(no subject)
abide with me
sam/dean
mostly harmless: R
don't own, not mine
The house is dark and hot and Dean’s not really sure if the house is so hot because Sam cranked the heat up again or because he’s fucking drunk. He fumbles on the wall forever to find the light switch and then just lets his face press into the wall for the cool.
Jesus.
It’s around 2am. Maybe 3am. Dean’s not sure; he stopped trying to look at his watch and walk at the same time when he walked right into a tree on his way home.
There was a blond in the bar, she’d hung over his shoulder the whole night, matched him shot for shot with Jose. She was sexy in an over the top way: too much makeup, too much skin. Dean’s favorite. At the time he’d thought she was the best person ever and now he’s wondering if she wasn’t a demon sent from hell to give him alcohol poisoning.
He finally makes it to the kitchen and snorts, loud in the quiet. The kitchen is so clean that Dean smiles a little. He knows exactly what happened tonight, while he was out pickling his liver. Sam reheated the dinner Dean made the other night (chicken tacos, he’s a fucking master with them, and Sam scarfs them down like a man with his last meal), did every last bit of his homework and then went ahead in his books (the dork), cleaned the kitchen and was in bed and asleep by 10:30.
When he looks over to the counter there’s a plate set aside for him. It’s like Sam knows that when Dean comes stumbling in the house drunk off his ass the only thing he really wants is to stuff his face.
Wobbling his way to the dark of the living room he stops abruptly. There’s a shadowy shape on the couch and he’s not too macho to admit that he almost pisses himself. In his own mind, that is.
He stands very still for a few moments and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. And, yeah, that’s Sam, with his huge socked foot poking out from the ratty blanket that Sam loves. He’s never telling Sam about this ever. Sam is snoring softly, and Dean can hear it now, the soft whistling. Dean leans his body against the entrance way because if he doesn’t he’s gonna fall. He relaxes and watches his baby brother sleep peacefully. Sam rarely waits up, and Dean might be extra drunk, but this looks like waiting up.
Text books, folders and papers are all stacked neatly on the table. Dean can see the general shape of them and thinks that what he’s looking at but squinting any more is going to give him a headache. His stomach growls angrily and reminds him that he should have been making his way through food as soon as he came through the door.
When Dean gets back to the kitchen and starts to assault his plate of food he sees that Sam’s made use of the giant can of yams that lived in the lower cabinet forever. Dean didn’t know what to do with it. But whatever Sam’s done to them he’s doing it again, as soon as possible. He even makes a mental note to get the boy more yams, since he clearly is the Master of The Yam.
“You look like a 4 year old.” Sam says clearly and scares the living shit out of Dean for the second time tonight. “I mean, it’s all over your face.”
Dean doesn’t turn to his brother until his heart dislodges from his throat. Shit, if Sam doesn’t get to know about the first time he sure as hell isn’t going to know about the time he scared his big brother with Yam Surprise all over his face. He swallows what’s in his mouth and turns around while he’s scraping the excess off his face with his finger.
“It’s really, really good,” Dean eats what’s on his finger. “I could eat this forever.”
“Yeah, I thought you would like it, especially drunk at three in the morning” Sam is smirking, and crossing his arms, and he’s not entirely dressed in only boxers and socks. He looks like Dean’s little brother right now. And not, because Sammy was never this tall, ripped man. Dean thinks he might be more confused about Sam’s developing body than Sam. Sam oscillates between teenage awkwardness and an awareness of his body that Dean’s sure he didn’t have at that age.
Thing is, this awareness isn’t manifesting itself in the way Dean thinks it should. Like getting some ass. Sure, he’s adjusting quickly to the new training Dad’s throwing at him, using his height and weight in all the right ways, but.
Aside from a heated slapping match that turned into full-on sparring that resulted in Sam getting wood, a red face, and a sudden speech impediment, Sam refuses to have anything to do with sex. He doesn’t even jerk off, as far as Dean knows, and that’s kinda far since they’re crammed together most of the time. He refuses to leer at girls with Dean, and after a very awkward suggestion Dean now knows that Sam isn’t going to leer at any guys either. But that might be a lie on Sam’s part because Dean’s seen him looking a couple of time, and he’s not sure what Sam thinks Dean feels about that but he’s sure Sam has the wrong impression.
He just wants Sam to get some ass, and he doesn’t really care if it’s a waitress in Omaha with wet red lips, or that young librarian guy in Baltimore who had leaned on Sam in a way Dean knew, recognized, and was very familiar with.
Right now, though, he wants for his brother to stop looking like a grown man in his kitchen, all angles and muscles and fucking smirking smirks.
God, he’s fucking smashed.
“Dean, you okay?” Sam looks concerned now, like maybe Dean’s been standing there staring at his brother’s body while zoning out. With yam on his face.
Christ.
