take a right at the light, keep goin' straight until night (SPN, adult)
Sam/Dean, adult. Notes at the end.
take a right at the light, keep goin' straight until night
Sam wakes up slowly that morning, becoming aware gradually: Bobby's spare bedroom, his brother's body pressed close against his under a warm blanket.
Dean's face is pressed against Sam's neck so Sam can't see him wake up, but he can feel it. Dean squirms around and opens his eyes, lashes moving against Sam's neck. He had been drooling a little in his sleep, but Sam decides not to mention it until later.
Dean rolls onto his back, looks up at Sam with a lazy smile, still half asleep. Sam moves to kiss him: slow, nuzzling, a long kiss. Dean pulls off and maneuvers them until Sam is on his back, then slides down his body, long gentle scrape of teeth and his warm mouth, his sleep-warm body heavy on Sam's until he's got Sam's dick in his mouth.
Sam smooths his hand over Dean's hair as Dean takes him in. He looks up at Sam with a little smirk, then closes his eyes in evident satisfaction. Sam thrusts hard, knowing Dean can take it and wants to. Dean is, as he usually reminds Sam with irritating frequency, one of the great ones. He's quiet today, though, and Sam is okay with that too.
Sam keeps his hands on Dean's head, feeling how deep he is, his dick rubbing the back of Dean's throat. It feels too good to last long, and he tightens his grip. He holds Dean where he wants him, and Dean looks up again, and he just lets go, his hands loosening too. He watches Dean swallow it, looking content and maybe still a little sleepy, looking like there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing.
Dean crawls up to lay with him, pleased and smug as a cat. "Morning," he says.
****
Later, Sam sits outside and reads while Dean plays with Bobby's dogs. One of them is a large pale-red monster that lowers its ears and growls at anyone nearby, including Dean, who seems strangely fond of it. Sam is pretty sure he hears Dean say, "C'mere, Fluffy!" at one point, although surely that cannot be the dog's name.
They’ve been here since yesterday. After a good hunt, Dean had suggested that they stay at Bobby's and sleep the sleep of the just for a little bit. It hadn’t been a bad idea. The long stretches of time and sleep and the luxury of being slightly bored are, for the moment, a relief; they've been working and playing hard for a long time. Bobby had left last night, saying he'd be back this evening, probably.
Dean bangs the screen door, going in. In a minute he comes back to the doorway, spits a cherry pit onto Sam's book, and darts away.
"God, Dean, that is so disgusting," Sam yells, and hears Dean laughing around the corner of the house. He's eaten about a thousand cherries over the past day, and spit three-quarters of the pits onto Sam or his stuff. He flings the pit at Dean when he reappears, carrying another handful.
"Can I have one?" Sam asks.
"No," Dean says cheerfully, sitting down next to him. He’s listening to something on his phone and sticks one of the earbuds in Sam's direction. Sam says, "Yeah, I really want your earwax," but he puts it in anyway. Dean is listening to Sticky Fingers. He sings along with most of it, leaning companionably against Sam's shoulder, but falters and stops during "I Got the Blues." Sam wonders about that, but Dean hums along with "Sister Morphine" and is as enthusiastic as ever by "Dead Flowers."
****
They end up back in bed in the afternoon. Sam feels guilty about the condition of the sheets, but he’ll change them later.
Dean is on his back, watching Sam so incessantly, hardly even blinking, that it's a little weird. Sam has two fingers inside, stroking him. "Okay," he says. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Dean says, "come on." There's something pleading in his voice and his expression, and Sam can’t figure out what, exactly, Dean needs. He positions himself, pushes in slow, groaning at that tight slick squeeze around his dick. “That’s good, huh?” he says, and Dean says, “Yeah,” barely audible, still watching. “Dude,” Sam huffs, “quit staring at me,” and Dean laughs, puts his arms around Sam’s back, pulls him in closer. And later he says, "Sam, oh God, Sam, and sounds almost, only for a second, like he might cry.
****
That evening, Sam finds his brother outside among the rusty cars, watching the sun go down. Sam watches with him, and after a moment says abruptly, "You know what day it is?"
Dean, flinching just a little, says, "Is it our anniversary?" and Sam rolls his eyes. He guesses Dean won't bring it up, so he says himself, "Hard to believe it's been almost a year, isn't it?" Dean stares at him, and Sam adds, a little puzzled, "Since we killed it. Well, since you did."
