SPN: hint of a spark (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
hint of a spark
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Warnings: incest
Summary: Written for spnspringfling for the prompts 'power failure' and 'hand kink.' PWP.
Word Count: 2,159
A/N: Originally posted anonymously here. Title from I Will Follow You Into The Dark because I cannot title to save my life. Pre-series, Sam is newly 18 here.
The sky is growing dark with promised storms, black clouds rolling in slow and relentless from the west. Night is hours away still.
At first, only a drop of rain, and then another, and in moments the world is flooded, a deluge from nowhere. Dean is sitting on the porch, just watching, sheltered from the downpour and at peace with the storm even as sirens start their low wail in the distance and the trees sway from side to side, kicking up just enough spray to cool his face.
The sky flashes and thunder booms everywhere, the muggy heat of a late May evening broken up by the chill rain. There's a certain beauty to storms, something wild and violent that Dean loves, and in the moments between the lightning the darkness is absolute. There are no other houses on this long stretch of road, and the one streetlight burnt out well before they arrived.
The lightning seems to come from everywhere at once, not just flashes anymore--long, jagged bolts of blue-white that split and arc across the sky. Even the air is tinged electric, vibrating under Dean's skin, and the sound of thunder drowns out everything else, even the low hum of the highway in the distance, a sound he's so accustomed to now it only registers in its absence.
“Get inside,” Sam calls, and Dean gets to his feet, feeling the floor shake with the next boom of thunder. One-mississippi, two-mississippi, he thinks. The worst of the storm is growing closer.
“Are you deaf?” Sam asks. “That was a tornado siren.”
“Nah, I bet it was just a severe thunderstorm one,” Dean says. “Whoever's running that siren's getting a little button-happy. Presses it every time there's a cloud.”
The trees sway outside, bending low in the wind, and Dean thinks of them snapping like matchsticks, leaving scattered branches and ruin all over the yard. Maybe the guy isn't so trigger-happy this time.
He and Sam settle onto the couch, sheltered from the wind and rain, just watching. The house has one big picture window, dusty and cracked in places, covered with a thin film of grime, and trees dip and scratch at it, the darkness and lightning making fingers out of spindly branches. The lights flicker, and Sam shivers.
“What, you afraid the big bad lightning's gonna get you?” Dean teases, and Sam elbows him in the ribs. They're sitting side by side with no room between them, pressed together shoulder-to-hip.
“Sorry if I don't want it to hit the house, Dean,” Sam says. “I know you'd love to be one of those storm chaser guys, but some of us aren't totally nuts.”
“Aw, it won't hurt you. I'll scare it away.”
“Yeah, the lightning's gonna be real scared of you.”
“Duh,” Dean says, and the lights flicker again with the next crash of lightning, thunder following a split-second after and shaking the house to its foundations. The storm is violent, takes no prisoners, and Dean thinks of staying on the plains of Nebraska as a kid and watching a tornado from far off as it spun its way through a town, leaving destruction and debris and the chaos of nature in its wake. He was so small, compared to it. It could do so much. He stood frozen, half-hidden in the long grass, eyes fixed on the black sky and the raging funnel cloud, unable to tear his eyes away until John hauled him bodily back inside and took him to the basement to join Sam.
The lights flicker again and then die outright, plunging the two of them into absolute darkness, and Dean knows Sam is scowling even though he can't see him. He can't even see his hands in front of his face until the lightning flashes again.
Sam pushes himself to his feet, and the sudden lack of warmth at Dean's side is startling. He squints through the darkness, trying to watch as Sam fumbles around the room for a candle, long awkward limbs crashing over textbooks and papers left scattered. At least this isn't one he can pin on Dean; this one is solidly his own fault.
“Shit, ow,” Sam hisses, and when he stumbles back towards Dean he very nearly falls on top of him. Lightning flashes again, and Dean finds himself struck by how different he looks in the light, as blinding blue-white shows the contours and sharp angles, all of the softness of the face Dean knew so well lost. Sam is eighteen now, an adult, but still shaggy-haired and puppy-eyed, the constants of his ever-changing body. Dean's learned every new inch of him on dark nights like these, tucked tight to his brother under the same sheet, but the familiarity is comforting as well.
