[FIC]: Twentieth-Century Boy (Sam/Dean, Adult)
Title: Twentieth-Century Boy
Author: maboheme
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Count: ~2,000
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Warnings: pre-series, underage [16/20].
Notes: Written for my spn_30snapshots table to the prompt midnight. Title from this song by Placebo. Thank you maerhys for the read-through.
Summary: Two brothers lying together on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere on the last night of the twentieth century.
-|- -|-
Two brothers lying together on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere on the last night of the twentieth century. No wild parties for them, no fireworks, no Y2K apocalyptic visions. Tonight it's just the two of them, Sam and Dean, huddled close for heat, sipping from Dad's old whiskey bottle and Dean's own jar of homemade rum.
-|- -|-
For the past month, they've been squatting in an abandoned log cabin somewhere in the wilds of upstate New York. Most days the Arctic-chilled air seeps in through cracks in the windowpanes and the crevices in the floorboards, seeps deep into their aching bones and just settles there. Both Sam and Dean are boney and numb these days, skin gone cold and pale blue with the weather.
With Dad gone off with Caleb on a hunt -- tracking down some kind of Abominable Snowman of all things -- and no money for house bills, the only working heating system is the one in the Impala. As a result, they spend long hours pressed together in the car, counting down the cold December nights.
Dean hustles pool to keep their mouths fed and the car running; he even waded through the donations at the local Salvation Army shelter last week, bringing home enough warm clothes and blankets to stay safe through the winter. Dean thinks they should be okay until Dad gets back next week, takes them far away from this bleak Adirondack wilderness.
Dean only runs the heat for a little while at a time to conserve the gas, so most nights he and Sam have to burrow deep down together under layers upon layers of blankets and quilts and coats; they find other ways to stay heated, sated, safe.
-|- -|-
They spent Christmas night stuffing themselves on beef jerky, Doritos, and 7-Up, locked in the car for hours as they watched the storm-grey sky burst open, the crisp snow amass throughout the tree-crested valley.
But tonight it's New Year's Eve, and Dean's hands are cold and pink from scraping ice off the windshield. Sam's curled close beside him, the soft pads of his fingers stroking over Dean's dry, cracked knuckles. When Sam tangles their hands together, he brings them to his mouth, puffs hot air into Dean's palm to heat the skin up. Sam leaves warm, wet kisses up and down Dean's lifeline.
Dean's own breath mists in the air, fogs the frost-covered windowpane as he gazes out at the spread of moonlit miles around them. Twin rows of melting snow and muddy slush mark the tire-track path back to their cabin, hidden deep in the hemlock grove. The rest of the land is a bleached and bone white. In fact, some nights it seems as if the entire world's turned into some fairy-tale ice kingdom, a glacial empire spreading out in all directions. Those nights it's easy to believe there's nobody else out there, just the two of them surviving alone on some barren moonscaped Earth.
When the car’s finished warming them up, Dean shuts her down, her animal purr going quiet in the snow-sunk night. He knows they're too far out to see any fireworks, so Dean smoothes his lips across Sammy’s brow, pulls him close to sink into the warmth of their makeshift backseat bed.
Most nights it feels like they're little boys again, making forts out of their hole-ridden sheets, pillows, and blankets. Dean remembers the architectural marvels they created in the rooms they used to share as kids, how those linen and cotton-spun homes kept the big-bad world at bay. Sam and he would stay under those things for hours and hours at a time. When they finally got bored, they'd both jump up together and tumble their houses down, then curl up side by side to sleep beneath their two-man blanket pile up. Sure, they've grown too old for such make-believe, but Dean still looks forward to the moments he's buried under layers of blankets, buried under Sam's long, lanky changing body.
-|- -|-
Close to midnight, they wiggle out of fleece and flannel, discard their matching thermal pajamas; they slip bare, winter-pale bodies under the waiting blankets. Once they slide and rearrange themselves beneath the mountains of shadowy wool, cotton, and down, Sam pulls a blanket over both their heads, seals out most of the moonlight.
