fic: Braver at Night
Braver at Night
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; adult; spoilers through 4.05; 865 words
Sam's not really sure what's changed since then, but isn't going to press his luck if Dean's willing to touch him again, to do this.
Written for recrudescence. Thanks to dramaqueen469 for betaing.
~*~
Dean gets his first scar after being wiped clean of all of them, and he half-smiles through the pain. His old scars marked trials and tribulations, places he'd been, battles he'd won and lost. It's not even a real scar--he didn't earn it by being a good hunter, killing something evil. Some drunk frat boy didn't like being hustled at pool in front of the girl he was trying to impress, hauled Dean outside, took a crappy Swiss Army knife to his shoulder.
The cut's deep for a knife that small; Sam needs to clean it and sew it up, but Dean won't stop fidgeting. Patience has never really been his strong suit. "Hold still," he says, mock-sternly. "I'll end up sewing your sleeve to your skin if you keep doing that," and that gets Dean to sit up straight and stop squirming, but only for a minute. In the end, he sighs, and just sews as fast as he can. Sam's about to pour some vodka over the wound when Dean stands up and kisses him; Sam accidently lets the bottle tip and Dean hisses through his teeth, blowing hot air into Sam's mouth.
Dean tastes like spearmint gum and desperation, but it's all familiar and reminds Sam of all the times they've done this before, of home. "I thought you said--" Sam's not protesting; he's just surprised. A few weeks ago, they'd stopped at an intersection (empty dirty road, no one around) and out of habit, Sam had put his hand on Dean's thigh, turned his head, kissed him on the mouth, long and soft and wanting, but then Dean had pushed Sam away, muttering, "I said no. Jesus." Sam's not really sure what's changed since then, but isn't going to press his luck if Dean's willing to touch him again, to do this.
"Screw what I said. Just shut up." Ever since he sprouted up in the ninth grade, Sam's lorded his height over Dean, because that was his advantage--he had his size and his smarts, and Dean had much more on his side: his age, his humor, his charm, the fact that he was always Dad's favorite--but the four inches between them seem to have disappeared. Dean tumbles them onto the double bed, which dips and creaks, unaccustomed to the combined weight. One of the springs is broken, digging into the small of Sam's back, and Dean grumbles when Sam flips them over so he's on top. "You suck," he says, but there's no bite behind it, no acidity.
"God, Dean," he mutters, licking a stripe down Dean's neck. "I want...I missed..."
"Less talking about feelings," Dean growls, biting down on Sam's neck, leaving what'll be, in the morning, a reddish-purple mark, "more doing--shit, yeah--what you were doing." His hips snap up, meeting Sam's thrust for thrust, both of them so hard already.
"Dean," Sam says again, mouthing at the cinnamon-colored freckles sprayed across Dean's shoulder, skin is salty under his tongue, earthy-bitter with sweat. He licks his lips slowly, savoring the taste. "So fucking good."
"You expecting a second-rate performance from me?"
"Hell, no; just...forgot how much--" and finishing the sentence would be useless, because he'd be talking around Dean's tongue. It's familiar, and at the same time, somehow new. Dean's palms are rougher, his scars missing, but the grip of his fingers wrapped tight around Sam's cock, moving fast and hard, is exactly the same.
Sam comes with a full-body shudder, and Dean's mouth muffling the groan from deep in his throat. Dean jacks him through the last waves of heat coursing through him, and follows not long after, come warm and wet over both their hands and bellies.
Neither of them bother to get a washcloth from the bathroom, and the scent of sweat and come clings to their bodies, hangs thick and heavy in the air. Dean just rolls to the other side of the bed, wiping lazily at himself with the blankets, and Sam follows suit, resting his arm over Dean's chest. He's drifting into sleep, the steady beat of Dean's heart pounding like a drum under Sam's fingers, when he feels the hot press of Dean's mouth against his neck. Sam's cock twitches, because, fuck, Dean's lips are moving over the spot that gets him hard every time, without fail.
"Hey," he says, letting his mouth brush over Sam's throat. "Don't fall asleep yet."
"Wha?" His voice is lazy, the drowsiness starting to settle in. "'m tired."
"Oh, no. No going to sleep yet. Time for Round Two." He reaches for the strip-pack of condoms and the bottle of lube on the bedside table.
"Jesus, Dean, can't you wait until tomorrow?" Sam shoves his pillow over his head and wills his dick down. He's exhausted.
"C'mon," Dean whines. "I went for four months without fucking." Sam doesn't point out that Dean fucked some waitress a few weeks ago at a truck stop. "Gotta make up for lost time."
Sam sighs exaggeratedly, resigning himself to Dean's hands moving all over his body. "Don't expect me to do any of the work."
