Fic: SPN (Sam/Dean): Simmer | NC-17 | 2420
Title: Simmer
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Set vaguely during season 9
Summary: He and Sammy haven’t been doing so well lately and by that, Dean doesn’t just mean their score on the Heaven vs. Everyone scorecard, though, yeah, that pretty much sucks, too. There’s too much simmering between them, like hot lava seeping out of the cracks of their failed lives.
Word Count: 2420
A/N: Written for juice817's salt_burn_porn prompt let it simmer. This was going to be a happy fun-time fic and then I changed it to Sam and Dean. >_>
There are things that you deal with and things that you don’t. Things that can be brought out into the light of day and inspected because once you do, you can see how harmless they are and things that you shove down deep because you don’t want to know. Winchesters rarely have things that can see the light of day. They deal with problems as they come, salt and burn, and anything that they can’t, they bury. Deny, deny, deny.
Dean grins at his reflection in the tinted glass of the odd microwave in the corner of the kitchen. Considering that the place hasn’t seen the light of day in decades, outfitted back before things like 34 cent frozen burritos, the Men of Letters hideout is pretty damn advanced in surprising ways. The microwave, like much of the place, looks modern but yet dated at the same time-timeless, really, in a weird sort of way. It’s unsettling and yet relentlessly cool. Dean likes the place. He’d happily stay here for the rest of his life. And if that were even an option, sometimes Dean has a suspicion that he’d never leave the bunker’s solid, comforting walls at all.
Ordering take out, watching porn on the internet, getting a butler to go out and get booze from time to time… Dean could see himself liking that. He’d had enough of the world. Just as long as Sam was here too. They could hide away from the world and play house.
And maybe things would be like how they used to be. Back when hope was still in the box.
Dean sighs. Bury, repress, deny. Pretend that all that’s simmering just beneath the surface doesn’t exist, and when it explodes, try to ride it out.
“Cover and let simmer for twenty minutes,” Sam mutters to himself. It’s the first non-business thing that Dean has heard from him in days. Dean takes it and shoves it down with everything else he doesn’t dare look at in the light of day. As long as he doesn’t look too close, there’s a sense of normalcy, here in the strange, ginormous, oddly modern kitchen of the Men of Letters. Sam glares at the box as if it might be secretly hiding a few words from God, then tosses it onto the counter. When he turns towards Dean, his mouth tightens in that way that makes Dean’s heart hurt.
He and Sammy haven’t been doing so well lately and by that, Dean doesn’t just mean their score on the Heaven vs. Everyone scorecard, though, yeah, that pretty much sucks, too. There’s too much simmering between them, like hot lava seeping out of the cracks of their failed lives. Secrets are festering between them again, just like always-old wounds that never quite healed and never will. Sam keeps things from Dean and Dean does the same and whenever something slips, another part of their relationship cracks.
There were just some things, though, that Sam didn’t need to know. That he wouldn’t want to know. He says that he does, says that he’s tired of Dean keeping things from him, but Dean knows that if Sam were to find out, he wouldn’t understand. It’s got nothing to do with trust and everything to do with an inability to handle the truth. If Dean were to tell Sam some of the shit that he’s buried, Sam would get that angry look on his face, the one with the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. Or, worse, it would be the hang dog, the one that doesn’t so much say anger as it does years of disappointment. Like every one of Dean’s past mistakes are piling up behind him and waiting to spill over and bury him like Pompeii and Sam’s tired of watching him fuck up.
Dean’s tired of fucking up too, but he doesn’t know how to do otherwise. It seems as if that’s all he’s ever done.
So, he buries it deep and smiles because there are things that you just leave alone. Sam doesn’t need to know how much Dean is craving having that piece of bone in his hand, how much he is aching to feel the hot splash of blood running down his arms as he sinks in deep, how much-
Dean can’t do this alone. He needs Sam. He’s always needed Sam. If he were to be honest, Dean knows that he’s never been able to be alone. Sam is the only thing that matters, the only thing that’s ever mattered, and they are barely holding it together.
Sam gives Dean an odd look, part scowl and part trying to hide it, and he tries to slip past Dean to head back to his books for a little while. Pretend that this is just a job, that Dean’s just a partner.
