Fic: Fighting the Senses SPN Dean/Sam
Well, there you have it. Wincest. Who'd have thought? *winks*
I wrote this in one shot today which is usually the best way to write. Pauses cause problems and all that. Anyway, it's my first SPN fic so be gentle. And sorry about the crappy title. I really suck at those.
Title: Fighting the Senses
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Well, the pairing says it all really. And there's angst (duh)
Author's note: Takes place sometime during S1. Thanks to the lovely killerweasel for betaing and to fugitivehound for catching the rest. Commas are evil! lol
The thing is... The thing is, he doesn't notice it until it's too late. Stupid, but there you have it. You'd think a thing like that would hit you like a tight fist in the gut, that the realisation would make you stagger back in shock, shake you and drop you to your knees with the shame.
If it had, maybe he'd have been able to kill it right there and then. He's spent his life fighting every kind of demon you can imagine and still he let this one, the most dangerous one of all, sneak up and devour him like he's some goddamn rookie. It's fucking stupid, it's terrifying, and if he's ever been ready to die in a fight, it would be right here, because hell if he deserves to survive this.
But no, it doesn't happen like that. It's not an attack, it's more of a slow infection, soaking into his skin, bones, and his heart before it finally reaches his brain, but by then it's too damn late. God, I never ever meant for this to happen, I swear, he thinks as he buries his face in his pillow in a futile attempt to hide from this nightmare his life has become. But it's everywhere, surrounding him like air and there's no getting away from it, not in his dreams, not with daylight or incantations or a whole mountain of rock salt.
For one thing, it's the smell. You can't get away from smell, you know? It lingers in the air, seeps into your clothes and hair, sticking in your freaking nostrils like some unrelenting cold from Hell. Except it's warm and comforting, and has every memory he's ever needed, right there.
And how can it be that Sam smells so much different from him, even if they share soap, shampoo, and fucking deodorant? Sam even washes their clothes with the same detergent, using some fresh smelling fabric softener like a damn girl, and doesn't even care when Dean busts his balls about it. Just laughs and rubs Dean's face with one of his t-shirts and a 'Come on, you love it. Admit it.' And Dean growls, throwing the t-shirt back at Sam, trying not to join in when the fucker throws his head back and laughs like it's the funniest thing ever.
So you see, they should smell the same, and he shouldn't even notice it, Sam's scent, because it should just blend in with his own. But it doesn't. It's so much better, sweeter, that it makes him want to bury his face in Sam's chest and inhale until he passes out. Like sunshine, smiles, and the sweet smell of a puppy's tummy.
Which is why sometimes Dean borrows something of Sam's, mostly t-shirts, since everything else makes him feel like a damn midget, and feigns surprised annoyance when Sam calls him on it. ‘Mine, yours, what does it matter?’ he snorts and flips him a finger before returning to pretend-watch whatever's on TV. Although what he's really doing is enjoying the pissed off look on Sam's face as he stalks over to snatch something out of Dean's bag and pull it on with a glare of defiance. He has to fight not to laugh out loud at the large hands sticking too far out of the cuffs and Sam's chest filling out every inch to the point of bursting.
Instead, Dean ignores him and just rolls his eyes. He doesn't even comment when Sam deliberately drips beer or ice cream or whatever dinner is that night down the front. At some point Sam will give up on the constricting clothing and discard it, now with his own sweet scent stuck to it like glue, and just like that? Dean's won after all.
And if that wasn't enough, there's the fact that touching Sam... well, it feels a bit like Heaven. Somehow, Sam's skin is always a few degrees warmer than his own. He can feel the heat radiating from Sam's body like sunshine when he's dragging Dean half-unconscious through the woods, wrestling him playfully to the ground, or digging his fingers into Dean's arms and back as he battles another nightmare. So warm, so hot, like the blood is boiling in his veins where Dean's own feels cold and lifeless.
And the skin is so soft, so incredibly smooth, like he's still new and unweathered by life and age. It feels like silk under Dean's fingertips, which are calloused, old, and stained with more blood than he cares to remember. Sometimes he can't help the trembling in his hands as he patches up the scrapes and cuts that threaten to blemish Sam's skin. He hates every scar on that otherwise perfect body, not because they make Sam less perfect, but because he can remember the pain and fear behind every one of them.
