Supernatural, 1900 words, 4/4
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angsty sex? This is Sam, after all.
Summary: Dean was large and still against him. Nothing had been done yet that couldn't be explained away or ignored... Then Sam pressed his face into the spicy scent of pot smoke, the cheap smell of bar soap, and there was no going back.
Notes: 4/4. 1/4:Clarissa, 2/4: Marianne, 3/4: Leigh.
A huge thanks to
shay_renoylds and
kazminka for beta!
Andie
A couple of months after they left St. Augustine, a banshee threw Sam out from a first floor window, and he broke his wrist for the third time in his life. He didn't even register the fall, only the snap of the weak bone breaking as he rolled into it, right arm first. He was sitting up and assessing the damage by the time Dean reached him, and he was already more annoyed than he was really in pain when Dean drove him to the hospital.
At first he was grateful that Dean didn't throw him the "on your feet soldier" routine, like he'd sometimes done in the past. He didn't realize that Dean was freaking out until the nurse was casting his hand, complaining about an old injury on such a young guy, and he saw that Dean was standing pressed up in a corner of the room, looking pale and stony.
After he got discharged, Dean got them a room for four days, paying in advance. He spent the first two days hovering over Sam, standing somewhere close to his bed every time Sam woke up from his 48-hour catch-up of sleep, until Sam snapped and made him leave.
He brought home Andie on the third day.
Sam was in the bathroom unwrapping the cast after a shower when he heard the door slam shut. He heard the clink of the room keys hitting the bedside table and had already gone back to peeling tape off his skin when he heard Dean talking; an indistinguishable rumble on the other side of the door, a female voice answering.
Sam hurriedly pulled on his boxers and a shirt, expecting a case.
When he opened the door Andie turned around, startled, and pulled from Dean’s embrace. Her Stop 'n Save uniform was unbuttoned down to the edge of her black lace bra. Her lips looked bruised from kissing.
“Andie, this is Sam,”
Dean placed his hands on her hips, stepping up behind her. His eyes were glazed; from beer or pot, Sam couldn’t guess.
“What?”
Her voice was shrill. Sam shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, hating Dean a little bit. Whatever Dean had drunk or smoked, he’d shared it with her. It took a long moment for her expression to change from surprise to outrage.
“Wait, no... No, I did not sign up for this!”
She shook out of Dean’s grip, throwing her hands up.
“No way.”
She had her shirt buttoned and was half out the door before Dean was reaching out for her, “Wait, Andie...”
“Screw you, you perv!”
And she was gone.
“Uh. Awkward.”
Dean scratched his neck, looking at the carpet.
He looked starved and shameful, tired; like a ditched dog. Sam realized that his brother was being an idiot - that Dean just needed an excuse to put his hands on him, make sure he was alright.
He stepped into the embrace, ready to be pushed away or laughed at.
It never used to be like this. When they were kids they would be bunched together in the sofa, drinking stolen beer and watching Baywatch when their Dad was away. When Sam was a teenager Dean would hold him still when he got angry, or let Sam sleep propped up against him on the backseat of the Impala.
Sam hadn't consciously considered the how or why or when of him and Dean not hugging anymore. Of when both of them had taken a big step way the hell back, keeping body contact to sparring or one of them being hurt; or manly pats on the shoulder.
He realized why when both of them hesitated in the touch, leaning closer instead of moving apart, pressing up against each other. Dean was large and still against him. Nothing had been done yet that couldn't be explained away or ignored.
Then Sam pressed his face into the spicy scent of pot smoke, the cheap smell of bar soap, and there was no going back. There was nothing of Andie left there at all. He hesitated before moving his hand from Dean’s shoulder into the short hair at the nape of his neck, touching the tendons standing out below the edge of his skull.
Dean tensed up against him. He was mouthing words against Sam's neck. His hand was wrapped around the cast on Sam's wrist, two of his fingers slipping under the edge of it, scraping against the over-sensitive skin beneath. Someone in the room next door turned off a radio or a TV, and in the silence Sam could hear how his breathing had quickened.
Dean’s jacket was cold, raising goose bumps on Sam’s shower-damp skin. He slid it down over Dean’s shoulders, caught it falling and placed it on the bed beside them. Dean lifted his arms when Sam pulled up his t-shirt, and twisted his shoulders out of it, putting it next to the coat.
When Sam reached to unbutton the fly of Dean's pants he could feel Dean's hips jerk back, like a reflex. He moved his hand to Dean's shoulder, to calm him or to hold him fast, he didn't know which.
”Is this okay?"
"Dude!"
