Supernatural: What's in a Name?
Title: What's in a Name?
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for sexual content, violence, major character death (neither of the boys)
Word Count: 1,500
Author’s Note: Honestly? I started this in the airport on my way home after Wincon 2011, inspired by a conversation I had with some fangirls after we watched a video that cut together all the times Sam and Dean said each other's names in the first two seasons and how many different things they managed to get across just like that. I quickly abandoned it after realizing there wasn't really a whole lot I could do with it, as sweet as the idea is, and it's been sitting on my hard drive since then. I slapped an ending on it because I promised myself I would post at least one fic in every month of 2015, and I devoted the entire month of April to spn_meanttobe and spn_j2_bigbang, neither of which can post before May begins. This was the fastest thing I could get finished and posted in time to say, "Hey, look, I posted something in April." It's honestly not very good, but it's one less thing sitting in my WIP folder, so there.
Summary: Five times all they needed was each other's names.
"Dean," Sam says, head nodding in the direction of the bathroom.
The clock on the nightstand between their beds reads 3:27 a.m. When they left, it was just after nine and in the six hours since then, very little has been accomplished. They've killed one ghost, saved no one, and run into a wall. Sam is soaked to the skin from rainwater; Dean's hair is caked to his forehead by blood. They both smell like sweat and grave dirt, and they're shivering.
The hunt, while not entirely fucked, has been full of unpleasant surprises. The vengeful spirit they came for is dead, but that's only half the battle. Now the ghost's first victim is up and about and causing trouble.
They didn't anticipate that one, so they did no research into where the body was buried. There's no chance in hell of knocking it out tonight, which means there's no hope of being two towns over and meeting up with Bobby by tomorrow. This was supposed to be a quick job, but they're both too tired to get worked up about it. They need showers and they need sleep.
Dean shakes the filthy water off as he shuts the motel door behind him, earning an annoyed, "Dean!" from his brother. Sam points to the bathroom again with one hand, kicking his muddy shoes off by the door, like he needs to make a point of how much of a mess he isn't making.
"Sam," Dean replies, shrugging off his jacket but making no move to take first shower. Sam must be freezing from how long he was standing in the storm. He's the one that needs whatever hot water a flea bag motel like this can muster.
Sam grabs Dean by the arm and pushes him forward. "Dean," he says again and points to the cut on Dean's forehead. Dean follows the motion, reaching up to touch it on instinct, and lets out a sigh. Sam makes one more bitchy face and Dean stomps away, obeying the order.
Sam is already out cold on the bed closest to the bathroom when Dean gets out of the shower. He stands in the doorway watching for a few moments, a smile on his lips. Sam smells terrible and god knows that bed's going to be filthy in the morning, but at least he found a way to get warm.
Dean turns off the light and slips under the sheets next to him.
_______________________________________________________________
He closes his eyes, his breath leaving him slowly. "Sam."
Sam doesn't say anything, which is understandable, because he's got his mouth pretty fucking full of Dean's cock right now. Dean rocks up into him, into that sweet heat and lets Sam work his magic. He whispers his brother's name again one more time before he reaches back to grip the headboard and feels his body beginning to rock as he comes.
Sam swallows him like it's easy, the way he always does, and then comes up for a kiss. Eyes shut, Dean opens his mouth to lick into Sam's and tastes himself on his brother's tongue. God, it's fucked up how much that still thrills him.
"Sam," Dean murmurs. And then, because it's as good as 'goodnight,' "Sammy."
Sam reaches past Dean to pull the string on the lamp by the bed and kisses him as he settles down into Dean's arms.
_______________________________________________________________
"Dean," Sam says, his voice on alert, his hand finding Dean's thigh and squeezing it.
He looks up just in time to see the diner and turn off into the parking lot. Dean's grinning on reflex. He's been starving for the last three hours; apparently they both have.
"Sammy!" he says excitedly, ruffling his brother's hair.
It's supposed to be a compliment on a job well done, but his brother's an ungrateful brat, so instead Sam bats his hand away and makes what Dean has secretly dubbed bitchface #7 (not as endearing as #6, but with far less genuine hostility than #8).