Sam wonders if Dean thinks about it as much as he does, the moment Dean shot the yellow-eyed bastard in the face, and how it came almost immediately, the mixture of fierce triumph and God, what do we do now? They'd figured it out, though, spent the next year tracking down the ones that had been released, which had been more exhilarating than any hunt he could remember. It had come from Dean, he knew that, Dean on some weird high that he'd communicated to Sam. More than ever before, he was in his element. He seemed to be having a great time.
Just a little while ago they'd gotten the last of them, and Dean had suggested they go to Bobby's, and here they were. Sam continues, "Have you been thinking about it? These past couple days, I don't know, you've been kind of quiet or something."
"Something, yeah," Dean says, and Sam isn't sure why he looks relieved. Then he asks, suddenly intent, "It's been a good year, hasn't it?"
"You know it has," Sam says, which is true, one of the best he can remember. "Dean, man, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dean says, and almost looks as though he means it. "In fact? I wouldn't change a thing."
"Uh huh," Sam says. "Dean--"
"Sam, don't push me right now," Dean says, not angrily, but Sam backs off. "Listen, I wanted to tell you--"
He stops, tilting his head a little, concentrating. Sam can't see what's spooked him.
"What?" he says, and Dean says, "Just thought I heard something. Don't worry about it." He rubs his arms for a second, as if cold.
"You want to go in?" Sam says, and Dean nods. "What were you going to say?" Dean looks at him steadily, then grins, sudden and sweet. "I changed my mind. You already know."
He looks around then, and sometimes, later, when Sam thinks of his brother, he remembers this first: Dean's profile in the dusk as he looks wide-eyed at everything around them like he's trying to store it up, like he's trying to memorize it, keep it forever. And Sam thinks later that maybe Dean was going to say that he loved him. Dean was right, though; Sam already knew, of course he did. Dean didn't leave him a note either, and Sam thinks it's for the same reason. Nothing left to say.
Now, he looks back at Sam. "Come on, man," he says. "It's getting dark. Let's go in."
END
So my immediate reaction to AHBL 2 was, "I want to write 18 different stories where Sam doesn't figure out Dean is going to die!" and tripoli8 felt for some reason that this was a good idea. Many thanks to her for listening to my thoughts on this. Title from Springsteen.
take a right at the light, keep goin' straight until night
Sam wakes up slowly that morning, becoming aware gradually: Bobby's spare bedroom, his brother's body pressed close against his under a warm blanket.
Dean's face is pressed against Sam's neck so Sam can't see him wake up, but he can feel it. Dean squirms around and opens his eyes, lashes moving against Sam's neck. He had been drooling a little in his sleep, but Sam decides not to mention it until later.
Dean rolls onto his back, looks up at Sam with a lazy smile, still half asleep. Sam moves to kiss him: slow, nuzzling, a long kiss. Dean pulls off and maneuvers them until Sam is on his back, then slides down his body, long gentle scrape of teeth and his warm mouth, his sleep-warm body heavy on Sam's until he's got Sam's dick in his mouth.
Sam smooths his hand over Dean's hair as Dean takes him in. He looks up at Sam with a little smirk, then closes his eyes in evident satisfaction. Sam thrusts hard, knowing Dean can take it and wants to. Dean is, as he usually reminds Sam with irritating frequency, one of the great ones. He's quiet today, though, and Sam is okay with that too.
Sam keeps his hands on Dean's head, feeling how deep he is, his dick rubbing the back of Dean's throat. It feels too good to last long, and he tightens his grip. He holds Dean where he wants him, and Dean looks up again, and he just lets go, his hands loosening too. He watches Dean swallow it, looking content and maybe still a little sleepy, looking like there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing.
Dean crawls up to lay with him, pleased and smug as a cat. "Morning," he says.
****
Later, Sam sits outside and reads while Dean plays with Bobby's dogs. One of them is a large pale-red monster that lowers its ears and growls at anyone nearby, including Dean, who seems strangely fond of it. Sam is pretty sure he hears Dean say, "C'mere, Fluffy!" at one point, although surely that cannot be the dog's name.
They’ve been here since yesterday. After a good hunt, Dean had suggested that they stay at Bobby's and sleep the sleep of the just for a little bit. It hadn’t been a bad idea. The long stretches of time and sleep and the luxury of being slightly bored are, for the moment, a relief; they've been working and playing hard for a long time. Bobby had left last night, saying he'd be back this evening, probably.