Outside the car, the northern wind gusts and billows. Inside, their blanket home is quiet, smells of woodstove fire, old cedar, and pine.
They'll be safe like this, with each other, inside each other. This is the way they'll come together: forehead to forehead, mouth to mouth, brother to brother.
-|- -|-
In the darkness of their blanket cocoon, Sam shifts on top of Dean, a snake slither slide of bare skin across bare skin. Sam kisses the curve of Dean's neck, his chin, his shoulder, his ear, his mouth, his everything. In turn, Dean sucks the taste of moonshine from Sammy's lips, curls his tongue around Sam's own, kisses him like that: soft and tender and deep. When their bodies fall quietly into place, they rock into a long-fought-for connection. Their world becomes a slow, steady push-pull beneath the covers.
Sammy's always a furnace when they lie together like this, his skinny body pumping out molten lava heat. His sharp angles and downy skin get so hot against Dean's own. When they rub and grind, they create friction and fire.
Dean eventually pulls the wool blanket from atop their heads, breathes in the cold midnight blue. Sam follows, surfaces from beneath the covers, red-faced and wild-haired. He pulls a few more blankets from Dean's body as he moves to kneel inside the wide vee of Dean's parting legs. Sam leans over Dean, and Dean leans up to meet him. Their mouths touch, and they both smile into the kiss. Sam's winter-rough hands and his begging mouth move to brush along Dean's shoulder blades and chest. The hot press of Sam's cock is a solid brand against Dean's thigh.
Dean's soon distracted by the itchy feel of the wool blanket Sammy's dragging down over his sensitive nipples. Dean wriggles, laughs soft, slides into a full-body shiver. His entire body is thrumming by the time the rough wool tugs and catches on the leaking crown of his cock.
Sam's tongue follows that same path, his breath warming Dean's goose-pimpled skin, his mouth stopping to suckle for long moments at the small, hard nubs of Dean's nipples. Sam laps and nibbles, savors and tastes. Underneath him, Dean arches and squirms, thinks God, I could die like this.
Dean breathes deep and shuts his eyes as Sam's tongue winds lower and lower, mapping Dean's pecs, dipping in and out of Dean's belly button, before licking along the soft trail of hair trickling below Dean's navel.
When Sam opens his mouth and takes Dean in, it's both messy and tender. Dean's breathing goes sharp and fractured, every inhale more of a struggle than the one before. But Sam's fingers mold tight against Dean's flank; his dirty fingernails dig deep into Dean's skin. Sam holds Dean steady as he sucks him down.
When Dean comes, it feels like the sun's breaking out, the heat and the light and the fire moving deep inside him. Everything goes warm, the world set aflame. There's a sharp explosion of white behind his eyes, a burst of cold midnight air on his body. Dean imagines it's simply the ice kingdom shattering, leaving this moment crystalized: the feel of tongue and hands and cock and skin. The feel of coming undone in Sam's hot mouth.
As Sam pulls off, Dean's eyes track the bobbing of Sam's Adam's apple as he swallows. Sam 's grinning then, crooked and devil-boy wicked and all Dean can do is fixate on the sheen of come slathered across Sam's lips, the thick, milky streaks across his chin and cheek. Sam's covered in Dean's come, shaking, flushed dark and shadowed; he's some velveteen blue boy coming apart in the fragile moonlight. Sam's so damn beautiful, and all Dean can do is think: this is Sammy, his brother, his blood and his heart, all he'll ever want, all he'll ever need.
Dean's gaze finally catches Sam's own, and Dean can't help but love the way Sam looks at him when they do this, like Dean's some rare treasure, some gift that's his alone to open. So Sam opens him, his long, deft fingers slicked only with spit and sweat and come, catch in the soft, slick groove between Dean's ass-cheeks. Dean opens for Sam, only ever for Sam.
Dean whimpers, bucks forward as Sam feels his way inside, all clumsy fingers and eager intent. Dean opens wider still, draws Sam farther in, every single movement saying, Safe. Here. Sam, you're safe inside me.