"Dean," he grumbles, and Dean just laughs at him as they make their way across the parking lot and up to the diner door, hands and thighs bumping as they both shove their way through it in unison.
Once they're seated, Dean taps his brother's menu and points a thumb over his shoulder toward the bathrooms. Sam gives him a dismissive smile and goes back to browsing the menu like he's not paying attention, but by the time Dean gets back, there's just the right bottle of beer sitting on the table waiting for him, and Sam's already given the waitress his order.
_______________________________________________________________
"If you kill me," the witch says, an almost pornographic look of self-satisfaction in her eyes, "I won't remove the curse I put on you! You'll never be able to lift it!"
Dean keeps his gun trained on the bitch even as he turns to look at his brother. "Sammy?"
Sam shrugs, as puzzled as he is. They're not cursed. They'd probably have noticed if they were cursed.
He looks back to the witch, shaking his head, and her entire smug demeanor falls apart in a moment. She looks very disappointed that her stupid curse got messed up, but probably less than she will once Dean plants a bullet between her eyes.
"Seriously?" she asks. "You haven't noticed anything off?"
Dean stops to try and think, and Sam gives an impatient huff. "Dean!"
Right, Dean should focus, Sam gets to be right this one time. He looks back to the witch, who is now staring between them looking bamboozled.
"It's been three days," she tells him. "You haven't realized that you can't say anything except each other's names?"
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Actually, now that she mentions it…
Sam tests it out. "Dean?"
He turns to look at his brother, and Sam shrugs. It clearly hasn't caused any problems.
"Sam," Dean says agreeably, and then he blows the wicked witch away, outstanding curse be damned.
_______________________________________________________________
His whole body is shaking now, eyes black, the high of holding the First Blade thrumming through him. Sam's hand is on his wrist, trying to force him back, but he won't be able to hold out much longer.
Dean is powerful now, and if there's nothing else he remembers of humanity, he'll always know the exact limits of his brother's strength. Spent so many lifetimes agonizing over it: making sure no one ever surpassed it, hiding the weak points. Now he'll use it to his advantage. One good push down on Sammy's throat and he'll be free of all that worrying. Free of everything except the mark and the perfect bliss of feeding it.
Killing Sam will feel better than anything ever has, better even than fucking him. Cas and Crowley are a pile in the next room over now. There won't be anyone sneaking up behind him to ruin it for him this time.
"Dean," Sam whispers through what little oxygen he can get with the handle of Dean's blade at his throat. A tear runs off the side of his face, but he doesn't even blink, just keeps his eyes on Dean's. "Dean."
It was his first word, and it'll be his last. Dean laughs. He could go for some begging, but he knows it's hurting Sam more than anything to have to look at him, to have to say his name, and to know it won't save him.
"Sam," Dean teases, pressing down even more on Sam's windpipe. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam replies, his voice hardly more than a whisper now. He stops struggling. That was his last breath, probably. He's weakened now, and it would be easy for Dean to pull back just enough to plunge back down, drive the point through.
When he lifts his arm, though, he doesn't fall on Sam. Sam's hands come up to grasp his throat as he coughs and tries to take in oxygen. His neck is an angry shade of red, but he doesn't stop for a second. This isn't one of the times they're cursed by some witch or object, but still Sam speaks as if he never learned another word. Just keeps whispering Dean's name, over and over, like he wants to make sure he's saying it when Dean cuts him open.
He pauses, "Sammy" on the tip of his tongue, but he can't make himself. He's tried a thousand times to cheapen the word, and still it's too clean to wrap his forked tongue around.
"Dean," Sam says again, reaching up to touch him, so trusting that Dean won't do it.
It was his first word, it'll be his last. Maybe. Not now. Not like this. One more inch, and Dean won't ever hear Sam say his name again.
The blade slips from Dean's bloody fist and clatters on the floor, and he feels his eyes filter back to green. "Sam," he whispers.