Dean bangs the screen door, going in. In a minute he comes back to the doorway, spits a cherry pit onto Sam's book, and darts away.
"God, Dean, that is so disgusting," Sam yells, and hears Dean laughing around the corner of the house. He's eaten about a thousand cherries over the past day, and spit three-quarters of the pits onto Sam or his stuff. He flings the pit at Dean when he reappears, carrying another handful.
"Can I have one?" Sam asks.
"No," Dean says cheerfully, sitting down next to him. He’s listening to something on his phone and sticks one of the earbuds in Sam's direction. Sam says, "Yeah, I really want your earwax," but he puts it in anyway. Dean is listening to Sticky Fingers. He sings along with most of it, leaning companionably against Sam's shoulder, but falters and stops during "I Got the Blues." Sam wonders about that, but Dean hums along with "Sister Morphine" and is as enthusiastic as ever by "Dead Flowers."
****
They end up back in bed in the afternoon. Sam feels guilty about the condition of the sheets, but he’ll change them later.
Dean is on his back, watching Sam so incessantly, hardly even blinking, that it's a little weird. Sam has two fingers inside, stroking him. "Okay," he says. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Dean says, "come on." There's something pleading in his voice and his expression, and Sam can’t figure out what, exactly, Dean needs. He positions himself, pushes in slow, groaning at that tight slick squeeze around his dick. “That’s good, huh?” he says, and Dean says, “Yeah,” barely audible, still watching. “Dude,” Sam huffs, “quit staring at me,” and Dean laughs, puts his arms around Sam’s back, pulls him in closer. And later he says, "Sam, oh God, Sam, and sounds almost, only for a second, like he might cry.
****
That evening, Sam finds his brother outside among the rusty cars, watching the sun go down. Sam watches with him, and after a moment says abruptly, "You know what day it is?"
Dean, flinching just a little, says, "Is it our anniversary?" and Sam rolls his eyes. He guesses Dean won't bring it up, so he says himself, "Hard to believe it's been almost a year, isn't it?" Dean stares at him, and Sam adds, a little puzzled, "Since we killed it. Well, since you did."
Sam wonders if Dean thinks about it as much as he does, the moment Dean shot the yellow-eyed bastard in the face, and how it came almost immediately, the mixture of fierce triumph and God, what do we do now? They'd figured it out, though, spent the next year tracking down the ones that had been released, which had been more exhilarating than any hunt he could remember. It had come from Dean, he knew that, Dean on some weird high that he'd communicated to Sam. More than ever before, he was in his element. He seemed to be having a great time.
Just a little while ago they'd gotten the last of them, and Dean had suggested they go to Bobby's, and here they were. Sam continues, "Have you been thinking about it? These past couple days, I don't know, you've been kind of quiet or something."
"Something, yeah," Dean says, and Sam isn't sure why he looks relieved. Then he asks, suddenly intent, "It's been a good year, hasn't it?"
"You know it has," Sam says, which is true, one of the best he can remember. "Dean, man, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dean says, and almost looks as though he means it. "In fact? I wouldn't change a thing."
"Uh huh," Sam says. "Dean--"
"Sam, don't push me right now," Dean says, not angrily, but Sam backs off. "Listen, I wanted to tell you--"
He stops, tilting his head a little, concentrating. Sam can't see what's spooked him.
"What?" he says, and Dean says, "Just thought I heard something. Don't worry about it." He rubs his arms for a second, as if cold.
"You want to go in?" Sam says, and Dean nods. "What were you going to say?" Dean looks at him steadily, then grins, sudden and sweet. "I changed my mind. You already know."
He looks around then, and sometimes, later, when Sam thinks of his brother, he remembers this first: Dean's profile in the dusk as he looks wide-eyed at everything around them like he's trying to store it up, like he's trying to memorize it, keep it forever. And Sam thinks later that maybe Dean was going to say that he loved him. Dean was right, though; Sam already knew, of course he did. Dean didn't leave him a note either, and Sam thinks it's for the same reason. Nothing left to say.
Now, he looks back at Sam. "Come on, man," he says. "It's getting dark. Let's go in."
END
So my immediate reaction to AHBL 2 was, "I want to write 18 different stories where Sam doesn't figure out Dean is going to die!" and tripoli8 felt for some reason that this was a good idea. Many thanks to her for listening to my thoughts on this. Title from Springsteen.