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; adult; spoilers through 4.05; 865 words
Sam's not really sure what's changed since then, but isn't going to press his luck if Dean's willing to touch him again, to do this.
Written for recrudescence. Thanks to dramaqueen469 for betaing.
~*~
Dean gets his first scar after being wiped clean of all of them, and he half-smiles through the pain. His old scars marked trials and tribulations, places he'd been, battles he'd won and lost. It's not even a real scar--he didn't earn it by being a good hunter, killing something evil. Some drunk frat boy didn't like being hustled at pool in front of the girl he was trying to impress, hauled Dean outside, took a crappy Swiss Army knife to his shoulder.
The cut's deep for a knife that small; Sam needs to clean it and sew it up, but Dean won't stop fidgeting. Patience has never really been his strong suit. "Hold still," he says, mock-sternly. "I'll end up sewing your sleeve to your skin if you keep doing that," and that gets Dean to sit up straight and stop squirming, but only for a minute. In the end, he sighs, and just sews as fast as he can. Sam's about to pour some vodka over the wound when Dean stands up and kisses him; Sam accidently lets the bottle tip and Dean hisses through his teeth, blowing hot air into Sam's mouth.
Dean tastes like spearmint gum and desperation, but it's all familiar and reminds Sam of all the times they've done this before, of home. "I thought you said--" Sam's not protesting; he's just surprised. A few weeks ago, they'd stopped at an intersection (empty dirty road, no one around) and out of habit, Sam had put his hand on Dean's thigh, turned his head, kissed him on the mouth, long and soft and wanting, but then Dean had pushed Sam away, muttering, "I said no. Jesus." Sam's not really sure what's changed since then, but isn't going to press his luck if Dean's willing to touch him again, to do this.
"Screw what I said. Just shut up." Ever since he sprouted up in the ninth grade, Sam's lorded his height over Dean, because that was his advantage--he had his size and his smarts, and Dean had much more on his side: his age, his humor, his charm, the fact that he was always Dad's favorite--but the four inches between them seem to have disappeared. Dean tumbles them onto the double bed, which dips and creaks, unaccustomed to the combined weight. One of the springs is broken, digging into the small of Sam's back, and Dean grumbles when Sam flips them over so he's on top. "You suck," he says, but there's no bite behind it, no acidity.
"God, Dean," he mutters, licking a stripe down Dean's neck. "I want...I missed..."
"Less talking about feelings," Dean growls, biting down on Sam's neck, leaving what'll be, in the morning, a reddish-purple mark, "more doing--shit, yeah--what you were doing." His hips snap up, meeting Sam's thrust for thrust, both of them so hard already.
"Dean," Sam says again, mouthing at the cinnamon-colored freckles sprayed across Dean's shoulder, skin is salty under his tongue, earthy-bitter with sweat. He licks his lips slowly, savoring the taste. "So fucking good."
"You expecting a second-rate performance from me?"
"Hell, no; just...forgot how much--" and finishing the sentence would be useless, because he'd be talking around Dean's tongue. It's familiar, and at the same time, somehow new. Dean's palms are rougher, his scars missing, but the grip of his fingers wrapped tight around Sam's cock, moving fast and hard, is exactly the same.
Sam comes with a full-body shudder, and Dean's mouth muffling the groan from deep in his throat. Dean jacks him through the last waves of heat coursing through him, and follows not long after, come warm and wet over both their hands and bellies.
Neither of them bother to get a washcloth from the bathroom, and the scent of sweat and come clings to their bodies, hangs thick and heavy in the air. Dean just rolls to the other side of the bed, wiping lazily at himself with the blankets, and Sam follows suit, resting his arm over Dean's chest. He's drifting into sleep, the steady beat of Dean's heart pounding like a drum under Sam's fingers, when he feels the hot press of Dean's mouth against his neck. Sam's cock twitches, because, fuck, Dean's lips are moving over the spot that gets him hard every time, without fail.
"Hey," he says, letting his mouth brush over Sam's throat. "Don't fall asleep yet."
"Wha?" His voice is lazy, the drowsiness starting to settle in. "'m tired."
"Oh, no. No going to sleep yet. Time for Round Two." He reaches for the strip-pack of condoms and the bottle of lube on the bedside table.
"Jesus, Dean, can't you wait until tomorrow?" Sam shoves his pillow over his head and wills his dick down. He's exhausted.
"C'mon," Dean whines. "I went for four months without fucking." Sam doesn't point out that Dean fucked some waitress a few weeks ago at a truck stop. "Gotta make up for lost time."
Sam sighs exaggeratedly, resigning himself to Dean's hands moving all over his body. "Don't expect me to do any of the work."