“I think I’m gonna turn in.” Dean says and looks away. He’s not even hungry anymore. He’s drunk, and he’s tired and his body is thrumming with something and maybe he should have just brought the blond back, fucked her in their tiny bathroom and sent her home with cab fare and a smile.
Sam leaves the kitchen and Dean eats the rest of the yams because damn, he has to. He washes his face in the sink, and then he makes his way to their room. Sam will probably stay on the couch for the rest of the night. Dean is actually a little relieved that he’ll have their old queen to himself. They sleep in the same bed most night, and Dad only raises an eyebrow sometimes, but they still do it. There’s no need to talk about it.
The room is dark, and a complete mess, so Dean steps lightly so that he doesn’t trip over something and bash his head in on something else. He strips quickly, boots, jeans, shirt, and socks. He doesn’t understand how Sam and their father can sleep in socks. There’s only a sheet on the bed and a thin blanket, since Sam took the heavier one to the couch with him, but Dean’s good. He’s fine. His skin feels too hot anyway.
He punches the lone pillow and puts his face in it and it smells like Sam. Smells like sweat and the good shampoo that they really can’t afford so Dean steals it every month because Sam loves it. He thinks about jerking off, and his dick is suddenly hard enough for it but he can’t keep his eyes open and he knows what it’s like to pass out drunk and wake up with your hand on your morning wood and some asshole standing over you, smirking.
So, no, he doesn’t have to, and laying on his stomach, pressing his dick into the mattress feels good and he can just go to sleep like this.
Dean wakes up suddenly and is pissed off for a handful of moments before he realizes that the weight on his back is Sam. And Sam is asleep. Dean can feel the whistling in his ear, and covering him completely. Dean briefly considers waking him and sending him back out to the couch so that he can continue to enjoy the bed alone. Sam would bitch, but Sam would go. But Dean can’t, because sometimes Sam has a hard time sleeping by himself and Dean wouldn’t make fun of him for that any more than he send Sam out of the bed. Or get a bed of him own. Maybe he likes sleeping this way too.
What he does do is push and elbow and squirm until Sam is more on his side but with an arm still thrown over Dean’s waist and his faces smashed against Dean’s shoulder. And he’s warm like a furnace. Dean feels a lump at his feet and pulls himself up just enough to grab the other blanket and throw it over them.
Then he’s drifting again, slipping off with thoughts of how to include yams in breakfast and Sam’s whistling snores and the weight at his back and sweet blessed quiet.
sam/dean
mostly harmless: R
don't own, not mine
The house is dark and hot and Dean’s not really sure if the house is so hot because Sam cranked the heat up again or because he’s fucking drunk. He fumbles on the wall forever to find the light switch and then just lets his face press into the wall for the cool.
Jesus.
It’s around 2am. Maybe 3am. Dean’s not sure; he stopped trying to look at his watch and walk at the same time when he walked right into a tree on his way home.
There was a blond in the bar, she’d hung over his shoulder the whole night, matched him shot for shot with Jose. She was sexy in an over the top way: too much makeup, too much skin. Dean’s favorite. At the time he’d thought she was the best person ever and now he’s wondering if she wasn’t a demon sent from hell to give him alcohol poisoning.
He finally makes it to the kitchen and snorts, loud in the quiet. The kitchen is so clean that Dean smiles a little. He knows exactly what happened tonight, while he was out pickling his liver. Sam reheated the dinner Dean made the other night (chicken tacos, he’s a fucking master with them, and Sam scarfs them down like a man with his last meal), did every last bit of his homework and then went ahead in his books (the dork), cleaned the kitchen and was in bed and asleep by 10:30.
When he looks over to the counter there’s a plate set aside for him. It’s like Sam knows that when Dean comes stumbling in the house drunk off his ass the only thing he really wants is to stuff his face.
Wobbling his way to the dark of the living room he stops abruptly. There’s a shadowy shape on the couch and he’s not too macho to admit that he almost pisses himself. In his own mind, that is.
He stands very still for a few moments and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. And, yeah, that’s Sam, with his huge socked foot poking out from the ratty blanket that Sam loves. He’s never telling Sam about this ever. Sam is snoring softly, and Dean can hear it now, the soft whistling. Dean leans his body against the entrance way because if he doesn’t he’s gonna fall. He relaxes and watches his baby brother sleep peacefully. Sam rarely waits up, and Dean might be extra drunk, but this looks like waiting up.
Text books, folders and papers are all stacked neatly on the table. Dean can see the general shape of them and thinks that what he’s looking at but squinting any more is going to give him a headache. His stomach growls angrily and reminds him that he should have been making his way through food as soon as he came through the door.
When Dean gets back to the kitchen and starts to assault his plate of food he sees that Sam’s made use of the giant can of yams that lived in the lower cabinet forever. Dean didn’t know what to do with it. But whatever Sam’s done to them he’s doing it again, as soon as possible. He even makes a mental note to get the boy more yams, since he clearly is the Master of The Yam.