It’s such bullshit.
Dean snags Sam’s arm, ignoring the dismissive flick of Sam’s wrist and the clenching of his fist. Sam’s hurting, yeah, but when is he not? When is either of them not hurting? They’ve never been ones to be free from the pain; history’s proven that. What they’ve been are the ones who have survived all that suffering, no matter what. Both damned before they started, with only the here and now to look forward to, but at least they were standing together.
History moves them forward-memories of a times lived in blissful ignorance. Dean clings to it in the dead of night whenever his insides start to boil over. It’s the only thing that keeps Dean sane.
Dean’s hand cups Sam’s face, fingers sliding over his cheek. Sam’s frown deepens and he’s going to pull away, so Dean steps forward and closes the inches himself. His lips press softly against Sam’s-not demanding, nor begging, just a quiet question. It hangs between them, waiting to see if Sam will answer.
They stay there as the seconds tick by. Sam’s lips move-a small sign-and his tongue flicks out to taste Dean before it’s gone again. Dean’s heart thumps in his chest, hard and painful. He can’t say it, but this is what he needs. This is all he’s ever needed. Sam can’t leave-can’t leave him. Dean wouldn’t last without Sam. He would drown.
Dean needs Sam, needs Sam to need him, and if Sam were to reject him, there wouldn’t be anything standing between Dean and the new, frighteningly sweet ache inside of him. Dean lets himself lean forward a little more, surrendering to demands that Sam hasn’t made of him in a long time.
A growl rumbles up Sam’s throat and Sam’s fingers clamp down on Dean’s forearms, holding him tight. They dig in, leaving bruises in a way that Dean thinks he likes. He’s covered in so many other marks and scars and signs, that he likes the idea of Sam leaving some on him as well. At least these he has a choice about. Dean doesn’t resist and Sam shoves him backward. Sam’s angry-he’s always angry nowadays-at Dean, at himself, at the world, whatever. Dean can take his anger. It’s better than the cold indifference that Sam has been wearing around his shoulders lately.
The anger forces Sam forward, drives him to press against Dean. Dean can see it in Sam’s face, twisting his mouth into a snarl-and can feel Sam’s lust in the solid length pressing up against Dean’s leg. Sam can’t deny it and that makes Dean feel good. He grabs it and shoves it down with all of the other little feelings and moments that he’s hoarding. His life is a shit pile and his no one in his life wants to know him anymore, but at least he can still make Sam feel this.
The countertop digs in to Dean’s backside as Sam presses closer. It’s a solid ache that drives away the metaphorical one inside of him. When Sam pins Dean’s arms against the counter, Dean doesn’t resist, just presses his lips to Sam’s again and lets this go where it will.
Where Dean is gentle, Sam is rough. Sam nips at Dean’s lips, teeth biting down and Dean wouldn’t be surprised to taste blood. Sam matches the simmering rage that waits just beneath Dean’s surface, the pain outside answering the potential violence inside. Dean shoves it down, pushing it past the little blackened lump that is his soul, and keeps his kisses soft.
Sam snarls again, anger and lust making his voice as rough as his grip, and turns his head away. He nips his way down Dean’s throat, teeth sinking in hard enough that Dean knows that tomorrow he’s going to have marks there as well.
Dean sighs and gives Sam more room. He doesn’t fucking care. Let Crowley, Cas, the fucking Metatron, let them all see.
Sam releases Dean’s arms to dig his fingers into Dean’s sides, pushing up Dean’s shirt. Dean buries his nose in Sam’s hair and lets his own hands roam over Sam in soft circles. Sam’s solid and real in front of him and it grounds him. It tells him that he is more than just an ache, more than a tragedy waiting to happen, more than a mistake. He’s as real as Sam is and he wants Sam to prove it to him.
Sam shoves his hands into Dean’s jeans, jerking him forward before finally popping the button and giving them both some room. Dean’s boxers don’t stand a chance, giving way to Sam’s persistence.
Sam doesn’t bother to gentle his grip at all and Dean hisses through the pleasure-tinged pain. It hurts, but he likes it. His arms tighten around Sam’s shoulders and he gasps and shudders as Sam works him over. He can hear Sam breathing like a steam engine, the sharp pants letting Dean know that Sam’s as into this as he is.
