SPN: Sam/Dean, R
Title: Wading in the Velvet Sea
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean (WINCEST)
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 1,714
Summary: Dean doesn't listen to Phish anymore...
Notes: Follows If I Could. Beta'd by arabella_hope.
Most people kept normal things in their wallets; credit cards, IDs, old ticket stubs. Sam kept an old, scratched up guitar pick in his. It was something he didn’t even think about anymore, just kept tucked behind his driver’s license (the real one). Dean has slid it there one night the summer before Sam went to Stanford.
Every once in awhile, Sam would take it out; fiddle with the small bit of plastic. He had holes on the thighs of his jeans, little spots where he poked at them with the pointy end of the pick. Each frayed edge was a reminder of where the pick had been; how easily it had traced the skin on Dean’s shoulders, biting into him as their bodies rocked together.
Sam would sit there in class, one hand tracing circles on his thigh, the other frantically taking notes. Soon, he wouldn’t even realize how quick he was to take the pick out. It was a part of him.
Like Dean had been.
That stupid scrap of plastic - okay, not that stupid because Trey had used it - was Sam’s only reminder of that summer. He arrived at Stanford with a plan and a new persona. He was damn near straight-laced, never turning down a drink but snubbing his nose at any mention of pot. Pot meant lazy afternoons and jamming and Dean.
The only time Sam walked away from a hook-up was when he’d licked into a girls’ mouth and tasted remnants of what she had been smoking. It was a shock; that smoky taste of Dean’s lips that flooded his senses. He stumbled out of the kiss, blinking and muttering some lame reason as to why he had to book it.
That was the first time that semester he jerked off to thoughts of Dean’s reddened lips wrapped around his cock.
--
At first, no one mentioned the music. Well, Sam made the obligatory crack at Dean’s old school musical taste, but neither of them mentioned the huge hole in his cassette collection. There wasn’t one god damn Phish tape in the show shoe box. Sam even checked the trunk one night, lingering by the Impala long after Dean had retreated into the motel room. He sliced his forefinger on an unsheathed knife, but hadn’t found any reminders of that one glorious summer.
They didn’t talk that night, almost as if Dean knew why Sam had taken his time in the parking lot. And when Sam rolled his back towards Dean and closed his eyes, he tried not to think of the way Dean’s calloused fingers felt against his thighs or how soft his lips were or how many nights they’d spent huddled together in the back of their shitty van.
He cried the next morning in the shower, his tears mixing with the hot spray as he slowly got himself off.
--
A few months after Sam had returned, they were driving through New York and he remembered the concert at the S.P.A.C. he and Dean and seen. That weekend was full of tanned skin and soft, feminine curves mixed with the hard angles of Dean’s body. Without thinking, Sam asked, “Man, you remember that chick Cassidy?”
Dean glanced over at him, slowing turning his head but not quite meeting his eyes. Then he looked back at the road, but Sam could see the emotions flash across his face. He saw as Dean remembered the silky smoothness of Cassidy’s body; remembered the feel of her dreads on his chest as he thrust up into her; remembered the way he could feel Sam inside of her as they fucked her together.
Sam’s mouth watered at the memory of the taste of the small of Cassidy’s back. She had a rainbow colored Phish logo tattooed there, and Sam had spent ages tracing the edges of it with his tongue, the point of it flickering over the bright colors. He could picture the way she looked between them; how her small body accepted them so easily.
And when Dean’s finger found her clit, she had begged to come, tossed her head back and babbled her requests as they rode her. Dean came first, his eyes meeting Sam’s as he erupted inside of her. His eyes had screamed so fucking cool, isn’t it? as they bored into Sam’s. And when Sam came, he pulled out, splattering his come on Cassidy’s tattoo.
Dean had lapped it up afterwards, smirking as he licked away all traces of his brother.
Sam watched as Dean snapped out of his memories and clenched his jaw. He reached over and turned up the volume, Metallica blaring in the small confines of the Impala. “Not really,” he muttered before softly singing along under his breath.
But Sam could see it; the way Dean’s knuckles were tightened around the steering wheel; the way his neck was tense and his brow was starting to sweat. Oh, he remembered.