What follows is such a slow burn, such an irresistible ache; Sam's thick cock stretches Dean wide, pushes in until there's nowhere left to go. Dean's left frantic, greedy for the solid feel of Sam pumping deep, filling him, breaking him wide, laying him bare, giving voice to this perfect, holy sacrament between them.
Dean lives for this: the feel of Sam inside him, Sam becoming part of him, Sam going deeper, seeing deeper than anyone ever has before. Dean lives for Sam, his Sammy, finding all his hidden places.
-|- -|-
They fuck endless and wild and untamed, fuck like they have the entire world to gain; together they send the Impala shaking and rolling with every filthy thrust, every solid reverb, every slip-slide across black vinyl. Their limbs bang out a staccato heartbeat against the backseat door.
It's just the two of them, still locked deep inside each other when the new year arrives; they're moving together, coming together, fast and hard, breathless and desperate, a sharp-electric rush into the new millennium.
-|- -|-
Midnight, swathed in wool. Dean breathes in, breathes out, rests his forehead against Sam’s shoulder. Dean's long legs are still wrapped around Sam's slim hips, and he takes this time to relish the feel of his brother’s come dripping from his hole, slicking his balls and the inside of his thighs.
It's only a matter of moments before Sam gets geeky and sentimental, pressing kisses and heated promises onto Dean's skin, whispering New Year's resolutions that speak of all the things they'll do together in the days and nights yet to come. And Dean believes him: the 21st century is theirs for the taking.
Dean knows at this moment all across the world people are celebrating, street parties and drunken revelry, doing it up special to mark this one-of-a-kind turning of the century. But out here, it's just the two of them squeezed into the too-small backseat, their bodies winded and spent, wrapped in dirty sheets and the blue-light earth.
Out here, it's two brothers lying together on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere on the first day of the twenty-first century. Two brothers able to light up the night sky all on their own. Two brothers and their wild drumbeat rhythm. Two brothers caught in this delicate trip-wire love.
-fin-
*A Happy New Year's fic, albeit a little late. Feedback and concrit welcomed and cherished. ♥
Author: maboheme
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Count: ~2,000
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Warnings: pre-series, underage [16/20].
Notes: Written for my spn_30snapshots table to the prompt midnight. Title from this song by Placebo. Thank you maerhys for the read-through.
Summary: Two brothers lying together on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere on the last night of the twentieth century.
-|- -|-
Two brothers lying together on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere on the last night of the twentieth century. No wild parties for them, no fireworks, no Y2K apocalyptic visions. Tonight it's just the two of them, Sam and Dean, huddled close for heat, sipping from Dad's old whiskey bottle and Dean's own jar of homemade rum.
-|- -|-
For the past month, they've been squatting in an abandoned log cabin somewhere in the wilds of upstate New York. Most days the Arctic-chilled air seeps in through cracks in the windowpanes and the crevices in the floorboards, seeps deep into their aching bones and just settles there. Both Sam and Dean are boney and numb these days, skin gone cold and pale blue with the weather.
With Dad gone off with Caleb on a hunt -- tracking down some kind of Abominable Snowman of all things -- and no money for house bills, the only working heating system is the one in the Impala. As a result, they spend long hours pressed together in the car, counting down the cold December nights.
Dean hustles pool to keep their mouths fed and the car running; he even waded through the donations at the local Salvation Army shelter last week, bringing home enough warm clothes and blankets to stay safe through the winter. Dean thinks they should be okay until Dad gets back next week, takes them far away from this bleak Adirondack wilderness.
Dean only runs the heat for a little while at a time to conserve the gas, so most nights he and Sam have to burrow deep down together under layers upon layers of blankets and quilts and coats; they find other ways to stay heated, sated, safe.
-|- -|-
They spent Christmas night stuffing themselves on beef jerky, Doritos, and 7-Up, locked in the car for hours as they watched the storm-grey sky burst open, the crisp snow amass throughout the tree-crested valley.
