Fic: After Tomorrow
Title: After Tomorrow
Author: merepersiflage
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2.01 “In My Time of Dying”
Category: pangst (porn and angst)
Word Count: 2260
Summary: episode coda
Warnings: incest, graphic m/m sex, language
Note: keepaofthecheez and la_folle_allure must both have seriously sweaty palms from all that hand holding. Thanks.
Sam was on his third attempt at making lists of all the things they needed to replace when he stepped inside the room. Lists were good. Lists meant he could avoid probing at the big black spot in his brain, the emptiness like suddenly finding out the sun wasn’t going to be back in the morning. If they could just get through tomorrow-there it was again. That hole waiting to swallow him up.
Dad was just part of that emptiness, though. Dean’s silence, his closed-off expression-hell, he could be an inch away and Dean was so drawn in on himself that he might as well be in a different state. Sam’s skin positively itched for contact with something alive. Reapers, demons, he needed that warmth, needed to know he wasn’t going to blink and be back in that room again, see Dean still and pale with machines his only link to life.
This was the first chance they’d had to be alone since-since, and Sam didn’t know what to say, what to do to bridge that space between them.
Dean switched on a light and scanned the room. Sam dumped his duffle on the bed nearest the window. Dean picked it up, tossed it on the other bed and put his own in its place. Then he sat on the bed and leaned back against it, eyes fixed and staring.
Like a tongue probing a sore tooth; Sam’s brain kept going back to the edge of that black hole. “So, tomorrow.”
Dean pushed to his feet, went into the bathroom and closed the door. Sam tried to go back to his lists, worked on matching a name up to each need. Daniel could probably hook them up with a laptop-maybe even salvage the hard drive from the old one.
He heard the water go on and stared at the closed door. His pulse jumped with Dean out of eye shot, like his brother would disappear if he couldn’t see him. At least a silent withdrawn Dean was still Dean. Not an empty shell like Dad. He forced that image back into the hole in his head.
The water ran for a really long time.
Sam went over to the door a couple of times and then back to the desk, but there was nothing to distract him, nothing to look stuff up on. He considered getting the journal from Dean’s duffel-but Dad. No-he couldn’t look at it now.
I just don’t want to fight anymore, okay? Dad had looked so tired. Sam should have seen it. He should have called someone. It was too soon for Dad to have been out of bed, doing what ever had been so goddamned important he couldn’t be there for Dean. But Sam should have said something, gotten a doctor when he’d seen him looking so tired. He sat on the bed and stared at his hands.
The door opened and Dean came out in a cloud of steam. He traded the towel around his hips for briefs and a t-shirt and pulled back the covers on the bed by the window. He crawled into bed with his back to Sam.
“What time tomorrow, Dean?”
Dean rolled on his side, facing away from him. “You stink like the hospital. Take a shower.”
Sam reached for his shoulder, and his hand hovered, waiting please to touch. But Dean’s skin remained out of reach like there was some kind of force field repelling him. He pulled his hand back.
The bathroom smelled like warmth and heat and Dean. He lifted an arm to his nose. He did smell like the hospital-death and blood and disinfectant. He stripped off his clothes, even the coat would have to be washed-after tomorrow-and tomorrow’s clothes, too, they’d be full of ash and smoke and . . . Sam broke off the thought and added laundry to his mental lists.
He didn’t plan to cry, he only meant to shower off the stink and climb into bed where he could touch, smell, taste Dean. But as soon as he ducked his head under the spray, his eyes flooded and tears mixed with the water on his face.
He should have made Dad get back in bed, gotten a doctor to check him out. If Dad would have just listened, just once . . . Sam drove his fist into the tiles and then again until the knuckles split, fresh blood breaking over his fingers and hand, thinning and running off with the water.
Is this what Dean had been doing all that time standing here, crying, punching the same wall until there was pain on the outside to match a fraction of the pain inside?
When he came out of the bathroom, he knew Dean was still awake, his body too tightly held to have fallen into the lax pose of sleep. And it wasn’t the utter stillness of his coma. Sam could never confuse a coma for sleep after that. He knelt behind him.
“No.” Dean said.
“What?”
“Other bed.”
“Dean. No.” He crossed that infinite space and grabbed him, twisted around him and he didn’t care if they ended up fighting, tearing into each other, because Dean was alive. Moving, protesting, complaining, and finally shoving, but Dean. He told him that. “Dean, you’re here. God, you’re here.”