More than anything, those make him doubt if what they do is really worth it. What if one day the cuts go too deep? What if...? His hands shake and Sam says 'It's okay, I'm okay' even if he's sweating and shaking just as much himself, and Dean growls at him to 'Hold still' and 'I know' and 'That was fucking stupid what you did back there'.
That’s why thinking about how his teeth marks would look imprinted in the skin just above Sam's collarbone should have been enough to clue him in.
Instead, it's not Sam's scent or touch that finally makes Dean realise what's happening. They've been the only constant comfort in his life as long, as he can remember, and the change happens so gradually, so treacherously slowly, that he might not have noticed at all. Except...
Except then there's the day that he realises he's not watching Sam just to make sure he's healing, or that he's still fast and smooth after four years of college, or that he isn't being way too casual to be up to anything good, the sneaky bastard. The day that he realises he's not just checking Sam out for bruises or cuts, but that he's... checking him out. Watching the muscles ripple across Sam's back as he rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders. Watching the way Sam's far too long and shaggy hair falls into his eyes as he sits hunched over dad's notebook, and how his ridiculously long fingers try futilely to brush it back. The grief he tries to hide behind cheerful eyes, the frustration evident as he worries his lip between too white teeth. The wicked smile, the tired frown, his long legs, his broad chest, his freakishly large feet. The twitch of his cock in his jeans as a particularly cute girl walks by.
And Dean's stomach twists and turns as he realises that Sam's scent has gone from comforting to tantalising, that his touch has changed from warm to scorching hot.
Still, he doesn't quite get it, doesn't quite fathom what it all means. Instead it takes a few days to sink in. He spends the nights staring into the dark, trying to piece it together, so confused he sometimes thinks he's going insane. He's quiet and distracted during rides and fights and Sam's shoots him these looks that seem to say 'What the hell crawled up your ass?' and 'Talk to me, Dean. You're scaring the shit out of me.' And Dean wants to tell him he's scaring the shit out of himself and he doesn't even know why. But then he does and it's so much worse.
Because the thing is... The thing is that once you know, there's no way of unknowing. No way of switching it off, no way he can even look at Sam without that pain in his belly. A pain that tells him that the only thing he wants more than for these feelings to go away is for Sam to turn to him and tell him it's okay, he feels them too. He's sweating, but still he feels cold, his thoughts switching between wantneedgottohave and ohpleasegodtakeitaway, and he feels like every nerve in his body is on fire.
After yet another near miss with a trailer Sam tells him to 'Pull the fuck over, Dean' and 'What the hell is wrong with you? If you're so tired you should be smart enough to let me drive, you moron.' He just nods and gets out of the car, flinching violently when Sam brushes his shoulder as they meet halfway. Sam jerks to a stop and swings around, grabbing Dean by the arm and there's just no way of twisting out of those giant hands so he doesn't even try, just turns around and...
God, Sam's scent is assaulting his nostrils, and Sam's warm hand is moving up to rub his neck, and Sam's eyes are looking at him filled with concern and worry and... Dean has never in his life wanted to die as much as he wants right this moment.
“Dean? What's wrong? Dean? Shit, man.”
He doesn't answer, just clutches Sam's sweet smelling t-shirt in his fists, buries his face in the soft skin of his neck, and breathes in-out, in-out, his head swimming and his whole body trembling.
“You're scaring me. Talk to me, Dean. Are you hurt? Are you-”
“I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Sam.”
“What are you talk-?”
Something he's never known until now is that the only thing sweeter than Sam's scent is the way he tastes. Like granola bars and beer and chewing gum and something Dean can't quite pin down, but it tastes like Hell and Heaven in one forbidden package. Sam's lips are soft and warm, his teeth sharp and slippery, and his tongue feels so soft and wet as it pushes into...
Dean pulls away, gasping, his eyes wide like saucers as he stares at Sam. Sam, who is staring back with eyes so dark and lips deliciously bruised and something, something that Dean knows he's imagining, because never in a million years would his brother...
“I thought you'd never get it. You're so slow sometimes, you know?”