But tonight it's New Year's Eve, and Dean's hands are cold and pink from scraping ice off the windshield. Sam's curled close beside him, the soft pads of his fingers stroking over Dean's dry, cracked knuckles. When Sam tangles their hands together, he brings them to his mouth, puffs hot air into Dean's palm to heat the skin up. Sam leaves warm, wet kisses up and down Dean's lifeline.
Dean's own breath mists in the air, fogs the frost-covered windowpane as he gazes out at the spread of moonlit miles around them. Twin rows of melting snow and muddy slush mark the tire-track path back to their cabin, hidden deep in the hemlock grove. The rest of the land is a bleached and bone white. In fact, some nights it seems as if the entire world's turned into some fairy-tale ice kingdom, a glacial empire spreading out in all directions. Those nights it's easy to believe there's nobody else out there, just the two of them surviving alone on some barren moonscaped Earth.
When the car’s finished warming them up, Dean shuts her down, her animal purr going quiet in the snow-sunk night. He knows they're too far out to see any fireworks, so Dean smoothes his lips across Sammy’s brow, pulls him close to sink into the warmth of their makeshift backseat bed.
Most nights it feels like they're little boys again, making forts out of their hole-ridden sheets, pillows, and blankets. Dean remembers the architectural marvels they created in the rooms they used to share as kids, how those linen and cotton-spun homes kept the big-bad world at bay. Sam and he would stay under those things for hours and hours at a time. When they finally got bored, they'd both jump up together and tumble their houses down, then curl up side by side to sleep beneath their two-man blanket pile up. Sure, they've grown too old for such make-believe, but Dean still looks forward to the moments he's buried under layers of blankets, buried under Sam's long, lanky changing body.
-|- -|-
Close to midnight, they wiggle out of fleece and flannel, discard their matching thermal pajamas; they slip bare, winter-pale bodies under the waiting blankets. Once they slide and rearrange themselves beneath the mountains of shadowy wool, cotton, and down, Sam pulls a blanket over both their heads, seals out most of the moonlight.
Outside the car, the northern wind gusts and billows. Inside, their blanket home is quiet, smells of woodstove fire, old cedar, and pine.
They'll be safe like this, with each other, inside each other. This is the way they'll come together: forehead to forehead, mouth to mouth, brother to brother.
-|- -|-
In the darkness of their blanket cocoon, Sam shifts on top of Dean, a snake slither slide of bare skin across bare skin. Sam kisses the curve of Dean's neck, his chin, his shoulder, his ear, his mouth, his everything. In turn, Dean sucks the taste of moonshine from Sammy's lips, curls his tongue around Sam's own, kisses him like that: soft and tender and deep. When their bodies fall quietly into place, they rock into a long-fought-for connection. Their world becomes a slow, steady push-pull beneath the covers.
Sammy's always a furnace when they lie together like this, his skinny body pumping out molten lava heat. His sharp angles and downy skin get so hot against Dean's own. When they rub and grind, they create friction and fire.
Dean eventually pulls the wool blanket from atop their heads, breathes in the cold midnight blue. Sam follows, surfaces from beneath the covers, red-faced and wild-haired. He pulls a few more blankets from Dean's body as he moves to kneel inside the wide vee of Dean's parting legs. Sam leans over Dean, and Dean leans up to meet him. Their mouths touch, and they both smile into the kiss. Sam's winter-rough hands and his begging mouth move to brush along Dean's shoulder blades and chest. The hot press of Sam's cock is a solid brand against Dean's thigh.
Dean's soon distracted by the itchy feel of the wool blanket Sammy's dragging down over his sensitive nipples. Dean wriggles, laughs soft, slides into a full-body shiver. His entire body is thrumming by the time the rough wool tugs and catches on the leaking crown of his cock.
Sam's tongue follows that same path, his breath warming Dean's goose-pimpled skin, his mouth stopping to suckle for long moments at the small, hard nubs of Dean's nipples. Sam laps and nibbles, savors and tastes. Underneath him, Dean arches and squirms, thinks God, I could die like this.