Dean spreads his legs and lets it happen. His orgasm steadily builds, nerves tingling in anticipation, and when it comes, it’s with a full body shiver as he empties into Sam’s palm. He clings to Sam as his knees try to buckle and take him to the ground.
“Fuck,” Sam mutters. He swallows hard, wrestling with himself again. Dean doesn't dare breath. If he does, Sam might leave and this will all be over. He glances down at the slick in Sam's hand, watching it slowly drip onto the floor. He did that, that's part of him, and now it's part of Sam, but, soon, it's going to be nothing more than the seconds that are ticking away between them. Dean's heart gives a painful squeeze. He can't be alone. Sam detaches himself and steps backward. “Fuck…” he says again, and shakes his head like he’s coming out of a daze.
Air slams back into Dean’s lungs. He’s not ready for this to be over. He lunges forward, sending Sam stumbling backward. Sam catches himself on the countertop beside the stove, his fingers wrapping around the underside, and, as Dean sees it, that’s just perfect.
With a quick flip, the burner turns off and Sam scowls like he wants to say something, but Dean cuts him off by dropping to his knees in front of him. The words die in Sam’s throat, dwindling into a low groan.
The memories don’t forget. Anything else that exists between them, they still have the years of history binding them together. Sam can be as cold as he wants on the outside but Dean knows what waits underneath.
Sam’s clean hand cards through Dean’s hair as Dean slowly undoes Sam’s belt buckle. Dean takes his time, relishing the jingle of the metal and the soft rasp of the leather. Sam’s been hard since they started, but now he presses his hips forward, impatient and demanding. The zipper echoes in Dean’s ears.
He unwraps Sam like a present, slowly pulling Sam’s cock out of his underwear. Sam smells like sex and desire and Dean allows himself a little taste before he starts. His tongue darts out and licks at the slit. Above him, Sam starts to pant again.
Dean runs his lips along the sides. It’s been a long time since he and Sam have done this. It might be a long time before they do it again, and right now, Dean has all the time in the world. He’s going to stay right here with Sam and never leave. The rest of the world can do without them from now on. Heaven, Hell, it’s all the same anyways-just different window dressing.
Sam’s hips twitch like he wants to thrust and Dean half wishes that he would. Dean wants to feel everything that Sam is willing to give him. He closes his eyes as he finally takes Sam into his mouth. Above him, Sam sucks in a harsh breath, and then holds perfectly still.
Dean runs his hand underneath Sam’s shirt, spreading his fingers over Sam’s belly, and inches himself more firmly between Sam’s legs. He wants to feel Sam’s heat, know that Sam is all around him. He wraps one fist around the base of Sam’s cock and as he starts to bob his head, Sam’s hand tightens in his hair.
Dean flicks his eyes upwards. Sam’s got his head back, his eyes closed and his mouth open, and he’s lost in the moment. Something warm wraps itself around Dean’s chest and Dean lets himself float away too.
He keeps Sam on the edge, ignoring Sam’s groans and his own aching knees, because he can’t imagine moving. All the resentment, the rage, the disappointment, it seeps away, just for the moment. It’s still there, simmering, waiting to boil over again, but right now it’s kept at bay.
It ends too quickly for Dean, but, then again, anything less than forever is too soon. Sam’s entire body tightens, muscles tensing like a taut rubber band, his hand a hard fist in Dean’s hair, and then he’s shooting down Dean’s throat. Dean swallows because he can and keeps himself in place until long after Sam’s done.
They only separate when Sam finally pushes Dean back. The anger’s not there, but neither is the passion, and Sam’s tired but he’s already retreating back into his cold, closed-off gates. Inside Dean, a familiar ache settles back around his heart and once again, thoughts of bone and blood hover along the edges of his mind, promising to haunt his dreams.
It’s still there, simmering beneath the surface as it always has. Sam’s heat chased it away for a moment but it never really left. Dean stays on the floor and watches Sam leave. When he's alone, he pushes down on the bruises that Sam left on his arm, gritting his teeth against the pain, and lets himself remember. It'll work, for a little while.
There are some things that Sam never needs to know. Dean buries them deep and pretends that everything’s fine.