The thing is... The thing is, that of all the things about Sam- his scent, his touch, his looks and, oh God, his taste- Dean suddenly realises that he loves the sound of his voice most of all.
fin
I wrote this in one shot today which is usually the best way to write. Pauses cause problems and all that. Anyway, it's my first SPN fic so be gentle. And sorry about the crappy title. I really suck at those.
Title: Fighting the Senses
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Well, the pairing says it all really. And there's angst (duh)
Author's note: Takes place sometime during S1. Thanks to the lovely killerweasel for betaing and to fugitivehound for catching the rest. Commas are evil! lol
The thing is... The thing is, he doesn't notice it until it's too late. Stupid, but there you have it. You'd think a thing like that would hit you like a tight fist in the gut, that the realisation would make you stagger back in shock, shake you and drop you to your knees with the shame.
If it had, maybe he'd have been able to kill it right there and then. He's spent his life fighting every kind of demon you can imagine and still he let this one, the most dangerous one of all, sneak up and devour him like he's some goddamn rookie. It's fucking stupid, it's terrifying, and if he's ever been ready to die in a fight, it would be right here, because hell if he deserves to survive this.
But no, it doesn't happen like that. It's not an attack, it's more of a slow infection, soaking into his skin, bones, and his heart before it finally reaches his brain, but by then it's too damn late. God, I never ever meant for this to happen, I swear, he thinks as he buries his face in his pillow in a futile attempt to hide from this nightmare his life has become. But it's everywhere, surrounding him like air and there's no getting away from it, not in his dreams, not with daylight or incantations or a whole mountain of rock salt.
For one thing, it's the smell. You can't get away from smell, you know? It lingers in the air, seeps into your clothes and hair, sticking in your freaking nostrils like some unrelenting cold from Hell. Except it's warm and comforting, and has every memory he's ever needed, right there.
And how can it be that Sam smells so much different from him, even if they share soap, shampoo, and fucking deodorant? Sam even washes their clothes with the same detergent, using some fresh smelling fabric softener like a damn girl, and doesn't even care when Dean busts his balls about it. Just laughs and rubs Dean's face with one of his t-shirts and a 'Come on, you love it. Admit it.' And Dean growls, throwing the t-shirt back at Sam, trying not to join in when the fucker throws his head back and laughs like it's the funniest thing ever.
So you see, they should smell the same, and he shouldn't even notice it, Sam's scent, because it should just blend in with his own. But it doesn't. It's so much better, sweeter, that it makes him want to bury his face in Sam's chest and inhale until he passes out. Like sunshine, smiles, and the sweet smell of a puppy's tummy.
Which is why sometimes Dean borrows something of Sam's, mostly t-shirts, since everything else makes him feel like a damn midget, and feigns surprised annoyance when Sam calls him on it. ‘Mine, yours, what does it matter?’ he snorts and flips him a finger before returning to pretend-watch whatever's on TV. Although what he's really doing is enjoying the pissed off look on Sam's face as he stalks over to snatch something out of Dean's bag and pull it on with a glare of defiance. He has to fight not to laugh out loud at the large hands sticking too far out of the cuffs and Sam's chest filling out every inch to the point of bursting.
Instead, Dean ignores him and just rolls his eyes. He doesn't even comment when Sam deliberately drips beer or ice cream or whatever dinner is that night down the front. At some point Sam will give up on the constricting clothing and discard it, now with his own sweet scent stuck to it like glue, and just like that? Dean's won after all.
And if that wasn't enough, there's the fact that touching Sam... well, it feels a bit like Heaven. Somehow, Sam's skin is always a few degrees warmer than his own. He can feel the heat radiating from Sam's body like sunshine when he's dragging Dean half-unconscious through the woods, wrestling him playfully to the ground, or digging his fingers into Dean's arms and back as he battles another nightmare. So warm, so hot, like the blood is boiling in his veins where Dean's own feels cold and lifeless.
And the skin is so soft, so incredibly smooth, like he's still new and unweathered by life and age. It feels like silk under Dean's fingertips, which are calloused, old, and stained with more blood than he cares to remember. Sometimes he can't help the trembling in his hands as he patches up the scrapes and cuts that threaten to blemish Sam's skin. He hates every scar on that otherwise perfect body, not because they make Sam less perfect, but because he can remember the pain and fear behind every one of them.