Dean breathes deep and shuts his eyes as Sam's tongue winds lower and lower, mapping Dean's pecs, dipping in and out of Dean's belly button, before licking along the soft trail of hair trickling below Dean's navel.
When Sam opens his mouth and takes Dean in, it's both messy and tender. Dean's breathing goes sharp and fractured, every inhale more of a struggle than the one before. But Sam's fingers mold tight against Dean's flank; his dirty fingernails dig deep into Dean's skin. Sam holds Dean steady as he sucks him down.
When Dean comes, it feels like the sun's breaking out, the heat and the light and the fire moving deep inside him. Everything goes warm, the world set aflame. There's a sharp explosion of white behind his eyes, a burst of cold midnight air on his body. Dean imagines it's simply the ice kingdom shattering, leaving this moment crystalized: the feel of tongue and hands and cock and skin. The feel of coming undone in Sam's hot mouth.
As Sam pulls off, Dean's eyes track the bobbing of Sam's Adam's apple as he swallows. Sam 's grinning then, crooked and devil-boy wicked and all Dean can do is fixate on the sheen of come slathered across Sam's lips, the thick, milky streaks across his chin and cheek. Sam's covered in Dean's come, shaking, flushed dark and shadowed; he's some velveteen blue boy coming apart in the fragile moonlight. Sam's so damn beautiful, and all Dean can do is think: this is Sammy, his brother, his blood and his heart, all he'll ever want, all he'll ever need.
Dean's gaze finally catches Sam's own, and Dean can't help but love the way Sam looks at him when they do this, like Dean's some rare treasure, some gift that's his alone to open. So Sam opens him, his long, deft fingers slicked only with spit and sweat and come, catch in the soft, slick groove between Dean's ass-cheeks. Dean opens for Sam, only ever for Sam.
Dean whimpers, bucks forward as Sam feels his way inside, all clumsy fingers and eager intent. Dean opens wider still, draws Sam farther in, every single movement saying, Safe. Here. Sam, you're safe inside me.
What follows is such a slow burn, such an irresistible ache; Sam's thick cock stretches Dean wide, pushes in until there's nowhere left to go. Dean's left frantic, greedy for the solid feel of Sam pumping deep, filling him, breaking him wide, laying him bare, giving voice to this perfect, holy sacrament between them.
Dean lives for this: the feel of Sam inside him, Sam becoming part of him, Sam going deeper, seeing deeper than anyone ever has before. Dean lives for Sam, his Sammy, finding all his hidden places.
-|- -|-
They fuck endless and wild and untamed, fuck like they have the entire world to gain; together they send the Impala shaking and rolling with every filthy thrust, every solid reverb, every slip-slide across black vinyl. Their limbs bang out a staccato heartbeat against the backseat door.
It's just the two of them, still locked deep inside each other when the new year arrives; they're moving together, coming together, fast and hard, breathless and desperate, a sharp-electric rush into the new millennium.
-|- -|-
Midnight, swathed in wool. Dean breathes in, breathes out, rests his forehead against Sam’s shoulder. Dean's long legs are still wrapped around Sam's slim hips, and he takes this time to relish the feel of his brother’s come dripping from his hole, slicking his balls and the inside of his thighs.
It's only a matter of moments before Sam gets geeky and sentimental, pressing kisses and heated promises onto Dean's skin, whispering New Year's resolutions that speak of all the things they'll do together in the days and nights yet to come. And Dean believes him: the 21st century is theirs for the taking.
Dean knows at this moment all across the world people are celebrating, street parties and drunken revelry, doing it up special to mark this one-of-a-kind turning of the century. But out here, it's just the two of them squeezed into the too-small backseat, their bodies winded and spent, wrapped in dirty sheets and the blue-light earth.
Out here, it's two brothers lying together on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere on the first day of the twenty-first century. Two brothers able to light up the night sky all on their own. Two brothers and their wild drumbeat rhythm. Two brothers caught in this delicate trip-wire love.
-fin-
*A Happy New Year's fic, albeit a little late. Feedback and concrit welcomed and cherished. ♥