Everything They Do
Everything They Do
It’s always been hot or cold with them. Nothing in between. When life is good they keep their nose to the grindstone and take the jobs, kill the monsters, and take care of one another. There’s nothing but brothers on the road,
When everything is going to shit it’s all fast and hard and there’s not enough air to breathe because everything smells and tastes and feels like sulphur, like they’re one scream away from hell. Its twisted sheets and biting teeth and bruises that take days to disappear and weeks to heal.
When everything is great between them, when the hunts seem to be few and far between, then it’s slow and soft and ‘God Sammy’ and ‘Dean, please’ and hours upon hours of sweet slow torture.
The only time it’s different, the only time they deviate from that pattern is when one of them is dead. Or dying. Or just unleashed hell apparently, because as soon as they get far enough away from Lucifer, Dean stops at a motel and they barely get the door closed when he’s pushing Sam against it, lips bruising and hands pulling at clothes like it hurts not to be touching Sam.
“Damn it Sammy…” Dean says as he undoes buttons and pulls at his shirt. “come on baby.” He says softer, his voice taking away the sting of nails scratching down his chest.
“Yeah… come on Dean... yeah…” He’s answering back, working his belt off and kicking his shoes off. Dean’s shoes are with his in a pile on the floor and it means something to Sam, but then it can’t because it’s all about this and he needs Dean’s shirt off too so he’s working at that, pushing and pulling until they’re naked on the bed.
Dean works into him fast and frantic but as soon as he pushes inside he stops, his lips turn to cool kisses as if it were enough. They’re alive, they’re together and all the words they can’t say tumble into hands because they can do this, they can be this and somehow if they never say the words then it’s alright.
Dean kissed him slow and steady and his hands pull at Sam’s, fingers twined together as they slowly rock into one another. It takes them hours to stop, hours of slow rocking and fast coupling and more heated kisses that start it all up again.
When Dean finally rolls onto his back for the last time, Sam curls up against him, one hand under his head and the other trailing over Dean’s tattoo.
They look at one another for a long time and neither say it, but they don’t need to. Love isn’t a word Winchester men say. It’s not one they need to hear either. Love is action, shown every day in every way. It’s in everything they do.