The tiny look of longing in Dean’s eyes was enough. Sam knew they’d eventually get to where they needed to be. They had to, or else he might not be able to carry on. Sure, he could throw himself into the hunt and concentrate on finding his father, but such a huge part of his definition of himself was wrapped up in Dean that it didn’t matter.
Without Dean, Sam was just another lonesome soul. With him, he was part of a pair; part of something that mattered; mattered so fucking much it hurt sometimes.
--
Dean had a key. Not a metaphorical girly key to Sam’s heart or anything, but a random, real and solid metal key. Sam caught sight of it when the first time he drove the Impala, felt the weird cool of the extra metal in his palm. He spent the entire time Dean was in the gas station rest stop staring at the key, trying to figure out its purpose. It didn’t fit the trunk, the glove compartment, or anything else car-related.
He blushed when Dean caught him studying it and had to look away from Dean’s heated glare.
Over the months, Sam slowly devoted more and more time to the key. He’d lay awake at night wondering what it unlocked; what part of Dean it would it reveal to him. He always woke up with crusty eyes and wet boxers.
--
Sam found the cassette in Vermont. He and Dean were looking into a possible vampire sighting (turned out to be some Goths with attitude) and separated to canvas the small village. Sam had wandered into a raggedy looking record shop and found a bargain bin full of old tapes. He rummaged through old MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice cassettes until his fingers brushed over a Phish one.
It felt hot and heavy in his palm.
Without giving it too much thought, Sam rushed over to the counter and shelled out the three fifty for it. It burned a hole in his pocket for the rest of the hunt, but he couldn’t bring himself to give the damn thing to Dean.
Who knew if Dean even wanted to go back to the way they used to be? He’d moved on, gotten stronger and rougher and a hell of a lot more intimidating. But every time Dean smiled and the skin around his eyes crinkled, Sam could see the Dean he’d known. Maybe even loved.
--
In the end, it was Dean - always Dean - who made the first move. Just like it had all started when Dean had turned to Sam during the middle of their forth Phish concert, giggled, and said, “You’re really pretty,” before casually covering Sam’s mouth with his.
“We’re going to Ohio,” Dean said one day as he tossed a McMuffin wrapper into the back seat. Sam quirked an eyebrow at him, but Dean just shrugged it off and drove faster. The trip took a day and a hall and was full of silence and awkwardness.
They stopped in a darkened gravel parking lot. Dean got out without speaking and Sam followed slowly. They wandered through the even rows of what was apparently a storage facility. Dean came to an abrupt stop in front of number 136, and Sam was so lost in his own worries that he slammed into him.
“You used to be graceful,” Dean muttered as he pulled out his keys. Sam could only blink, his vision going slow-motion as Dean slid the silver key into the lock and opened the storage room. He flipped a switch, and Sam choked on his last breath, coughing into his fist as he took in what was inside.
His past; their old life. The inside of the van was strewn about the small room, lighter and pipes and that dusty, threadbare blanket that they bartered for in New Hampshire. Dean stepped into the room and turned around, looking at Sam with obvious nervousness in his eyes.
It took Sam three steps to cross the room and grab Dean by his jacket. And when their mouths met, it was every bit as perfect as the first time.
Considering their first time was sloppy and wet and so mismatched that Sam ended up digging his teeth into Dean’s chin. This time, Sam winced as his nose bumped Dean’s, and they were laughing before their tongues could touch.
Then instinct took over and Dean slammed Sam against the wall, aligning their bodies as they fought for control of the kiss. Sam lost - like always - and found himself half naked and panting in under five minutes.
And when Dean slid inside Sam, the door was still open and Sam’s head hurt from where it banged against the cold cement floor. But the feeling of Dean’s body against his and the way they still moved as one, even after years apart, more than made up for it.
The cassette Sam bought Dean spent three weeks in the tape deck, and Dean hummed Gotta Jibboo around Sam’s cock every chance he got. They didn’t have a van or a summer-long mission of peace and drugs and music, but Sam figured they’d make do with what they had - a hot set of wheels, a trunk full of weapons, and the most blissful and fucked up relationship Sam could ever imagine.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean (WINCEST)
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 1,714
Summary: Dean doesn't listen to Phish anymore...