Dean breathed it out, low and exasperated - and, yeah, Sam got his point: there wasn't a chance in hell that this could be ok. But there was a difference between wanting this and doing this, and Sam knew that his brother would do anything for him, no matter what Dean wanted for himself. He had known that since the days Dean would sit outside with him for hours in the freezing cold, just so Sam could avoid being in a motel room with their Dad.
They stood there, frozen, and in the end it was Dean who finally leaned into the kiss. His lips were soft and warm and hesitant, his cool, dry fingers reached under Sam's t-shirt to the mesh of hot bruises down his left side.
Sam knew Dean to be loud, sweet-talking and self-assured, when he was flirting. The silence now felt weird, too intense. Every sound seemed loud and obscene in the dead quiet.
Dean's kisses turned rough and slick, he was licking into Sam's mouth, nibbling at his jaw. He moved restlessly, big firm hands groping Sam, thumbing his nipples. Sam was sober and a little numb with controlled freak-out. It took him a couple of minutes to wake up to it, to taste the tobacco and burn of Mexican food on Dean's tongue, to feel each of Dean's fingertips pressing into his muscles, the dry touch of Dean's nipples through the fabric of his t-shirt.
To feel the hot pulse of adrenaline and want coursing through his body.
He had wanted Dean for so long. It was an ache he had learned to live with, pushed down to the barely acknowledged, alongside the fact that his love for his brother had broken the confinements of fraternity a long time ago, seeping out in all directions.
He hoped that their parents weren't someplace where they could see them like this, pushed to a point where it almost seemed like a sane thing to do; all of the arguments against it watered out, except wrong, wrong, wrong, flashing like a faint alarm light at the back of his mind, too easy to ignore.
Sam broke away to shrug off his shirt, then leaned back in to place a hand over Dean's erection, rubbing slightly across denim and buttons before sliding his hand down the front of his jeans until he had the slick head of Dean's cock sliding over the base of his palm.
His stomach lurched at the touch, churning with want and fear.
Dean fell forward into an uncoordinated kiss, mouth open and breathing harshly. His hands came up to each side of Sam's head, fisting in his hair. Sam had never seen him so out of it. It made his own cock twinge, hard and low, his pulse beating heavily through his legs, his stomach, and his hand moving on his brother's cock.
He jerked Dean off still standing. His brother started and shivered against him, gasping, choking down sounds to maintain the silence. Sam wrapped his other arm around his back to support him as he came.
"Fuck."
Dean's head was against his collarbone, one hand in his hair, one clinging to his shoulder. Sam slid his hand out of Dean's pants to cup himself, close to coming just from seeing Dean like that, knowing that he had brought him there.
He nearly did come at the first touch of Dean's hand, brushing his own away to grip him with uncertainty, fingers feeling out the size and shape of him before pulling away again.
"Lie down."
Dean's voice sounded rough and alien, and Sam was on the bed before his brain had even processed what he had said, sprawling ungracefully with his feet on the carpet, his arms over his head.
Lying there, he suddenly felt self-conscious. His dick was tenting out his boxers and Dean was standing over him. Dean still had his jeans on, with only the two top buttons undone. He was looking down on Sam with eyes that were dark and unreadable, almost demon-like.
Then he went down on his knees on the carpet between Sam's legs.
"Sam."
Sam couldn't speak, his throat was thick with tense emotion.
Dean ran his hand from the base of Sam's throat to his stomach, a quick awkward caress, before pulling down his boxers. Sam looked down his own body, past his straining, aching cock, to Dean watching his body like it scared him a little. Then Dean caught his eyes and licked his palm before reaching out again, and Sam had to close his eyes.
It didn't take much, a couple of rough tugs, the slick of precome and spit only just enough to push it to the right side of painful, and Sam was coming harder than he ever had in his life, groaning and bucking up against the press of Dean's arms on his thighs as he gentled him through it.
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was on the bed next to him, staring up at the ceiling.
"If we're doing this again, we're getting naked."
Dean's voice was all false bravado, but Sam laughed loud and surprised, anyway. Maybe there was a tinge of hysteria to it, but he was so goddamn grateful to Dean for breaking the tension, it felt like that alarm light was finally flashing off.
Dean turned his head to look at him, one corner of his mouth turned up, but when Sam's laugh died out his expression changed, turning pinched and serious.
"Sammy, I don't... I didn't want to fuck you up."
Sam didn't even know how to begin to respond to that. He turned his head away. The ceiling had a long crack that started in one corner and spread out like a spider web above them.
"Look, Dean, I've been fucked up for a long time. I think I've been fucked up ever since Clarissa." he said finally, honestly.
"What, who's Clarissa?"
Dean was half smiling, not getting it, but he was reaching out for Sam, relaxing. Sam rolled into the touch.