Sam takes him in his arms and welcomes him home. "Dean."
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for sexual content, violence, major character death (neither of the boys)
Word Count: 1,500
Author’s Note: Honestly? I started this in the airport on my way home after Wincon 2011, inspired by a conversation I had with some fangirls after we watched a video that cut together all the times Sam and Dean said each other's names in the first two seasons and how many different things they managed to get across just like that. I quickly abandoned it after realizing there wasn't really a whole lot I could do with it, as sweet as the idea is, and it's been sitting on my hard drive since then. I slapped an ending on it because I promised myself I would post at least one fic in every month of 2015, and I devoted the entire month of April to spn_meanttobe and spn_j2_bigbang, neither of which can post before May begins. This was the fastest thing I could get finished and posted in time to say, "Hey, look, I posted something in April." It's honestly not very good, but it's one less thing sitting in my WIP folder, so there.
Summary: Five times all they needed was each other's names.
"Dean," Sam says, head nodding in the direction of the bathroom.
The clock on the nightstand between their beds reads 3:27 a.m. When they left, it was just after nine and in the six hours since then, very little has been accomplished. They've killed one ghost, saved no one, and run into a wall. Sam is soaked to the skin from rainwater; Dean's hair is caked to his forehead by blood. They both smell like sweat and grave dirt, and they're shivering.
The hunt, while not entirely fucked, has been full of unpleasant surprises. The vengeful spirit they came for is dead, but that's only half the battle. Now the ghost's first victim is up and about and causing trouble.
They didn't anticipate that one, so they did no research into where the body was buried. There's no chance in hell of knocking it out tonight, which means there's no hope of being two towns over and meeting up with Bobby by tomorrow. This was supposed to be a quick job, but they're both too tired to get worked up about it. They need showers and they need sleep.
Dean shakes the filthy water off as he shuts the motel door behind him, earning an annoyed, "Dean!" from his brother. Sam points to the bathroom again with one hand, kicking his muddy shoes off by the door, like he needs to make a point of how much of a mess he isn't making.
"Sam," Dean replies, shrugging off his jacket but making no move to take first shower. Sam must be freezing from how long he was standing in the storm. He's the one that needs whatever hot water a flea bag motel like this can muster.
Sam grabs Dean by the arm and pushes him forward. "Dean," he says again and points to the cut on Dean's forehead. Dean follows the motion, reaching up to touch it on instinct, and lets out a sigh. Sam makes one more bitchy face and Dean stomps away, obeying the order.
Sam is already out cold on the bed closest to the bathroom when Dean gets out of the shower. He stands in the doorway watching for a few moments, a smile on his lips. Sam smells terrible and god knows that bed's going to be filthy in the morning, but at least he found a way to get warm.
Dean turns off the light and slips under the sheets next to him.
_______________________________________________________________
He closes his eyes, his breath leaving him slowly. "Sam."
Sam doesn't say anything, which is understandable, because he's got his mouth pretty fucking full of Dean's cock right now. Dean rocks up into him, into that sweet heat and lets Sam work his magic. He whispers his brother's name again one more time before he reaches back to grip the headboard and feels his body beginning to rock as he comes.
Sam swallows him like it's easy, the way he always does, and then comes up for a kiss. Eyes shut, Dean opens his mouth to lick into Sam's and tastes himself on his brother's tongue. God, it's fucked up how much that still thrills him.
"Sam," Dean murmurs. And then, because it's as good as 'goodnight,' "Sammy."
Sam reaches past Dean to pull the string on the lamp by the bed and kisses him as he settles down into Dean's arms.
_______________________________________________________________
"Dean," Sam says, his voice on alert, his hand finding Dean's thigh and squeezing it.
He looks up just in time to see the diner and turn off into the parking lot. Dean's grinning on reflex. He's been starving for the last three hours; apparently they both have.
"Sammy!" he says excitedly, ruffling his brother's hair.
It's supposed to be a compliment on a job well done, but his brother's an ungrateful brat, so instead Sam bats his hand away and makes what Dean has secretly dubbed bitchface #7 (not as endearing as #6, but with far less genuine hostility than #8).
