cheekbones, just a line, a mark of memory that Dean shares.
Sam at 15, all hands and confused desire, tempting beyond sanity, legality and right. Sam at 17, looking backward with an inviting grin, wriggling down his naked spine in invitation. Sam at 18, tasting like come, his mouth on Dean's, while he's fucking down hard, someone's salt tears leaking between them in lieu of goodbye.
"Yes," says today-Sam, a talented whore who hasn't touched his brother in a decade. "They always enquire. It's important to unlearn habits, in the service of pleasing new clients."
Dean blinks hard, trying not to picture Sam telling them everything, all that private secrecy spread out for teachers to pick over. All that brotherliness that never should have been, and that keeps Dean awake nights still, though that Sam is long gone. Which is a good thing.
"Well," he manages, rusty-throated. "What did they say?" Dirty, scornful words, no doubt. Incest. Illegality. Freaks. He wonders how Sam stood it.
Sam folds the silken cloth, precise corner to precise corner, skilfully keeping the slippery fabric steady. Something else they taught him on Sihnon, no doubt. Dean struggles to picture Sam taking fabric-folding class, but the evidence is before him.
"They said," says Dean's little brother, mouth curling a little at one side in a way that could be amused or angry. "That, taking everything into consideration, you weren't so bad in bed as they'd have expected."
And, truth to tell, that's something Dean's awful glad to hear.
***