"Never mind, it's not important."
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angsty sex? This is Sam, after all.
Summary: Dean was large and still against him. Nothing had been done yet that couldn't be explained away or ignored... Then Sam pressed his face into the spicy scent of pot smoke, the cheap smell of bar soap, and there was no going back.
Notes: 4/4. 1/4:Clarissa, 2/4: Marianne, 3/4: Leigh.
A huge thanks to
shay_renoylds and
kazminka for beta!
Andie
A couple of months after they left St. Augustine, a banshee threw Sam out from a first floor window, and he broke his wrist for the third time in his life. He didn't even register the fall, only the snap of the weak bone breaking as he rolled into it, right arm first. He was sitting up and assessing the damage by the time Dean reached him, and he was already more annoyed than he was really in pain when Dean drove him to the hospital.
At first he was grateful that Dean didn't throw him the "on your feet soldier" routine, like he'd sometimes done in the past. He didn't realize that Dean was freaking out until the nurse was casting his hand, complaining about an old injury on such a young guy, and he saw that Dean was standing pressed up in a corner of the room, looking pale and stony.
After he got discharged, Dean got them a room for four days, paying in advance. He spent the first two days hovering over Sam, standing somewhere close to his bed every time Sam woke up from his 48-hour catch-up of sleep, until Sam snapped and made him leave.
He brought home Andie on the third day.
Sam was in the bathroom unwrapping the cast after a shower when he heard the door slam shut. He heard the clink of the room keys hitting the bedside table and had already gone back to peeling tape off his skin when he heard Dean talking; an indistinguishable rumble on the other side of the door, a female voice answering.
Sam hurriedly pulled on his boxers and a shirt, expecting a case.
When he opened the door Andie turned around, startled, and pulled from Dean’s embrace. Her Stop 'n Save uniform was unbuttoned down to the edge of her black lace bra. Her lips looked bruised from kissing.
“Andie, this is Sam,”
Dean placed his hands on her hips, stepping up behind her. His eyes were glazed; from beer or pot, Sam couldn’t guess.
“What?”
Her voice was shrill. Sam shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, hating Dean a little bit. Whatever Dean had drunk or smoked, he’d shared it with her. It took a long moment for her expression to change from surprise to outrage.
“Wait, no... No, I did not sign up for this!”
She shook out of Dean’s grip, throwing her hands up.
“No way.”
She had her shirt buttoned and was half out the door before Dean was reaching out for her, “Wait, Andie...”
“Screw you, you perv!”
And she was gone.
“Uh. Awkward.”
Dean scratched his neck, looking at the carpet.
He looked starved and shameful, tired; like a ditched dog. Sam realized that his brother was being an idiot - that Dean just needed an excuse to put his hands on him, make sure he was alright.
He stepped into the embrace, ready to be pushed away or laughed at.
It never used to be like this. When they were kids they would be bunched together in the sofa, drinking stolen beer and watching Baywatch when their Dad was away. When Sam was a teenager Dean would hold him still when he got angry, or let Sam sleep propped up against him on the backseat of the Impala.
Sam hadn't consciously considered the how or why or when of him and Dean not hugging anymore. Of when both of them had taken a big step way the hell back, keeping body contact to sparring or one of them being hurt; or manly pats on the shoulder.
He realized why when both of them hesitated in the touch, leaning closer instead of moving apart, pressing up against each other. Dean was large and still against him. Nothing had been done yet that couldn't be explained away or ignored.
Then Sam pressed his face into the spicy scent of pot smoke, the cheap smell of bar soap, and there was no going back. There was nothing of Andie left there at all. He hesitated before moving his hand from Dean’s shoulder into the short hair at the nape of his neck, touching the tendons standing out below the edge of his skull.
Dean tensed up against him. He was mouthing words against Sam's neck. His hand was wrapped around the cast on Sam's wrist, two of his fingers slipping under the edge of it, scraping against the over-sensitive skin beneath. Someone in the room next door turned off a radio or a TV, and in the silence Sam could hear how his breathing had quickened.
Dean’s jacket was cold, raising goose bumps on Sam’s shower-damp skin. He slid it down over Dean’s shoulders, caught it falling and placed it on the bed beside them. Dean lifted his arms when Sam pulled up his t-shirt, and twisted his shoulders out of it, putting it next to the coat.
When Sam reached to unbutton the fly of Dean's pants he could feel Dean's hips jerk back, like a reflex. He moved his hand to Dean's shoulder, to calm him or to hold him fast, he didn't know which.
”Is this okay?"
"Dude!"