“You look like a 4 year old.” Sam says clearly and scares the living shit out of Dean for the second time tonight. “I mean, it’s all over your face.”
Dean doesn’t turn to his brother until his heart dislodges from his throat. Shit, if Sam doesn’t get to know about the first time he sure as hell isn’t going to know about the time he scared his big brother with Yam Surprise all over his face. He swallows what’s in his mouth and turns around while he’s scraping the excess off his face with his finger.
“It’s really, really good,” Dean eats what’s on his finger. “I could eat this forever.”
“Yeah, I thought you would like it, especially drunk at three in the morning” Sam is smirking, and crossing his arms, and he’s not entirely dressed in only boxers and socks. He looks like Dean’s little brother right now. And not, because Sammy was never this tall, ripped man. Dean thinks he might be more confused about Sam’s developing body than Sam. Sam oscillates between teenage awkwardness and an awareness of his body that Dean’s sure he didn’t have at that age.
Thing is, this awareness isn’t manifesting itself in the way Dean thinks it should. Like getting some ass. Sure, he’s adjusting quickly to the new training Dad’s throwing at him, using his height and weight in all the right ways, but.
Aside from a heated slapping match that turned into full-on sparring that resulted in Sam getting wood, a red face, and a sudden speech impediment, Sam refuses to have anything to do with sex. He doesn’t even jerk off, as far as Dean knows, and that’s kinda far since they’re crammed together most of the time. He refuses to leer at girls with Dean, and after a very awkward suggestion Dean now knows that Sam isn’t going to leer at any guys either. But that might be a lie on Sam’s part because Dean’s seen him looking a couple of time, and he’s not sure what Sam thinks Dean feels about that but he’s sure Sam has the wrong impression.
He just wants Sam to get some ass, and he doesn’t really care if it’s a waitress in Omaha with wet red lips, or that young librarian guy in Baltimore who had leaned on Sam in a way Dean knew, recognized, and was very familiar with.
Right now, though, he wants for his brother to stop looking like a grown man in his kitchen, all angles and muscles and fucking smirking smirks.
God, he’s fucking smashed.
“Dean, you okay?” Sam looks concerned now, like maybe Dean’s been standing there staring at his brother’s body while zoning out. With yam on his face.
Christ.
“I think I’m gonna turn in.” Dean says and looks away. He’s not even hungry anymore. He’s drunk, and he’s tired and his body is thrumming with something and maybe he should have just brought the blond back, fucked her in their tiny bathroom and sent her home with cab fare and a smile.
Sam leaves the kitchen and Dean eats the rest of the yams because damn, he has to. He washes his face in the sink, and then he makes his way to their room. Sam will probably stay on the couch for the rest of the night. Dean is actually a little relieved that he’ll have their old queen to himself. They sleep in the same bed most night, and Dad only raises an eyebrow sometimes, but they still do it. There’s no need to talk about it.
The room is dark, and a complete mess, so Dean steps lightly so that he doesn’t trip over something and bash his head in on something else. He strips quickly, boots, jeans, shirt, and socks. He doesn’t understand how Sam and their father can sleep in socks. There’s only a sheet on the bed and a thin blanket, since Sam took the heavier one to the couch with him, but Dean’s good. He’s fine. His skin feels too hot anyway.
He punches the lone pillow and puts his face in it and it smells like Sam. Smells like sweat and the good shampoo that they really can’t afford so Dean steals it every month because Sam loves it. He thinks about jerking off, and his dick is suddenly hard enough for it but he can’t keep his eyes open and he knows what it’s like to pass out drunk and wake up with your hand on your morning wood and some asshole standing over you, smirking.
So, no, he doesn’t have to, and laying on his stomach, pressing his dick into the mattress feels good and he can just go to sleep like this.
Dean wakes up suddenly and is pissed off for a handful of moments before he realizes that the weight on his back is Sam. And Sam is asleep. Dean can feel the whistling in his ear, and covering him completely. Dean briefly considers waking him and sending him back out to the couch so that he can continue to enjoy the bed alone. Sam would bitch, but Sam would go. But Dean can’t, because sometimes Sam has a hard time sleeping by himself and Dean wouldn’t make fun of him for that any more than he send Sam out of the bed. Or get a bed of him own. Maybe he likes sleeping this way too.
What he does do is push and elbow and squirm until Sam is more on his side but with an arm still thrown over Dean’s waist and his faces smashed against Dean’s shoulder. And he’s warm like a furnace. Dean feels a lump at his feet and pulls himself up just enough to grab the other blanket and throw it over them.
Then he’s drifting again, slipping off with thoughts of how to include yams in breakfast and Sam’s whistling snores and the weight at his back and sweet blessed quiet.