"Make Kripke Kry!" A Fantastic Fic Fest
On this, the second week anniversary of having a certain giggly gentleman RIPPING out our hearts (using meathooks? Oh yes, I think so!), the unholy triumvirate of myself, memphis86, and ignited hereby welcome you to the first happytime making fic meme at ohnokripkedidnt!!
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"Hey, Sam?" Dean shouts, "You got any clean shirts left?" Dean continues rummaging through his duffel for a shirt, the pitter-patter of the shower drumming in the background. "Sam?" Dean shouts again. "What?" Sam says, voice canned. "Got any clean shirts?" Dean shouts louder, an eyebrow raising in concentration as he looks for Sam's bag now. "I think so," Sam replies, "Look in my bag."
Dean finds the bag under Sam's bed, and lifts it onto his bed. When he opens it the first thing he sees is a brief. Sam's brief, to be exact. With some spots of discoloration. "That fucker." Dean mutters as he scrunches his nose and delicately lifts the underwear and flings it onto Sam's bed.
He starts rummaging in the bag, and all he gets are shirts with mud, crusty blood stains, grease or soda all over them. Nothing's clean. Dean crosses his arms over his bare chest and heaves a sigh. Absent-mindedly his hand plays with the amulet on his neck, trying to remember if he left a clean shirt somewhere.
Sam steps out of the bathroom, door clicking loudly and startling Dean. Dean momentarily looks at Sam and sees him wrapping the towel on his waist--Dean quickly looks at Sam's bag instead, and looks inside it. Sam walks closer to him, and Dean's feeling a little uncomfortable now, Sam's just an inch away from him, and Dean can literally feel Sam's body heat on his own skin.
"Sam." Dean grunts. "Huh?" Sam asks, now sitting on the bed. "Got any clean shirts?" Dean tries not to let his eyes look at Sam in just a towel, sitting on a bed, with his legs open. Dean looks at the TV instead. He walks to the television and turns it on, keeping the volume to a low.
He hears Sam taking the clothes out of the bags and throwing them on the beds. The sound goes faster, almost panicked, until Sam says, "Dean," his voice shaking, "we haven't got any clothes left."
"What do you mean we?" Dean asks, "I've still got my jeans, and underwear. And I can just wear my jacket instead." Sam looks at Dean like he's about to tackle him. "Dean, I don't. I don't have any clothes left. No underwear, no clean jeans, no shirt--" Dean tries not to think about Sam naked--it's not the best thing to do, really. "--and you can't go out in that sun with a jacket on Dean, it's too hot." Sam finishes, a slight smirk on his lips.
Dean doesn't like doing laundry. He hates it, hates putting the clothes in piles, and waiting for the machine to finish, and everything else associated with cleaning his clothes. Dean hates it.
But he's down to his last pair of underwear (he'd already turned it to side b) and can't walk around naked (Dean mentally shakes himself) so Dean takes his jacket and wears it.
"Come on Sam, just put on some dirty jeans, and we'll haul these clothes to the washing machines."
Sam wears yesterday's jeans (actually, month-old jeans) commando, and while Sam's wearing them, Dean looks at his reflection closely, inspects his stubble and runs his fingers on them.
Later they stuff the clothes back into the bags and walks across the lot to get to the laundry room. Sam's sweating profusely, his nape up to his chest sun-glazed. Dean's also sweating a lot, his hairline trickling several droplets of sweat. "Damn it," Dean mutters as he stops and drops his bag on the gravel. "What?" Sam asks, confused.
"Hold on," Dean grunts as he pulls off his leather jacket, his skin sticking to it. He puts the jacket on top of his bag and takes the bag and starts walking. His eyes meet with Sam's and he's looking at Dean different. Dean doesn't like that look, it makes him think of the feel of skin against skin, the scent of sweat and sunlight. It makes him think of pushing the stray hairs, all damp with sweat off Sam's nape.
He can almost imagine the feel of Sam's skin, slippery warm and cool simultaneously--Dean stops thinking there and forces his legs to walk, Sam still looking at him, Sam's own steps falling in a rhythm with his own.