More than anything, those make him doubt if what they do is really worth it. What if one day the cuts go too deep? What if...? His hands shake and Sam says 'It's okay, I'm okay' even if he's sweating and shaking just as much himself, and Dean growls at him to 'Hold still' and 'I know' and 'That was fucking stupid what you did back there'.
That’s why thinking about how his teeth marks would look imprinted in the skin just above Sam's collarbone should have been enough to clue him in.
Instead, it's not Sam's scent or touch that finally makes Dean realise what's happening. They've been the only constant comfort in his life as long, as he can remember, and the change happens so gradually, so treacherously slowly, that he might not have noticed at all. Except...
Except then there's the day that he realises he's not watching Sam just to make sure he's healing, or that he's still fast and smooth after four years of college, or that he isn't being way too casual to be up to anything good, the sneaky bastard. The day that he realises he's not just checking Sam out for bruises or cuts, but that he's... checking him out. Watching the muscles ripple across Sam's back as he rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders. Watching the way Sam's far too long and shaggy hair falls into his eyes as he sits hunched over dad's notebook, and how his ridiculously long fingers try futilely to brush it back. The grief he tries to hide behind cheerful eyes, the frustration evident as he worries his lip between too white teeth. The wicked smile, the tired frown, his long legs, his broad chest, his freakishly large feet. The twitch of his cock in his jeans as a particularly cute girl walks by.
And Dean's stomach twists and turns as he realises that Sam's scent has gone from comforting to tantalising, that his touch has changed from warm to scorching hot.
Still, he doesn't quite get it, doesn't quite fathom what it all means. Instead it takes a few days to sink in. He spends the nights staring into the dark, trying to piece it together, so confused he sometimes thinks he's going insane. He's quiet and distracted during rides and fights and Sam's shoots him these looks that seem to say 'What the hell crawled up your ass?' and 'Talk to me, Dean. You're scaring the shit out of me.' And Dean wants to tell him he's scaring the shit out of himself and he doesn't even know why. But then he does and it's so much worse.
Because the thing is... The thing is that once you know, there's no way of unknowing. No way of switching it off, no way he can even look at Sam without that pain in his belly. A pain that tells him that the only thing he wants more than for these feelings to go away is for Sam to turn to him and tell him it's okay, he feels them too. He's sweating, but still he feels cold, his thoughts switching between wantneedgottohave and ohpleasegodtakeitaway, and he feels like every nerve in his body is on fire.
After yet another near miss with a trailer Sam tells him to 'Pull the fuck over, Dean' and 'What the hell is wrong with you? If you're so tired you should be smart enough to let me drive, you moron.' He just nods and gets out of the car, flinching violently when Sam brushes his shoulder as they meet halfway. Sam jerks to a stop and swings around, grabbing Dean by the arm and there's just no way of twisting out of those giant hands so he doesn't even try, just turns around and...
God, Sam's scent is assaulting his nostrils, and Sam's warm hand is moving up to rub his neck, and Sam's eyes are looking at him filled with concern and worry and... Dean has never in his life wanted to die as much as he wants right this moment.
“Dean? What's wrong? Dean? Shit, man.”
He doesn't answer, just clutches Sam's sweet smelling t-shirt in his fists, buries his face in the soft skin of his neck, and breathes in-out, in-out, his head swimming and his whole body trembling.
“You're scaring me. Talk to me, Dean. Are you hurt? Are you-”
“I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Sam.”
“What are you talk-?”
Something he's never known until now is that the only thing sweeter than Sam's scent is the way he tastes. Like granola bars and beer and chewing gum and something Dean can't quite pin down, but it tastes like Hell and Heaven in one forbidden package. Sam's lips are soft and warm, his teeth sharp and slippery, and his tongue feels so soft and wet as it pushes into...
Dean pulls away, gasping, his eyes wide like saucers as he stares at Sam. Sam, who is staring back with eyes so dark and lips deliciously bruised and something, something that Dean knows he's imagining, because never in a million years would his brother...
“I thought you'd never get it. You're so slow sometimes, you know?”
The thing is... The thing is, that of all the things about Sam- his scent, his touch, his looks and, oh God, his taste- Dean suddenly realises that he loves the sound of his voice most of all.
fin