Notes: Follows If I Could. Beta'd by arabella_hope.
Most people kept normal things in their wallets; credit cards, IDs, old ticket stubs. Sam kept an old, scratched up guitar pick in his. It was something he didn’t even think about anymore, just kept tucked behind his driver’s license (the real one). Dean has slid it there one night the summer before Sam went to Stanford.
Every once in awhile, Sam would take it out; fiddle with the small bit of plastic. He had holes on the thighs of his jeans, little spots where he poked at them with the pointy end of the pick. Each frayed edge was a reminder of where the pick had been; how easily it had traced the skin on Dean’s shoulders, biting into him as their bodies rocked together.
Sam would sit there in class, one hand tracing circles on his thigh, the other frantically taking notes. Soon, he wouldn’t even realize how quick he was to take the pick out. It was a part of him.
Like Dean had been.
That stupid scrap of plastic - okay, not that stupid because Trey had used it - was Sam’s only reminder of that summer. He arrived at Stanford with a plan and a new persona. He was damn near straight-laced, never turning down a drink but snubbing his nose at any mention of pot. Pot meant lazy afternoons and jamming and Dean.
The only time Sam walked away from a hook-up was when he’d licked into a girls’ mouth and tasted remnants of what she had been smoking. It was a shock; that smoky taste of Dean’s lips that flooded his senses. He stumbled out of the kiss, blinking and muttering some lame reason as to why he had to book it.
That was the first time that semester he jerked off to thoughts of Dean’s reddened lips wrapped around his cock.
--
At first, no one mentioned the music. Well, Sam made the obligatory crack at Dean’s old school musical taste, but neither of them mentioned the huge hole in his cassette collection. There wasn’t one god damn Phish tape in the show shoe box. Sam even checked the trunk one night, lingering by the Impala long after Dean had retreated into the motel room. He sliced his forefinger on an unsheathed knife, but hadn’t found any reminders of that one glorious summer.
They didn’t talk that night, almost as if Dean knew why Sam had taken his time in the parking lot. And when Sam rolled his back towards Dean and closed his eyes, he tried not to think of the way Dean’s calloused fingers felt against his thighs or how soft his lips were or how many nights they’d spent huddled together in the back of their shitty van.
He cried the next morning in the shower, his tears mixing with the hot spray as he slowly got himself off.
--
A few months after Sam had returned, they were driving through New York and he remembered the concert at the S.P.A.C. he and Dean and seen. That weekend was full of tanned skin and soft, feminine curves mixed with the hard angles of Dean’s body. Without thinking, Sam asked, “Man, you remember that chick Cassidy?”
Dean glanced over at him, slowing turning his head but not quite meeting his eyes. Then he looked back at the road, but Sam could see the emotions flash across his face. He saw as Dean remembered the silky smoothness of Cassidy’s body; remembered the feel of her dreads on his chest as he thrust up into her; remembered the way he could feel Sam inside of her as they fucked her together.
Sam’s mouth watered at the memory of the taste of the small of Cassidy’s back. She had a rainbow colored Phish logo tattooed there, and Sam had spent ages tracing the edges of it with his tongue, the point of it flickering over the bright colors. He could picture the way she looked between them; how her small body accepted them so easily.
And when Dean’s finger found her clit, she had begged to come, tossed her head back and babbled her requests as they rode her. Dean came first, his eyes meeting Sam’s as he erupted inside of her. His eyes had screamed so fucking cool, isn’t it? as they bored into Sam’s. And when Sam came, he pulled out, splattering his come on Cassidy’s tattoo.
Dean had lapped it up afterwards, smirking as he licked away all traces of his brother.
Sam watched as Dean snapped out of his memories and clenched his jaw. He reached over and turned up the volume, Metallica blaring in the small confines of the Impala. “Not really,” he muttered before softly singing along under his breath.
But Sam could see it; the way Dean’s knuckles were tightened around the steering wheel; the way his neck was tense and his brow was starting to sweat. Oh, he remembered.