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They both put their bags on one of the machine, and Dean starts to rummage in his pockets for a few quarters. Sam takes a seat on the bench and stretches out. Dean looks at Sam, the sun tracing lines of light on Sam's torso, on Sam's chest, abdomen, shoulders--then Dean notices Sam's face. It's closed, almost in ecstasy, like he's so tired and he hasn't sat down in days. Dean unconsciously stops fumbling in his pockets.
"Hey Sam!" he barks, "Yeah?" Sam asks, voice slow and languid. Dean raises an eyebrow. "You got any quarters there?"
Sam looks inside his pockets--nothing in the left, but he finds something in his right pocket. "Uh, I think I do" Sam starts as he pulls his hand from his tiny pocket. Dean sort of watches the way Sam's muscles ripple as he pulls his hands harder. "Here," Sam finally says, and reaches his hand towards Dean's. "I've got...three quarters?" Sam says.
Dean takes the coins and Sam's fingertips brush across his. They're warm.
Sam just looks at Dean now, legs splayed haphazardly and Dean turns towards the machines. He takes the clothes out, sorts them by color--white, reds, brighter colors, blues, then their jeans.
He shoots one coin into the machine to get it started. The clink of the coin as it slides in is the only sound Dean can hear, aside from his heart beating loudly. He ignores his heart. Dean reckons he can put the whites and the bright colors together to save money, so he piles them together while the water fills the tub, noisy and babbling.
He's sits down beside Sam, suddenly tired as well, when their arms touch--it's sticky and sweaty. Sam smells like the sun, like sweat and exhaust and Dean can almost touch Sam's hair. Sam's looking straight ahead, but Dean's not sure if he's being absent-minded or if he's trying to not look at him too.
Dean's sure he's not the only one who's feeling this strange tension, sure he's not the only one feeling this since the Trickster, when Sam hugged him so tight and Dean couldn't think of the proper reaction to that--he wanted to hug Sam back too. Wanted to hug him tighter. But Sam let go, and he still was puzzled, and after that all Dean could think about was how Sam's skin felt against his own.
Dean looks straight ahead anyway as well, the machine humming in the background.
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They keep this awkward thing running, Dean getting up every time the batch finishes to put in a new batch, to put in more soap, more bleach. But when he sits down beside Sam, neither of them moves, Dean's frozen, almost robotic, and he sees Sam's bicep twitching every time their skin comes in contact with the other's.
By the third (and last) batch, Dean puts the blue clothes and the jeans in one pile, and puts that inside the tub. He's about to close the machine when Sam suddenly stands up and walks towards him. Sam's behind him now, getting alarmingly close by the second, and Dean moves a little to the right so Sam doesn't get directly behind him.
"Wait." Sam says, his voice a little husky.
"Yeah?" Dean asks, straightening up, but still not looking at Sam.
"I need to wash these too," Sam says, and Dean hears the click-zip of Sam's fly. He steals a look at Sam and sees Sam concentrating on pulling getting the zip to fully open. He can see the trail of soft brown hair towards the inside of his jeans, and Dean gives a self-conscious cough.
Sam's head turns up, and looks at him with that look again.
Dean can feel something forming in his throat, something bubbling inside his stomach.
The sunlight's filtering in through the windows, dust floating in little particles, and the soft light is hitting Sam's face that ends up reflecting his soft multicolored eyes.
"Almost like rainbows", Dean thinks, remembering how he'd look into Sam's eyes when Sam was just three. Dean sees softness in Sam's eyes, remembers how the last hug felt.
Remembers how Sam said "I'm going to save you," so fragile like he was afraid it would break if he said it any louder. Dean remembers the feel of Sam's skin across his, wonders how it feels beneath his own fingertips, as Sam inches closer, hands sweaty-sticky across his own arms.
Dean finds that Sam's hair is silky smooth when he brushes it off Sam's nape.
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HOLY SHIT THAT WAS HOT.
There's more right? right?!
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IDK how to make it hot and languid but not obscene simultaneously. :O
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