It never is.
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Set vaguely during season 9
Summary: He and Sammy haven’t been doing so well lately and by that, Dean doesn’t just mean their score on the Heaven vs. Everyone scorecard, though, yeah, that pretty much sucks, too. There’s too much simmering between them, like hot lava seeping out of the cracks of their failed lives.
Word Count: 2420
A/N: Written for juice817's salt_burn_porn prompt let it simmer. This was going to be a happy fun-time fic and then I changed it to Sam and Dean. >_>
There are things that you deal with and things that you don’t. Things that can be brought out into the light of day and inspected because once you do, you can see how harmless they are and things that you shove down deep because you don’t want to know. Winchesters rarely have things that can see the light of day. They deal with problems as they come, salt and burn, and anything that they can’t, they bury. Deny, deny, deny.
Dean grins at his reflection in the tinted glass of the odd microwave in the corner of the kitchen. Considering that the place hasn’t seen the light of day in decades, outfitted back before things like 34 cent frozen burritos, the Men of Letters hideout is pretty damn advanced in surprising ways. The microwave, like much of the place, looks modern but yet dated at the same time-timeless, really, in a weird sort of way. It’s unsettling and yet relentlessly cool. Dean likes the place. He’d happily stay here for the rest of his life. And if that were even an option, sometimes Dean has a suspicion that he’d never leave the bunker’s solid, comforting walls at all.
Ordering take out, watching porn on the internet, getting a butler to go out and get booze from time to time… Dean could see himself liking that. He’d had enough of the world. Just as long as Sam was here too. They could hide away from the world and play house.
And maybe things would be like how they used to be. Back when hope was still in the box.
Dean sighs. Bury, repress, deny. Pretend that all that’s simmering just beneath the surface doesn’t exist, and when it explodes, try to ride it out.
“Cover and let simmer for twenty minutes,” Sam mutters to himself. It’s the first non-business thing that Dean has heard from him in days. Dean takes it and shoves it down with everything else he doesn’t dare look at in the light of day. As long as he doesn’t look too close, there’s a sense of normalcy, here in the strange, ginormous, oddly modern kitchen of the Men of Letters. Sam glares at the box as if it might be secretly hiding a few words from God, then tosses it onto the counter. When he turns towards Dean, his mouth tightens in that way that makes Dean’s heart hurt.
He and Sammy haven’t been doing so well lately and by that, Dean doesn’t just mean their score on the Heaven vs. Everyone scorecard, though, yeah, that pretty much sucks, too. There’s too much simmering between them, like hot lava seeping out of the cracks of their failed lives. Secrets are festering between them again, just like always-old wounds that never quite healed and never will. Sam keeps things from Dean and Dean does the same and whenever something slips, another part of their relationship cracks.
There were just some things, though, that Sam didn’t need to know. That he wouldn’t want to know. He says that he does, says that he’s tired of Dean keeping things from him, but Dean knows that if Sam were to find out, he wouldn’t understand. It’s got nothing to do with trust and everything to do with an inability to handle the truth. If Dean were to tell Sam some of the shit that he’s buried, Sam would get that angry look on his face, the one with the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. Or, worse, it would be the hang dog, the one that doesn’t so much say anger as it does years of disappointment. Like every one of Dean’s past mistakes are piling up behind him and waiting to spill over and bury him like Pompeii and Sam’s tired of watching him fuck up.
Dean’s tired of fucking up too, but he doesn’t know how to do otherwise. It seems as if that’s all he’s ever done.
So, he buries it deep and smiles because there are things that you just leave alone. Sam doesn’t need to know how much Dean is craving having that piece of bone in his hand, how much he is aching to feel the hot splash of blood running down his arms as he sinks in deep, how much-
Dean can’t do this alone. He needs Sam. He’s always needed Sam. If he were to be honest, Dean knows that he’s never been able to be alone. Sam is the only thing that matters, the only thing that’s ever mattered, and they are barely holding it together.
Sam gives Dean an odd look, part scowl and part trying to hide it, and he tries to slip past Dean to head back to his books for a little while. Pretend that this is just a job, that Dean’s just a partner.
It’s such bullshit.