"Dean," he grumbles, and Dean just laughs at him as they make their way across the parking lot and up to the diner door, hands and thighs bumping as they both shove their way through it in unison.
Once they're seated, Dean taps his brother's menu and points a thumb over his shoulder toward the bathrooms. Sam gives him a dismissive smile and goes back to browsing the menu like he's not paying attention, but by the time Dean gets back, there's just the right bottle of beer sitting on the table waiting for him, and Sam's already given the waitress his order.
_______________________________________________________________
"If you kill me," the witch says, an almost pornographic look of self-satisfaction in her eyes, "I won't remove the curse I put on you! You'll never be able to lift it!"
Dean keeps his gun trained on the bitch even as he turns to look at his brother. "Sammy?"
Sam shrugs, as puzzled as he is. They're not cursed. They'd probably have noticed if they were cursed.
He looks back to the witch, shaking his head, and her entire smug demeanor falls apart in a moment. She looks very disappointed that her stupid curse got messed up, but probably less than she will once Dean plants a bullet between her eyes.
"Seriously?" she asks. "You haven't noticed anything off?"
Dean stops to try and think, and Sam gives an impatient huff. "Dean!"
Right, Dean should focus, Sam gets to be right this one time. He looks back to the witch, who is now staring between them looking bamboozled.
"It's been three days," she tells him. "You haven't realized that you can't say anything except each other's names?"
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Actually, now that she mentions it…
Sam tests it out. "Dean?"
He turns to look at his brother, and Sam shrugs. It clearly hasn't caused any problems.
"Sam," Dean says agreeably, and then he blows the wicked witch away, outstanding curse be damned.
_______________________________________________________________
His whole body is shaking now, eyes black, the high of holding the First Blade thrumming through him. Sam's hand is on his wrist, trying to force him back, but he won't be able to hold out much longer.
Dean is powerful now, and if there's nothing else he remembers of humanity, he'll always know the exact limits of his brother's strength. Spent so many lifetimes agonizing over it: making sure no one ever surpassed it, hiding the weak points. Now he'll use it to his advantage. One good push down on Sammy's throat and he'll be free of all that worrying. Free of everything except the mark and the perfect bliss of feeding it.
Killing Sam will feel better than anything ever has, better even than fucking him. Cas and Crowley are a pile in the next room over now. There won't be anyone sneaking up behind him to ruin it for him this time.
"Dean," Sam whispers through what little oxygen he can get with the handle of Dean's blade at his throat. A tear runs off the side of his face, but he doesn't even blink, just keeps his eyes on Dean's. "Dean."
It was his first word, and it'll be his last. Dean laughs. He could go for some begging, but he knows it's hurting Sam more than anything to have to look at him, to have to say his name, and to know it won't save him.
"Sam," Dean teases, pressing down even more on Sam's windpipe. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam replies, his voice hardly more than a whisper now. He stops struggling. That was his last breath, probably. He's weakened now, and it would be easy for Dean to pull back just enough to plunge back down, drive the point through.
When he lifts his arm, though, he doesn't fall on Sam. Sam's hands come up to grasp his throat as he coughs and tries to take in oxygen. His neck is an angry shade of red, but he doesn't stop for a second. This isn't one of the times they're cursed by some witch or object, but still Sam speaks as if he never learned another word. Just keeps whispering Dean's name, over and over, like he wants to make sure he's saying it when Dean cuts him open.
He pauses, "Sammy" on the tip of his tongue, but he can't make himself. He's tried a thousand times to cheapen the word, and still it's too clean to wrap his forked tongue around.
"Dean," Sam says again, reaching up to touch him, so trusting that Dean won't do it.
It was his first word, it'll be his last. Maybe. Not now. Not like this. One more inch, and Dean won't ever hear Sam say his name again.
The blade slips from Dean's bloody fist and clatters on the floor, and he feels his eyes filter back to green. "Sam," he whispers.
Sam takes him in his arms and welcomes him home. "Dean."