Dean breathed it out, low and exasperated - and, yeah, Sam got his point: there wasn't a chance in hell that this could be ok. But there was a difference between wanting this and doing this, and Sam knew that his brother would do anything for him, no matter what Dean wanted for himself. He had known that since the days Dean would sit outside with him for hours in the freezing cold, just so Sam could avoid being in a motel room with their Dad.
They stood there, frozen, and in the end it was Dean who finally leaned into the kiss. His lips were soft and warm and hesitant, his cool, dry fingers reached under Sam's t-shirt to the mesh of hot bruises down his left side.
Sam knew Dean to be loud, sweet-talking and self-assured, when he was flirting. The silence now felt weird, too intense. Every sound seemed loud and obscene in the dead quiet.
Dean's kisses turned rough and slick, he was licking into Sam's mouth, nibbling at his jaw. He moved restlessly, big firm hands groping Sam, thumbing his nipples. Sam was sober and a little numb with controlled freak-out. It took him a couple of minutes to wake up to it, to taste the tobacco and burn of Mexican food on Dean's tongue, to feel each of Dean's fingertips pressing into his muscles, the dry touch of Dean's nipples through the fabric of his t-shirt.
To feel the hot pulse of adrenaline and want coursing through his body.
He had wanted Dean for so long. It was an ache he had learned to live with, pushed down to the barely acknowledged, alongside the fact that his love for his brother had broken the confinements of fraternity a long time ago, seeping out in all directions.
He hoped that their parents weren't someplace where they could see them like this, pushed to a point where it almost seemed like a sane thing to do; all of the arguments against it watered out, except wrong, wrong, wrong, flashing like a faint alarm light at the back of his mind, too easy to ignore.
Sam broke away to shrug off his shirt, then leaned back in to place a hand over Dean's erection, rubbing slightly across denim and buttons before sliding his hand down the front of his jeans until he had the slick head of Dean's cock sliding over the base of his palm.
His stomach lurched at the touch, churning with want and fear.
Dean fell forward into an uncoordinated kiss, mouth open and breathing harshly. His hands came up to each side of Sam's head, fisting in his hair. Sam had never seen him so out of it. It made his own cock twinge, hard and low, his pulse beating heavily through his legs, his stomach, and his hand moving on his brother's cock.
He jerked Dean off still standing. His brother started and shivered against him, gasping, choking down sounds to maintain the silence. Sam wrapped his other arm around his back to support him as he came.
"Fuck."
Dean's head was against his collarbone, one hand in his hair, one clinging to his shoulder. Sam slid his hand out of Dean's pants to cup himself, close to coming just from seeing Dean like that, knowing that he had brought him there.
He nearly did come at the first touch of Dean's hand, brushing his own away to grip him with uncertainty, fingers feeling out the size and shape of him before pulling away again.
"Lie down."
Dean's voice sounded rough and alien, and Sam was on the bed before his brain had even processed what he had said, sprawling ungracefully with his feet on the carpet, his arms over his head.
Lying there, he suddenly felt self-conscious. His dick was tenting out his boxers and Dean was standing over him. Dean still had his jeans on, with only the two top buttons undone. He was looking down on Sam with eyes that were dark and unreadable, almost demon-like.
Then he went down on his knees on the carpet between Sam's legs.
"Sam."
Sam couldn't speak, his throat was thick with tense emotion.
Dean ran his hand from the base of Sam's throat to his stomach, a quick awkward caress, before pulling down his boxers. Sam looked down his own body, past his straining, aching cock, to Dean watching his body like it scared him a little. Then Dean caught his eyes and licked his palm before reaching out again, and Sam had to close his eyes.
It didn't take much, a couple of rough tugs, the slick of precome and spit only just enough to push it to the right side of painful, and Sam was coming harder than he ever had in his life, groaning and bucking up against the press of Dean's arms on his thighs as he gentled him through it.
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was on the bed next to him, staring up at the ceiling.
"If we're doing this again, we're getting naked."
Dean's voice was all false bravado, but Sam laughed loud and surprised, anyway. Maybe there was a tinge of hysteria to it, but he was so goddamn grateful to Dean for breaking the tension, it felt like that alarm light was finally flashing off.
Dean turned his head to look at him, one corner of his mouth turned up, but when Sam's laugh died out his expression changed, turning pinched and serious.
"Sammy, I don't... I didn't want to fuck you up."
Sam didn't even know how to begin to respond to that. He turned his head away. The ceiling had a long crack that started in one corner and spread out like a spider web above them.
"Look, Dean, I've been fucked up for a long time. I think I've been fucked up ever since Clarissa." he said finally, honestly.
"What, who's Clarissa?"
Dean was half smiling, not getting it, but he was reaching out for Sam, relaxing. Sam rolled into the touch.
"Never mind, it's not important."