Dean snags Sam’s arm, ignoring the dismissive flick of Sam’s wrist and the clenching of his fist. Sam’s hurting, yeah, but when is he not? When is either of them not hurting? They’ve never been ones to be free from the pain; history’s proven that. What they’ve been are the ones who have survived all that suffering, no matter what. Both damned before they started, with only the here and now to look forward to, but at least they were standing together.
History moves them forward-memories of a times lived in blissful ignorance. Dean clings to it in the dead of night whenever his insides start to boil over. It’s the only thing that keeps Dean sane.
Dean’s hand cups Sam’s face, fingers sliding over his cheek. Sam’s frown deepens and he’s going to pull away, so Dean steps forward and closes the inches himself. His lips press softly against Sam’s-not demanding, nor begging, just a quiet question. It hangs between them, waiting to see if Sam will answer.
They stay there as the seconds tick by. Sam’s lips move-a small sign-and his tongue flicks out to taste Dean before it’s gone again. Dean’s heart thumps in his chest, hard and painful. He can’t say it, but this is what he needs. This is all he’s ever needed. Sam can’t leave-can’t leave him. Dean wouldn’t last without Sam. He would drown.
Dean needs Sam, needs Sam to need him, and if Sam were to reject him, there wouldn’t be anything standing between Dean and the new, frighteningly sweet ache inside of him. Dean lets himself lean forward a little more, surrendering to demands that Sam hasn’t made of him in a long time.
A growl rumbles up Sam’s throat and Sam’s fingers clamp down on Dean’s forearms, holding him tight. They dig in, leaving bruises in a way that Dean thinks he likes. He’s covered in so many other marks and scars and signs, that he likes the idea of Sam leaving some on him as well. At least these he has a choice about. Dean doesn’t resist and Sam shoves him backward. Sam’s angry-he’s always angry nowadays-at Dean, at himself, at the world, whatever. Dean can take his anger. It’s better than the cold indifference that Sam has been wearing around his shoulders lately.
The anger forces Sam forward, drives him to press against Dean. Dean can see it in Sam’s face, twisting his mouth into a snarl-and can feel Sam’s lust in the solid length pressing up against Dean’s leg. Sam can’t deny it and that makes Dean feel good. He grabs it and shoves it down with all of the other little feelings and moments that he’s hoarding. His life is a shit pile and his no one in his life wants to know him anymore, but at least he can still make Sam feel this.
The countertop digs in to Dean’s backside as Sam presses closer. It’s a solid ache that drives away the metaphorical one inside of him. When Sam pins Dean’s arms against the counter, Dean doesn’t resist, just presses his lips to Sam’s again and lets this go where it will.
Where Dean is gentle, Sam is rough. Sam nips at Dean’s lips, teeth biting down and Dean wouldn’t be surprised to taste blood. Sam matches the simmering rage that waits just beneath Dean’s surface, the pain outside answering the potential violence inside. Dean shoves it down, pushing it past the little blackened lump that is his soul, and keeps his kisses soft.
Sam snarls again, anger and lust making his voice as rough as his grip, and turns his head away. He nips his way down Dean’s throat, teeth sinking in hard enough that Dean knows that tomorrow he’s going to have marks there as well.
Dean sighs and gives Sam more room. He doesn’t fucking care. Let Crowley, Cas, the fucking Metatron, let them all see.
Sam releases Dean’s arms to dig his fingers into Dean’s sides, pushing up Dean’s shirt. Dean buries his nose in Sam’s hair and lets his own hands roam over Sam in soft circles. Sam’s solid and real in front of him and it grounds him. It tells him that he is more than just an ache, more than a tragedy waiting to happen, more than a mistake. He’s as real as Sam is and he wants Sam to prove it to him.
Sam shoves his hands into Dean’s jeans, jerking him forward before finally popping the button and giving them both some room. Dean’s boxers don’t stand a chance, giving way to Sam’s persistence.
Sam doesn’t bother to gentle his grip at all and Dean hisses through the pleasure-tinged pain. It hurts, but he likes it. His arms tighten around Sam’s shoulders and he gasps and shudders as Sam works him over. He can hear Sam breathing like a steam engine, the sharp pants letting Dean know that Sam’s as into this as he is.