The tiny look of longing in Dean’s eyes was enough. Sam knew they’d eventually get to where they needed to be. They had to, or else he might not be able to carry on. Sure, he could throw himself into the hunt and concentrate on finding his father, but such a huge part of his definition of himself was wrapped up in Dean that it didn’t matter.
Without Dean, Sam was just another lonesome soul. With him, he was part of a pair; part of something that mattered; mattered so fucking much it hurt sometimes.
--
Dean had a key. Not a metaphorical girly key to Sam’s heart or anything, but a random, real and solid metal key. Sam caught sight of it when the first time he drove the Impala, felt the weird cool of the extra metal in his palm. He spent the entire time Dean was in the gas station rest stop staring at the key, trying to figure out its purpose. It didn’t fit the trunk, the glove compartment, or anything else car-related.
He blushed when Dean caught him studying it and had to look away from Dean’s heated glare.
Over the months, Sam slowly devoted more and more time to the key. He’d lay awake at night wondering what it unlocked; what part of Dean it would it reveal to him. He always woke up with crusty eyes and wet boxers.
--
Sam found the cassette in Vermont. He and Dean were looking into a possible vampire sighting (turned out to be some Goths with attitude) and separated to canvas the small village. Sam had wandered into a raggedy looking record shop and found a bargain bin full of old tapes. He rummaged through old MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice cassettes until his fingers brushed over a Phish one.
It felt hot and heavy in his palm.
Without giving it too much thought, Sam rushed over to the counter and shelled out the three fifty for it. It burned a hole in his pocket for the rest of the hunt, but he couldn’t bring himself to give the damn thing to Dean.
Who knew if Dean even wanted to go back to the way they used to be? He’d moved on, gotten stronger and rougher and a hell of a lot more intimidating. But every time Dean smiled and the skin around his eyes crinkled, Sam could see the Dean he’d known. Maybe even loved.
--
In the end, it was Dean - always Dean - who made the first move. Just like it had all started when Dean had turned to Sam during the middle of their forth Phish concert, giggled, and said, “You’re really pretty,” before casually covering Sam’s mouth with his.
“We’re going to Ohio,” Dean said one day as he tossed a McMuffin wrapper into the back seat. Sam quirked an eyebrow at him, but Dean just shrugged it off and drove faster. The trip took a day and a hall and was full of silence and awkwardness.
They stopped in a darkened gravel parking lot. Dean got out without speaking and Sam followed slowly. They wandered through the even rows of what was apparently a storage facility. Dean came to an abrupt stop in front of number 136, and Sam was so lost in his own worries that he slammed into him.
“You used to be graceful,” Dean muttered as he pulled out his keys. Sam could only blink, his vision going slow-motion as Dean slid the silver key into the lock and opened the storage room. He flipped a switch, and Sam choked on his last breath, coughing into his fist as he took in what was inside.
His past; their old life. The inside of the van was strewn about the small room, lighter and pipes and that dusty, threadbare blanket that they bartered for in New Hampshire. Dean stepped into the room and turned around, looking at Sam with obvious nervousness in his eyes.
It took Sam three steps to cross the room and grab Dean by his jacket. And when their mouths met, it was every bit as perfect as the first time.
Considering their first time was sloppy and wet and so mismatched that Sam ended up digging his teeth into Dean’s chin. This time, Sam winced as his nose bumped Dean’s, and they were laughing before their tongues could touch.
Then instinct took over and Dean slammed Sam against the wall, aligning their bodies as they fought for control of the kiss. Sam lost - like always - and found himself half naked and panting in under five minutes.
And when Dean slid inside Sam, the door was still open and Sam’s head hurt from where it banged against the cold cement floor. But the feeling of Dean’s body against his and the way they still moved as one, even after years apart, more than made up for it.
The cassette Sam bought Dean spent three weeks in the tape deck, and Dean hummed Gotta Jibboo around Sam’s cock every chance he got. They didn’t have a van or a summer-long mission of peace and drugs and music, but Sam figured they’d make do with what they had - a hot set of wheels, a trunk full of weapons, and the most blissful and fucked up relationship Sam could ever imagine.