Dean turned his head away from Sam’s kiss. “Yeah, well I shouldn’t be.”
Sam grabbed his shoulders, pinned him down. “Don’t you ever fucking say that.”
“Dad’s dead, Sammy.” Dean’s hands came up to grip his arms, fingers digging into aching muscles.
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
Dean closed his eyes and turned his head on the pillow again.
“Dean.” He loosened his grip.
“Don’t.” Dean’s grasp of his arms got tight enough to hurt. “Don’t.”
Sam leaned down to try another kiss, brushed his lips across Dean’s.
“No.”
Sam pulled away at Dean’s denial, and Dean grabbed his head, dragged him to his mouth and held him there, until he’d pried open Sam's lips and could fuck his mouth with his tongue. Sam’s split lip stung under the force of that kiss, but Dean’s body was so alive and hard beneath his own that he couldn’t protest, even as his lungs screamed for air. Dean’s hands tightened on the sides of his head, though Sam had made no move to break away.
He moved his own hands to Dean’s shoulders, stroking lightly until Dean, still with that crushing kiss rolled him under.
“No.” Dean lifted his head to whisper. He arched against him, Sam’s towel had long since slipped off his hips and his dick responded immediately to the friction.
“Dean, slow down.”
Dean didn’t answer, just ripped his breath away with another kiss, hips grinding. Sam arched back, fought back, pushing Dean’s shoulders away until only their hips and legs were touching. Dean looked down at him with an expression Sam had never seen before. Twenty-three years of reading Dean, of digging under what his brother chose to show the world couldn’t prepare him for this. Everything was there. Need, love, fear.
The last scared him. He slipped a hand up to his brother’s face, and Dean pulled it away, pinning his wrist and pushing off the bed in the same rough movement. Sam leaned up on his elbow as he watched Dean bend to shuck his briefs and t-shirt. When he straightened, he tossed something onto Sam’s chest. Sam caught the familiar tube instinctively.
His stomach tightened, half anticipation, half dread. God, he wanted to lose himself in a fucked out oblivion, too. He’d craved feeling Dean just like this, closer than skin inside him, but when Dean climbed back on the bed and straddled him, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t right. That this would somehow push them apart instead of bringing them back together.
Sam felt like he was having a vision, lost in a blurred, broken reality and just as unable to control it. His fingers grabbed at Dean’s shoulder, squeezing, feeling the steady pulse beat hard in his palm as his other hand slid up Dean’s chest, pressing against the rapid thumping of his heart. Dean was alive, here; they were together. He’d thought that touch would quiet the creeping unease, but Dean wore an expression as raw as an unhealed wound.
Sam swallowed hard as Dean grabbed the lube from his loose grip. The familiarity of their bodies connecting should have been comfort, losing themselves in pleasure should have brought some kind of peace, but this was neither. It was the cold slick of Dean’s hand on his dick, coating him with a thick layer of gel. The rough pained sound as Dean held Sam’s cock steady and forced himself down over it. A blistering grip on his dick as Dean’s ass came down on his thighs, his muscles locked tight around the base.
“Jesus.”
Sam clung to control with the last bit of his mind. This had to be hurting Dean, his dick was only at half-mast, the pressure on Sam so rough and burning he couldn’t imagine how it felt to Dean. Dean lifted himself up and pressed down, his muscles clinging, dragging, working Sam until another groan burst from Sam’s lips.
“Harder, Sam. C’mon.”
Then Sam knew. He remembered the compulsion to hit the tiles until his knuckles bled. Dean needed this to hurt. Needed it as much as Sam needed Dean’s pulse around him, that proof of life.
He squeezed Dean’s hips in his hands and rocked up, driving through the impossibly tight heat until he was slamming up. The anger and pain on Dean’s face stark contrast to his demands. “Yeah. That. Do it, Sam.”
He shifted Dean’s hips back, and Dean groaned as the angle put Sam right over his prostate. Dean’s dick reacted, stiffening against his belly. Dean shut his eyes, shut Sam out, nothing but a shift of breath to tell him how to stroke.
He rolled his hips the way he knew Dean liked, got a quicker rush of breath. Dean’s eyes and lips stayed shut. Dean tried to shift the rhythm back to the hard straight thrusts, but Sam pinned his hips. His brother wouldn’t give up, clenching his muscles around Sam’s cock driving that hot friction up a hundred notches and a thousand degrees. Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head. Sweat started to burst on his skin, his balls climbed up, body ready.
“Go.”
