When Dean was dead, that endless-seeming expanse of days between the night Sam cradled his brother’s ruined body in his arms and the night he opened a motel room door to find him staring and whole, it was one of the things that got him through. He’d lie in some anonymous bed, sometimes a king, sometimes one queen of a pair out of sheer force of habit, and clutch Dean’s amulet in one hand and his jacket in the other. Pressing it to his nose, holding it over his face so he could be engulfed in the scents of leather and old sweat and Dean.
After a while, there were nights he’d have to drop the amulet and just hold himself, not jerking, just cupped in his hand and slowly stroking through the fabric of his shorts as he buried his face in the worn leather. It was a comfort, he told himself, that was all.
But now Dean’s back, and god, he wouldn’t give him up again for anything in the world, but sometimes, Sam...misses it. Misses that closeness, that feeling of just being covered in Dean’s scent, almost able to pretend he could feel some ghost of his heat trapped in the hide. It was a chance to be near to his brother in a way he never really experienced while he was alive, doesn’t get to experience now, either. Dean’s more distant than ever.
One afternoon in Georgia, Dean’s out a little longer than expected, searching around their motel for a vending machine or convenience store or someplace that has cold beer and pop to cut the sweltering heat, and Sam spies his jacket, tossed crumpled and abandoned over a chair. And he just...has to.
He’s kneeling, skin-smoothed collar beneath his lips, when Dean walks back in with a six-pack and a 2-liter.
“Sam?” he asks, voice rough like he’s lost all his air.
And Sam can’t get up, explain this away as anything but exactly what it looks like. He just looks at Dean, and says, “I miss you.”
“I’m right here, Sammy, not going anywhere,” Dean says, kneeling next to him. That’s enough to tug at Sam where it counts, Dean so close, and he pushes the jacket to the floor, next to where Dean dropped the bottles he was carrying, angry fizz of carbonation sparking the air.
“Let me,” Sam says, and just pulls Dean’s body to him. Buries his face in Dean’s hair, in the slick salted skin at the curve of his neck, in his t-shirt-covered chest, covering himself in Dean, his sweat and scent and the feel of him all over. Curls his hands around Dean’s ass to draw him closer and Dean just gasps, shivering as Sam noses his way under his arm, up the back of his neck. Down between his legs, rubbing his face in Dean’s crotch.
“Oh god, Sam,” Dean says, threading Sam’s hair through his fingers.
“Missed you so much,” Sam mutters, hands a frantic fumble at Dean’s fly, and then he’s swallowing Dean down, all the way, face just buried in him, nuzzling in the hair between his legs.
Later, when Dean’s all loose and fucked-out, when Sam’s licked Dean’s come off his belly and his own come out of his body, lapped at the sheen of sweat upon his chest and shoulders and temples, Dean just lays there, watching him, fingers gently playing in his hair.
“What brought that on?” he asks.
Sam just looks at him, those hazy green eyes, tries to forget what they looked like empty and staring into nothing. He presses his lips to Dean’s brow, catches another taste of salt on his tongue. “You really don’t know, do you?”
*blush* Thank you! I just kind of stumbled across this and God knows I'm always looking for an excuse to get out of writing stuff I actually need to write (assignments, admissions essay, this 3000-word Dean/Castiel pornfic I've been trying to finish for a week now), so prompts and memes are awesome. Yay!
You are not alone. I have about four different essays I need to be writing, and yet, I am indulging in fic writing instead. Oh, well. It is far more enjoyable, at any rate. XD
Stick around! Feel free to answer any more prompts that catch your eye if you are in need of some procrastination. :D
When Dean was dead, that endless-seeming expanse of days between the night Sam cradled his brother’s ruined body in his arms and the night he opened a motel room door to find him staring and whole, it was one of the things that got him through. He’d lie in some anonymous bed, sometimes a king, sometimes one queen of a pair out of sheer force of habit, and clutch Dean’s amulet in one hand and his jacket in the other. Pressing it to his nose, holding it over his face so he could be engulfed in the scents of leather and old sweat and Dean.
After a while, there were nights he’d have to drop the amulet and just hold himself, not jerking, just cupped in his hand and slowly stroking through the fabric of his shorts as he buried his face in the worn leather. It was a comfort, he told himself, that was all.
But now Dean’s back, and god, he wouldn’t give him up again for anything in the world, but sometimes, Sam...misses it. Misses that closeness, that feeling of just being covered in Dean’s scent, almost able to pretend he could feel some ghost of his heat trapped in the hide. It was a chance to be near to his brother in a way he never really experienced while he was alive, doesn’t get to experience now, either. Dean’s more distant than ever.
One afternoon in Georgia, Dean’s out a little longer than expected, searching around their motel for a vending machine or convenience store or someplace that has cold beer and pop to cut the sweltering heat, and Sam spies his jacket, tossed crumpled and abandoned over a chair. And he just...has to.
He’s kneeling, skin-smoothed collar beneath his lips, when Dean walks back in with a six-pack and a 2-liter.
“Sam?” he asks, voice rough like he’s lost all his air.
And Sam can’t get up, explain this away as anything but exactly what it looks like. He just looks at Dean, and says, “I miss you.”
“I’m right here, Sammy, not going anywhere,” Dean says, kneeling next to him. That’s enough to tug at Sam where it counts, Dean so close, and he pushes the jacket to the floor, next to where Dean dropped the bottles he was carrying, angry fizz of carbonation sparking the air.
“Let me,” Sam says, and just pulls Dean’s body to him. Buries his face in Dean’s hair, in the slick salted skin at the curve of his neck, in his t-shirt-covered chest, covering himself in Dean, his sweat and scent and the feel of him all over. Curls his hands around Dean’s ass to draw him closer and Dean just gasps, shivering as Sam noses his way under his arm, up the back of his neck. Down between his legs, rubbing his face in Dean’s crotch.
“Oh god, Sam,” Dean says, threading Sam’s hair through his fingers.
“Missed you so much,” Sam mutters, hands a frantic fumble at Dean’s fly, and then he’s swallowing Dean down, all the way, face just buried in him, nuzzling in the hair between his legs.
Later, when Dean’s all loose and fucked-out, when Sam’s licked Dean’s come off his belly and his own come out of his body, lapped at the sheen of sweat upon his chest and shoulders and temples, Dean just lays there, watching him, fingers gently playing in his hair.
“What brought that on?” he asks.
Sam just looks at him, those hazy green eyes, tries to forget what they looked like empty and staring into nothing. He presses his lips to Dean’s brow, catches another taste of salt on his tongue. “You really don’t know, do you?”
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when Sam’s licked Dean’s come off his belly and his own come out of his body
Oh. Em. Gee. That line is fucking hot on so many levels.
Great fic. Thanks for partaking in the meme. =D
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Stick around! Feel free to answer any more prompts that catch your eye if you are in need of some procrastination. :D
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