Sam scoots closer under the cover of darkness and holds out the candle for Dean to light, waiting as Dean fumbles through his pockets for his lighter. It's an old one, full of memories, and Dean smiles as he flicks it open, remembering. Sam watches the wick flare up and takes it back, sets it down so he can rest his head on Dean's shoulder.
It's so dark. He can barely see Sam's face in the glow of the flame, and it's almost spooky, this big, old, empty house, falling apart at the edges, lit by the light of a single candle, because there were others but this isn't the first storm they've had this season. The storms began in April and haven't stopped since, crashing their way through their lives.
They could be the only two people in the world, in this moment. Everything is small, condensed, reduced down to what they can see, and moving closer is only natural, an act of reassurance. Sam pushes Dean against the back of the couch and straddles him in one fluid movement. Dean forgets to breathe, for a second. Sam's hands slips to his hips and he thinks of violent, electric things that cannot be controlled, and it's the easiest thing in the world to give in.
“Yeah?” he half-says, half-asks, and Sam grins, turning sharp-edged as another flash of lightning illuminates them both.
It's like slow motion, Sam leaning in, burying a hand in his hair and kissing him fiercely, all inexpert, teenage longing. Too much teeth, but Sam's always been a biter. Dean feels hot all over, prickling with electricity, and when he breaks the kiss Sam bends down, nips at his neck, just the right side of painful. He's going to leave marks.
“You have no idea,” Sam murmurs into his skin, voice deep and full of wicked promise, “what I'd let you do. God.”
“Yeah?” Dean asks. He presses into the burning heat of Sam's mouth and gives over to the heat building low in his belly, cock thickening as Sam rocks down against him. He wants to do this all the time, wants to see Sam come apart against him, wants everything.
“Yeah,” Sam says, rocking back quick to tug his shirt over his head, all smooth, stretching muscle, lit up by another flash of lightning. “Want your mouth on me, want you inside me-want your hands. Shit, Dean, want you every time I see you.”
“You see me every day,” Dean says, halfway out of his own shirt before he's even got three words out. “You see me all the time.”
Sam grins and rocks down against him, hard, and all the breath leaves Dean's lungs in a hiss. “I know,” he says, fingers working fast on belt and zipper until he can just slide his hand right into Dean's jeans, and Dean's strangled groan is lost in a boom of thunder. The house could come apart around him and he's not even sure he'd notice, too busy pushing up into the tight grip of Sam's hand, nerve endings sparking and face flushing red.
“Sam,” he says, voice shot low and hoarse, and there's nowhere near enough air between them. He gasps for breath and Sam kisses him again, leaving him dizzy and shaken.
“Want you to--” Sam pulls back, takes a long, shuddering breath. His hips are rocking against Dean, friction that has to be painful, and his words are lost in the sounds of the storm. Dean reaches for him, ready to return the favor, popping the button of Sam's jeans with hands as steady as he can manage. Sam leans in and nips at his ear, murmurs, “Want your fingers inside me,” and Dean loses what little coherency he has left. “Be right back,” Sam adds, and slides to his knees as he pulls away, grin illuminated by the flickering candlelight.
“Fucking tease,” Dean growls as Sam gets to his feet and turns to leave. He reaches out to tug Sam closer and Sam twists out of his reach, a move he's had years of practice to perfect. He hunts through the room, scattering books and research notes, and Dean doesn't even care what he ruins so long as he comes back with the lube, and soon. Getting his hands on Sam, inside Sam, is all he can think about.
A gust of wind shakes the trees outside, sends the door clattering open and banging against the wall, and the candle is snuffed out, smoke trail curling up into the absolute darkness. Sam swears again and falls on top of Dean as he stumbles blindly back to the couch.
“Come here,” Dean says, reaching for him. “Fuck.” He flips them, spreads Sam out on the couch so he can tug Sam's jeans and boxers the rest of the way off. Sam is unabashed about being naked in front of Dean, stretching to give him a show even though the erratic, sharp flashes of lightning are the only way Dean can see him now. In the absence of sight, Dean learns him by touch, sliding rough, callused fingers down Sam's sides and along his hipbones. He knows Sam likes his hands, loves the way the skin, toughened from years of hands-on living, feels against his own.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam says, challenge in it. Dean slicks up his fingers and presses one in, easy and slow, and Sam closes his eyes, pushing back against him already, so eager for more. He gets a hand in Dean's hair, grips it tight enough to hurt and pulls Dean's mouth to his, breath reduced to small, shaky pants as Dean works in a second finger alongside the first. He cries out as Dean twists his fingers, presses them hard in just the right spot, and he sounds wild, like an uncaged animal.