He opened his eyes. Dean was watching him now, everything carefully hidden again behind a smirk and a wink.
“Come with me.”
Dean shook his head.
Sam’s thighs ached from holding that edge. Sweat pooled in his navel, just above the spot where the head of Dean’s cock leaked against his belly. Dean tightened around him again and he lost it, came until spots popped behind his eyes and even his toes felt drained.
Dean eased off him. Over the rough edges of Sam’s breath , he could hear him go into the bathroom. He brought a hand to his belly. Dean hadn’t come, and Sam wasn’t going to let him jerk off in the bathroom alone. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Dean.”
Dean came out, a washcloth on the back of his neck. His dick was still rigid, curved up against the dark hair low on his belly. He sat next to Sam and rubbed the cloth along the back of his neck.
“Yeah?”
Sam considered and discarded a dozen different questions most of them starting with why and just shoved him back onto the bed.
He planted his weight on him and zeroed in on his cock, swallowed him down.
“I don’t want-”
Dean tried to roll away, but Sam had two hundred pounds on his legs and his dick in his mouth and he wasn’t going anywhere until he came.
“Damn it, Sam.”
Sam sucked and backed off, tongue curling under the head until Dean stopped trying to roll away and bucked toward him. He soaked him in spit and precome and then took him to the back of his throat, and he felt his surrender in the muscles under his chest.
“Aw, shit.” Dean’s hand came down to cradle his head.
Sam smiled around the cock in his mouth and went back to the quick bobs he knew would bring Dean over the edge. His tongue caught another splash of precome, and he tightened his lips.
“Son of a bitch.”
Dean pumped quick and hot and bitter as tears in his throat. He took it all, slowing, easing to soft licks.
“Stop.” Dean’s voice was thick as if he had the throat full of come.
Sam lifted his head and caught the shine in Dean’s eyes. His brother shut them again, but a drop caught on a lash.
“Get off me, Sam.”
Sam crawled up his body instead, settling his head where he could hear Dean’s heart race. They weren’t sons anymore, but they were still brothers, and they still had this. Even after tomorrow, all they’d have left would be each other and they’d still have this.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“How’d he look . . . when you found him?” Dean’s voice was hoarse.
Gone. Empty. Alone. “Like he went down fighting.”
Author: merepersiflage
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2.01 “In My Time of Dying”
Category: pangst (porn and angst)
Word Count: 2260
Summary: episode coda
Warnings: incest, graphic m/m sex, language
Note: keepaofthecheez and la_folle_allure must both have seriously sweaty palms from all that hand holding. Thanks.
Sam was on his third attempt at making lists of all the things they needed to replace when he stepped inside the room. Lists were good. Lists meant he could avoid probing at the big black spot in his brain, the emptiness like suddenly finding out the sun wasn’t going to be back in the morning. If they could just get through tomorrow-there it was again. That hole waiting to swallow him up.
Dad was just part of that emptiness, though. Dean’s silence, his closed-off expression-hell, he could be an inch away and Dean was so drawn in on himself that he might as well be in a different state. Sam’s skin positively itched for contact with something alive. Reapers, demons, he needed that warmth, needed to know he wasn’t going to blink and be back in that room again, see Dean still and pale with machines his only link to life.
This was the first chance they’d had to be alone since-since, and Sam didn’t know what to say, what to do to bridge that space between them.
Dean switched on a light and scanned the room. Sam dumped his duffle on the bed nearest the window. Dean picked it up, tossed it on the other bed and put his own in its place. Then he sat on the bed and leaned back against it, eyes fixed and staring.
Like a tongue probing a sore tooth; Sam’s brain kept going back to the edge of that black hole. “So, tomorrow.”
Dean pushed to his feet, went into the bathroom and closed the door. Sam tried to go back to his lists, worked on matching a name up to each need. Daniel could probably hook them up with a laptop-maybe even salvage the hard drive from the old one.
He heard the water go on and stared at the closed door. His pulse jumped with Dean out of eye shot, like his brother would disappear if he couldn’t see him. At least a silent withdrawn Dean was still Dean. Not an empty shell like Dad. He forced that image back into the hole in his head.
The water ran for a really long time.
Sam went over to the door a couple of times and then back to the desk, but there was nothing to distract him, nothing to look stuff up on. He considered getting the journal from Dean’s duffel-but Dad. No-he couldn’t look at it now.