Dean spreads his legs and lets it happen. His orgasm steadily builds, nerves tingling in anticipation, and when it comes, it’s with a full body shiver as he empties into Sam’s palm. He clings to Sam as his knees try to buckle and take him to the ground.
“Fuck,” Sam mutters. He swallows hard, wrestling with himself again. Dean doesn't dare breath. If he does, Sam might leave and this will all be over. He glances down at the slick in Sam's hand, watching it slowly drip onto the floor. He did that, that's part of him, and now it's part of Sam, but, soon, it's going to be nothing more than the seconds that are ticking away between them. Dean's heart gives a painful squeeze. He can't be alone. Sam detaches himself and steps backward. “Fuck…” he says again, and shakes his head like he’s coming out of a daze.
Air slams back into Dean’s lungs. He’s not ready for this to be over. He lunges forward, sending Sam stumbling backward. Sam catches himself on the countertop beside the stove, his fingers wrapping around the underside, and, as Dean sees it, that’s just perfect.
With a quick flip, the burner turns off and Sam scowls like he wants to say something, but Dean cuts him off by dropping to his knees in front of him. The words die in Sam’s throat, dwindling into a low groan.
The memories don’t forget. Anything else that exists between them, they still have the years of history binding them together. Sam can be as cold as he wants on the outside but Dean knows what waits underneath.
Sam’s clean hand cards through Dean’s hair as Dean slowly undoes Sam’s belt buckle. Dean takes his time, relishing the jingle of the metal and the soft rasp of the leather. Sam’s been hard since they started, but now he presses his hips forward, impatient and demanding. The zipper echoes in Dean’s ears.
He unwraps Sam like a present, slowly pulling Sam’s cock out of his underwear. Sam smells like sex and desire and Dean allows himself a little taste before he starts. His tongue darts out and licks at the slit. Above him, Sam starts to pant again.
Dean runs his lips along the sides. It’s been a long time since he and Sam have done this. It might be a long time before they do it again, and right now, Dean has all the time in the world. He’s going to stay right here with Sam and never leave. The rest of the world can do without them from now on. Heaven, Hell, it’s all the same anyways-just different window dressing.
Sam’s hips twitch like he wants to thrust and Dean half wishes that he would. Dean wants to feel everything that Sam is willing to give him. He closes his eyes as he finally takes Sam into his mouth. Above him, Sam sucks in a harsh breath, and then holds perfectly still.
Dean runs his hand underneath Sam’s shirt, spreading his fingers over Sam’s belly, and inches himself more firmly between Sam’s legs. He wants to feel Sam’s heat, know that Sam is all around him. He wraps one fist around the base of Sam’s cock and as he starts to bob his head, Sam’s hand tightens in his hair.
Dean flicks his eyes upwards. Sam’s got his head back, his eyes closed and his mouth open, and he’s lost in the moment. Something warm wraps itself around Dean’s chest and Dean lets himself float away too.
He keeps Sam on the edge, ignoring Sam’s groans and his own aching knees, because he can’t imagine moving. All the resentment, the rage, the disappointment, it seeps away, just for the moment. It’s still there, simmering, waiting to boil over again, but right now it’s kept at bay.
It ends too quickly for Dean, but, then again, anything less than forever is too soon. Sam’s entire body tightens, muscles tensing like a taut rubber band, his hand a hard fist in Dean’s hair, and then he’s shooting down Dean’s throat. Dean swallows because he can and keeps himself in place until long after Sam’s done.
They only separate when Sam finally pushes Dean back. The anger’s not there, but neither is the passion, and Sam’s tired but he’s already retreating back into his cold, closed-off gates. Inside Dean, a familiar ache settles back around his heart and once again, thoughts of bone and blood hover along the edges of his mind, promising to haunt his dreams.
It’s still there, simmering beneath the surface as it always has. Sam’s heat chased it away for a moment but it never really left. Dean stays on the floor and watches Sam leave. When he's alone, he pushes down on the bruises that Sam left on his arm, gritting his teeth against the pain, and lets himself remember. It'll work, for a little while.
There are some things that Sam never needs to know. Dean buries them deep and pretends that everything’s fine.
It never is.