“Dean, Dean, I need--” Sam says.
“Give me a minute,” Dean says, his own grin turning wicked, and Sam's head drops back against the cushions as Dean slides a third finger in. He's so tight, and Dean wants to pull his fingers out and just push right into him, make him writhe and buck. Next time, he thinks, working his fingers slow and deliberate.
“Goddamnit, Dean,” Sam hisses, and Dean gives in and wraps a hand around Sam's cock, still working his fingers, lost in the rhythm of his own hands. Sam comes with a hoarse shout, lost in the thunder again, but he's right up against Dean, mouths just barely touching, and Dean can feel the sounds he makes. Dean strokes him through the aftershocks and Sam shakes against him, too much; Dean knows he could keep going, get Sam hard again, but Sam's still-shaking hand is sliding back into his jeans and he has a solid set of priorities.
Sam pushes his hand back into Dean's jeans, jerks him off hard and brutal, and Dean gasps, all words lost besides Sam's name. Sam takes him from the brink to there in so short a time that Dean feels like he's fifteen again, arching so hard it almost hurts as he comes. He slumps against Sam, blissed-out and sticky and drenched with sweat, and the two of them are filthy, but it's everything Dean wants. He breathes out slow, letting his head clear, and Sam hums contentedly against his neck. The lights still haven't come back on, and the world is small and insular in the darkness, Sam's body against his the only thing grounding him. He rests against Sam, slowly lulled into sleep by the sounds of the thunder as it grows distant, only a gentle rumble now.
The storm will pass, fading away into memory by the time they wake up, but for now they are warm and dry, safe from the violent winds and battering rain. For the moment, Dean's world is reduced to Sam's slow, even breaths against his face.
It's enough.
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Warnings: incest
Summary: Written for spnspringfling for the prompts 'power failure' and 'hand kink.' PWP.
Word Count: 2,159
A/N: Originally posted anonymously here. Title from I Will Follow You Into The Dark because I cannot title to save my life. Pre-series, Sam is newly 18 here.
The sky is growing dark with promised storms, black clouds rolling in slow and relentless from the west. Night is hours away still.
At first, only a drop of rain, and then another, and in moments the world is flooded, a deluge from nowhere. Dean is sitting on the porch, just watching, sheltered from the downpour and at peace with the storm even as sirens start their low wail in the distance and the trees sway from side to side, kicking up just enough spray to cool his face.
The sky flashes and thunder booms everywhere, the muggy heat of a late May evening broken up by the chill rain. There's a certain beauty to storms, something wild and violent that Dean loves, and in the moments between the lightning the darkness is absolute. There are no other houses on this long stretch of road, and the one streetlight burnt out well before they arrived.
The lightning seems to come from everywhere at once, not just flashes anymore--long, jagged bolts of blue-white that split and arc across the sky. Even the air is tinged electric, vibrating under Dean's skin, and the sound of thunder drowns out everything else, even the low hum of the highway in the distance, a sound he's so accustomed to now it only registers in its absence.
“Get inside,” Sam calls, and Dean gets to his feet, feeling the floor shake with the next boom of thunder. One-mississippi, two-mississippi, he thinks. The worst of the storm is growing closer.
“Are you deaf?” Sam asks. “That was a tornado siren.”
“Nah, I bet it was just a severe thunderstorm one,” Dean says. “Whoever's running that siren's getting a little button-happy. Presses it every time there's a cloud.”
The trees sway outside, bending low in the wind, and Dean thinks of them snapping like matchsticks, leaving scattered branches and ruin all over the yard. Maybe the guy isn't so trigger-happy this time.
He and Sam settle onto the couch, sheltered from the wind and rain, just watching. The house has one big picture window, dusty and cracked in places, covered with a thin film of grime, and trees dip and scratch at it, the darkness and lightning making fingers out of spindly branches. The lights flicker, and Sam shivers.