I just don’t want to fight anymore, okay? Dad had looked so tired. Sam should have seen it. He should have called someone. It was too soon for Dad to have been out of bed, doing what ever had been so goddamned important he couldn’t be there for Dean. But Sam should have said something, gotten a doctor when he’d seen him looking so tired. He sat on the bed and stared at his hands.
The door opened and Dean came out in a cloud of steam. He traded the towel around his hips for briefs and a t-shirt and pulled back the covers on the bed by the window. He crawled into bed with his back to Sam.
“What time tomorrow, Dean?”
Dean rolled on his side, facing away from him. “You stink like the hospital. Take a shower.”
Sam reached for his shoulder, and his hand hovered, waiting please to touch. But Dean’s skin remained out of reach like there was some kind of force field repelling him. He pulled his hand back.
The bathroom smelled like warmth and heat and Dean. He lifted an arm to his nose. He did smell like the hospital-death and blood and disinfectant. He stripped off his clothes, even the coat would have to be washed-after tomorrow-and tomorrow’s clothes, too, they’d be full of ash and smoke and . . . Sam broke off the thought and added laundry to his mental lists.
He didn’t plan to cry, he only meant to shower off the stink and climb into bed where he could touch, smell, taste Dean. But as soon as he ducked his head under the spray, his eyes flooded and tears mixed with the water on his face.
He should have made Dad get back in bed, gotten a doctor to check him out. If Dad would have just listened, just once . . . Sam drove his fist into the tiles and then again until the knuckles split, fresh blood breaking over his fingers and hand, thinning and running off with the water.
Is this what Dean had been doing all that time standing here, crying, punching the same wall until there was pain on the outside to match a fraction of the pain inside?
When he came out of the bathroom, he knew Dean was still awake, his body too tightly held to have fallen into the lax pose of sleep. And it wasn’t the utter stillness of his coma. Sam could never confuse a coma for sleep after that. He knelt behind him.
“No.” Dean said.
“What?”
“Other bed.”
“Dean. No.” He crossed that infinite space and grabbed him, twisted around him and he didn’t care if they ended up fighting, tearing into each other, because Dean was alive. Moving, protesting, complaining, and finally shoving, but Dean. He told him that. “Dean, you’re here. God, you’re here.”
Dean turned his head away from Sam’s kiss. “Yeah, well I shouldn’t be.”
Sam grabbed his shoulders, pinned him down. “Don’t you ever fucking say that.”
“Dad’s dead, Sammy.” Dean’s hands came up to grip his arms, fingers digging into aching muscles.
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
Dean closed his eyes and turned his head on the pillow again.
“Dean.” He loosened his grip.
“Don’t.” Dean’s grasp of his arms got tight enough to hurt. “Don’t.”
Sam leaned down to try another kiss, brushed his lips across Dean’s.
“No.”
Sam pulled away at Dean’s denial, and Dean grabbed his head, dragged him to his mouth and held him there, until he’d pried open Sam's lips and could fuck his mouth with his tongue. Sam’s split lip stung under the force of that kiss, but Dean’s body was so alive and hard beneath his own that he couldn’t protest, even as his lungs screamed for air. Dean’s hands tightened on the sides of his head, though Sam had made no move to break away.
He moved his own hands to Dean’s shoulders, stroking lightly until Dean, still with that crushing kiss rolled him under.
“No.” Dean lifted his head to whisper. He arched against him, Sam’s towel had long since slipped off his hips and his dick responded immediately to the friction.
“Dean, slow down.”
Dean didn’t answer, just ripped his breath away with another kiss, hips grinding. Sam arched back, fought back, pushing Dean’s shoulders away until only their hips and legs were touching. Dean looked down at him with an expression Sam had never seen before. Twenty-three years of reading Dean, of digging under what his brother chose to show the world couldn’t prepare him for this. Everything was there. Need, love, fear.
The last scared him. He slipped a hand up to his brother’s face, and Dean pulled it away, pinning his wrist and pushing off the bed in the same rough movement. Sam leaned up on his elbow as he watched Dean bend to shuck his briefs and t-shirt. When he straightened, he tossed something onto Sam’s chest. Sam caught the familiar tube instinctively.
His stomach tightened, half anticipation, half dread. God, he wanted to lose himself in a fucked out oblivion, too. He’d craved feeling Dean just like this, closer than skin inside him, but when Dean climbed back on the bed and straddled him, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t right. That this would somehow push them apart instead of bringing them back together.
