Ink
Snippet.
Title: Ink.
Teasing, wet/soft strokes over his back, sigils left tingling in the wake of the brush, sensitive enough that Dean could still feel every stroke of fine hairs, could feel where wet ink was drying (cool), had dried (hot). Sensation like reading the parchment of his flesh from the inside.
Dean closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing.
He wondered idly if that was just a side effect of the magick... The sigils were holy, protective. It would make sense that he could feel them all, even now, well after Sam had carefully drawn the first of them with the brush, ink tightening skin slightly as it dried.
He ignored the stronger blaze of sensation echoing from where Sam's fingers had idly stroked, carefully neatening symbols, one hand casually resting on his back, sometimes bracing for balance.
It was... Nice. Being touched like this.
Different to rough housing with Sammy, pats on the back from Dad, or a brief, hard hug. More like when Sammy was little, holding onto him in his sleep.
More like being with a girl. Like the soft whispers of butterfly kisses down the side of his neck, or sitting and idly stroking at each others hands. Making-out slow and careful, stroking soft skin and caught up in wonder, because she's delicate, precious, something to be protected (“Grab your brother and run...”).
And shit, it might have been nice, but it was obviously also why his cock was getting so confused. It felt like being kissed, all over his back, although he'd never been teased by a girl quite like this. He'd remember.
He gritted his teeth as Sammy shifted to get a better angle, the pressure grinding the cock he wanted to ignore into the mattress. He felt exposed.
Literally - Sam was wearing jeans, but Dean just had a towel round his hips, a towel Sam was sitting on, legs coming down either side onto the bed, the knees of the jeans, he knew, worn and holey, tan skin showing through.
But more than that, in an exposed position. He'd sparred, wrestled too often with Sammy to feel comfortable like this, belly down, vulnerable. Susceptible to any number of pins, and painful retaliations. He wanted to flip them over, roll on top of Sam, hold him down, and just... just.
Just what?
Shit.
Sam's paintbrush flicked tortuously over the centre of his spine, and he gave a small involuntary gasp. The movement paused.
“Is that ticklish?”, Sam asked.
Dean took a quick breath in and answered, his voice gruff, “Mmmm. It's uh, kinda itchy feeling. Could you rub it or something?”
“That'll smudge the ink.”
He felt Sam move then, and before he could brace himself, felt air blowing over his skin, warm and moist, cool across the drying ink, Sam's mouth inches from his skin.
A shiver ran through Dean's body.
“Is that better?” Sam asked.
“It... it'll be fine,” he croaked out.
He sighed, and buried his head in the mattress. Sam was nearly finished and then he'd. Yeah.
Fight the monsters. Save the innocents. And finally, go get laid. He needed it.
***
Hmmm... there's no real age indicators in this, but I think of it as pre-pilot, before Sam left for Stanford. Weak ending.
Preparation for battle, UST only. I think I had some idea that it would be part of something bigger, in contrast to something happening now (or, well, midseason), post-standford. Again, same situation, drawing the sigils, but adults now, grown apart, grown up, and it not being quite so 'U' in the 'UST'.
Oh, and this was for ezgal, from when we were briefly poking each other to write stuff, which was mucho appreciated. :P
(*is slacker*)
Title: Ink.
Teasing, wet/soft strokes over his back, sigils left tingling in the wake of the brush, sensitive enough that Dean could still feel every stroke of fine hairs, could feel where wet ink was drying (cool), had dried (hot). Sensation like reading the parchment of his flesh from the inside.
Dean closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing.
He wondered idly if that was just a side effect of the magick... The sigils were holy, protective. It would make sense that he could feel them all, even now, well after Sam had carefully drawn the first of them with the brush, ink tightening skin slightly as it dried.
He ignored the stronger blaze of sensation echoing from where Sam's fingers had idly stroked, carefully neatening symbols, one hand casually resting on his back, sometimes bracing for balance.
It was... Nice. Being touched like this.
Different to rough housing with Sammy, pats on the back from Dad, or a brief, hard hug. More like when Sammy was little, holding onto him in his sleep.
More like being with a girl. Like the soft whispers of butterfly kisses down the side of his neck, or sitting and idly stroking at each others hands. Making-out slow and careful, stroking soft skin and caught up in wonder, because she's delicate, precious, something to be protected (“Grab your brother and run...”).
And shit, it might have been nice, but it was obviously also why his cock was getting so confused. It felt like being kissed, all over his back, although he'd never been teased by a girl quite like this. He'd remember.
He gritted his teeth as Sammy shifted to get a better angle, the pressure grinding the cock he wanted to ignore into the mattress. He felt exposed.
Literally - Sam was wearing jeans, but Dean just had a towel round his hips, a towel Sam was sitting on, legs coming down either side onto the bed, the knees of the jeans, he knew, worn and holey, tan skin showing through.
But more than that, in an exposed position. He'd sparred, wrestled too often with Sammy to feel comfortable like this, belly down, vulnerable. Susceptible to any number of pins, and painful retaliations. He wanted to flip them over, roll on top of Sam, hold him down, and just... just.
Just what?
Shit.
Sam's paintbrush flicked tortuously over the centre of his spine, and he gave a small involuntary gasp. The movement paused.
“Is that ticklish?”, Sam asked.
Dean took a quick breath in and answered, his voice gruff, “Mmmm. It's uh, kinda itchy feeling. Could you rub it or something?”
“That'll smudge the ink.”
He felt Sam move then, and before he could brace himself, felt air blowing over his skin, warm and moist, cool across the drying ink, Sam's mouth inches from his skin.
A shiver ran through Dean's body.
“Is that better?” Sam asked.
“It... it'll be fine,” he croaked out.
He sighed, and buried his head in the mattress. Sam was nearly finished and then he'd. Yeah.
Fight the monsters. Save the innocents. And finally, go get laid. He needed it.
***
Hmmm... there's no real age indicators in this, but I think of it as pre-pilot, before Sam left for Stanford. Weak ending.
Preparation for battle, UST only. I think I had some idea that it would be part of something bigger, in contrast to something happening now (or, well, midseason), post-standford. Again, same situation, drawing the sigils, but adults now, grown apart, grown up, and it not being quite so 'U' in the 'UST'.
Oh, and this was for ezgal, from when we were briefly poking each other to write stuff, which was mucho appreciated. :P
(*is slacker*)