“What, you afraid the big bad lightning's gonna get you?” Dean teases, and Sam elbows him in the ribs. They're sitting side by side with no room between them, pressed together shoulder-to-hip.
“Sorry if I don't want it to hit the house, Dean,” Sam says. “I know you'd love to be one of those storm chaser guys, but some of us aren't totally nuts.”
“Aw, it won't hurt you. I'll scare it away.”
“Yeah, the lightning's gonna be real scared of you.”
“Duh,” Dean says, and the lights flicker again with the next crash of lightning, thunder following a split-second after and shaking the house to its foundations. The storm is violent, takes no prisoners, and Dean thinks of staying on the plains of Nebraska as a kid and watching a tornado from far off as it spun its way through a town, leaving destruction and debris and the chaos of nature in its wake. He was so small, compared to it. It could do so much. He stood frozen, half-hidden in the long grass, eyes fixed on the black sky and the raging funnel cloud, unable to tear his eyes away until John hauled him bodily back inside and took him to the basement to join Sam.
The lights flicker again and then die outright, plunging the two of them into absolute darkness, and Dean knows Sam is scowling even though he can't see him. He can't even see his hands in front of his face until the lightning flashes again.
Sam pushes himself to his feet, and the sudden lack of warmth at Dean's side is startling. He squints through the darkness, trying to watch as Sam fumbles around the room for a candle, long awkward limbs crashing over textbooks and papers left scattered. At least this isn't one he can pin on Dean; this one is solidly his own fault.
“Shit, ow,” Sam hisses, and when he stumbles back towards Dean he very nearly falls on top of him. Lightning flashes again, and Dean finds himself struck by how different he looks in the light, as blinding blue-white shows the contours and sharp angles, all of the softness of the face Dean knew so well lost. Sam is eighteen now, an adult, but still shaggy-haired and puppy-eyed, the constants of his ever-changing body. Dean's learned every new inch of him on dark nights like these, tucked tight to his brother under the same sheet, but the familiarity is comforting as well.
Sam scoots closer under the cover of darkness and holds out the candle for Dean to light, waiting as Dean fumbles through his pockets for his lighter. It's an old one, full of memories, and Dean smiles as he flicks it open, remembering. Sam watches the wick flare up and takes it back, sets it down so he can rest his head on Dean's shoulder.
It's so dark. He can barely see Sam's face in the glow of the flame, and it's almost spooky, this big, old, empty house, falling apart at the edges, lit by the light of a single candle, because there were others but this isn't the first storm they've had this season. The storms began in April and haven't stopped since, crashing their way through their lives.
They could be the only two people in the world, in this moment. Everything is small, condensed, reduced down to what they can see, and moving closer is only natural, an act of reassurance. Sam pushes Dean against the back of the couch and straddles him in one fluid movement. Dean forgets to breathe, for a second. Sam's hands slips to his hips and he thinks of violent, electric things that cannot be controlled, and it's the easiest thing in the world to give in.
“Yeah?” he half-says, half-asks, and Sam grins, turning sharp-edged as another flash of lightning illuminates them both.
It's like slow motion, Sam leaning in, burying a hand in his hair and kissing him fiercely, all inexpert, teenage longing. Too much teeth, but Sam's always been a biter. Dean feels hot all over, prickling with electricity, and when he breaks the kiss Sam bends down, nips at his neck, just the right side of painful. He's going to leave marks.
“You have no idea,” Sam murmurs into his skin, voice deep and full of wicked promise, “what I'd let you do. God.”
“Yeah?” Dean asks. He presses into the burning heat of Sam's mouth and gives over to the heat building low in his belly, cock thickening as Sam rocks down against him. He wants to do this all the time, wants to see Sam come apart against him, wants everything.
“Yeah,” Sam says, rocking back quick to tug his shirt over his head, all smooth, stretching muscle, lit up by another flash of lightning. “Want your mouth on me, want you inside me-want your hands. Shit, Dean, want you every time I see you.”
“You see me every day,” Dean says, halfway out of his own shirt before he's even got three words out. “You see me all the time.”