Sam felt like he was having a vision, lost in a blurred, broken reality and just as unable to control it. His fingers grabbed at Dean’s shoulder, squeezing, feeling the steady pulse beat hard in his palm as his other hand slid up Dean’s chest, pressing against the rapid thumping of his heart. Dean was alive, here; they were together. He’d thought that touch would quiet the creeping unease, but Dean wore an expression as raw as an unhealed wound.
Sam swallowed hard as Dean grabbed the lube from his loose grip. The familiarity of their bodies connecting should have been comfort, losing themselves in pleasure should have brought some kind of peace, but this was neither. It was the cold slick of Dean’s hand on his dick, coating him with a thick layer of gel. The rough pained sound as Dean held Sam’s cock steady and forced himself down over it. A blistering grip on his dick as Dean’s ass came down on his thighs, his muscles locked tight around the base.
“Jesus.”
Sam clung to control with the last bit of his mind. This had to be hurting Dean, his dick was only at half-mast, the pressure on Sam so rough and burning he couldn’t imagine how it felt to Dean. Dean lifted himself up and pressed down, his muscles clinging, dragging, working Sam until another groan burst from Sam’s lips.
“Harder, Sam. C’mon.”
Then Sam knew. He remembered the compulsion to hit the tiles until his knuckles bled. Dean needed this to hurt. Needed it as much as Sam needed Dean’s pulse around him, that proof of life.
He squeezed Dean’s hips in his hands and rocked up, driving through the impossibly tight heat until he was slamming up. The anger and pain on Dean’s face stark contrast to his demands. “Yeah. That. Do it, Sam.”
He shifted Dean’s hips back, and Dean groaned as the angle put Sam right over his prostate. Dean’s dick reacted, stiffening against his belly. Dean shut his eyes, shut Sam out, nothing but a shift of breath to tell him how to stroke.
He rolled his hips the way he knew Dean liked, got a quicker rush of breath. Dean’s eyes and lips stayed shut. Dean tried to shift the rhythm back to the hard straight thrusts, but Sam pinned his hips. His brother wouldn’t give up, clenching his muscles around Sam’s cock driving that hot friction up a hundred notches and a thousand degrees. Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head. Sweat started to burst on his skin, his balls climbed up, body ready.
“Go.”
He opened his eyes. Dean was watching him now, everything carefully hidden again behind a smirk and a wink.
“Come with me.”
Dean shook his head.
Sam’s thighs ached from holding that edge. Sweat pooled in his navel, just above the spot where the head of Dean’s cock leaked against his belly. Dean tightened around him again and he lost it, came until spots popped behind his eyes and even his toes felt drained.
Dean eased off him. Over the rough edges of Sam’s breath , he could hear him go into the bathroom. He brought a hand to his belly. Dean hadn’t come, and Sam wasn’t going to let him jerk off in the bathroom alone. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Dean.”
Dean came out, a washcloth on the back of his neck. His dick was still rigid, curved up against the dark hair low on his belly. He sat next to Sam and rubbed the cloth along the back of his neck.
“Yeah?”
Sam considered and discarded a dozen different questions most of them starting with why and just shoved him back onto the bed.
He planted his weight on him and zeroed in on his cock, swallowed him down.
“I don’t want-”
Dean tried to roll away, but Sam had two hundred pounds on his legs and his dick in his mouth and he wasn’t going anywhere until he came.
“Damn it, Sam.”
Sam sucked and backed off, tongue curling under the head until Dean stopped trying to roll away and bucked toward him. He soaked him in spit and precome and then took him to the back of his throat, and he felt his surrender in the muscles under his chest.
“Aw, shit.” Dean’s hand came down to cradle his head.
Sam smiled around the cock in his mouth and went back to the quick bobs he knew would bring Dean over the edge. His tongue caught another splash of precome, and he tightened his lips.
“Son of a bitch.”
Dean pumped quick and hot and bitter as tears in his throat. He took it all, slowing, easing to soft licks.
“Stop.” Dean’s voice was thick as if he had the throat full of come.
Sam lifted his head and caught the shine in Dean’s eyes. His brother shut them again, but a drop caught on a lash.
“Get off me, Sam.”
Sam crawled up his body instead, settling his head where he could hear Dean’s heart race. They weren’t sons anymore, but they were still brothers, and they still had this. Even after tomorrow, all they’d have left would be each other and they’d still have this.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“How’d he look . . . when you found him?” Dean’s voice was hoarse.
Gone. Empty. Alone. “Like he went down fighting.”