Sam grins and rocks down against him, hard, and all the breath leaves Dean's lungs in a hiss. “I know,” he says, fingers working fast on belt and zipper until he can just slide his hand right into Dean's jeans, and Dean's strangled groan is lost in a boom of thunder. The house could come apart around him and he's not even sure he'd notice, too busy pushing up into the tight grip of Sam's hand, nerve endings sparking and face flushing red.
“Sam,” he says, voice shot low and hoarse, and there's nowhere near enough air between them. He gasps for breath and Sam kisses him again, leaving him dizzy and shaken.
“Want you to--” Sam pulls back, takes a long, shuddering breath. His hips are rocking against Dean, friction that has to be painful, and his words are lost in the sounds of the storm. Dean reaches for him, ready to return the favor, popping the button of Sam's jeans with hands as steady as he can manage. Sam leans in and nips at his ear, murmurs, “Want your fingers inside me,” and Dean loses what little coherency he has left. “Be right back,” Sam adds, and slides to his knees as he pulls away, grin illuminated by the flickering candlelight.
“Fucking tease,” Dean growls as Sam gets to his feet and turns to leave. He reaches out to tug Sam closer and Sam twists out of his reach, a move he's had years of practice to perfect. He hunts through the room, scattering books and research notes, and Dean doesn't even care what he ruins so long as he comes back with the lube, and soon. Getting his hands on Sam, inside Sam, is all he can think about.
A gust of wind shakes the trees outside, sends the door clattering open and banging against the wall, and the candle is snuffed out, smoke trail curling up into the absolute darkness. Sam swears again and falls on top of Dean as he stumbles blindly back to the couch.
“Come here,” Dean says, reaching for him. “Fuck.” He flips them, spreads Sam out on the couch so he can tug Sam's jeans and boxers the rest of the way off. Sam is unabashed about being naked in front of Dean, stretching to give him a show even though the erratic, sharp flashes of lightning are the only way Dean can see him now. In the absence of sight, Dean learns him by touch, sliding rough, callused fingers down Sam's sides and along his hipbones. He knows Sam likes his hands, loves the way the skin, toughened from years of hands-on living, feels against his own.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam says, challenge in it. Dean slicks up his fingers and presses one in, easy and slow, and Sam closes his eyes, pushing back against him already, so eager for more. He gets a hand in Dean's hair, grips it tight enough to hurt and pulls Dean's mouth to his, breath reduced to small, shaky pants as Dean works in a second finger alongside the first. He cries out as Dean twists his fingers, presses them hard in just the right spot, and he sounds wild, like an uncaged animal.
“Dean, Dean, I need--” Sam says.
“Give me a minute,” Dean says, his own grin turning wicked, and Sam's head drops back against the cushions as Dean slides a third finger in. He's so tight, and Dean wants to pull his fingers out and just push right into him, make him writhe and buck. Next time, he thinks, working his fingers slow and deliberate.
“Goddamnit, Dean,” Sam hisses, and Dean gives in and wraps a hand around Sam's cock, still working his fingers, lost in the rhythm of his own hands. Sam comes with a hoarse shout, lost in the thunder again, but he's right up against Dean, mouths just barely touching, and Dean can feel the sounds he makes. Dean strokes him through the aftershocks and Sam shakes against him, too much; Dean knows he could keep going, get Sam hard again, but Sam's still-shaking hand is sliding back into his jeans and he has a solid set of priorities.
Sam pushes his hand back into Dean's jeans, jerks him off hard and brutal, and Dean gasps, all words lost besides Sam's name. Sam takes him from the brink to there in so short a time that Dean feels like he's fifteen again, arching so hard it almost hurts as he comes. He slumps against Sam, blissed-out and sticky and drenched with sweat, and the two of them are filthy, but it's everything Dean wants. He breathes out slow, letting his head clear, and Sam hums contentedly against his neck. The lights still haven't come back on, and the world is small and insular in the darkness, Sam's body against his the only thing grounding him. He rests against Sam, slowly lulled into sleep by the sounds of the thunder as it grows distant, only a gentle rumble now.
The storm will pass, fading away into memory by the time they wake up, but for now they are warm and dry, safe from the violent winds and battering rain. For the moment, Dean's world is reduced to Sam's slow, even breaths against his face.
It's enough.