SPN fic: I Turned Around And Thought I Watched The World Ending (But It Didn't)
Title: I Turned Around And Thought I Watched The World Ending (But It Didn't)
Author: Signe
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,646 words
A/N: Car porn! I actually wrote car porn! An unashamed, unapologetic PWP. Billy Corgan helped with the title. ice_crystal saved me from myself, slapped me around the head, and betaed! And thanks to clex_monkie89 for a last minute beta. [Edited 30th June 2006]
The dial on the cassette player's turned up to full volume. It's too loud even for Dean, but it covers the silence that's settled over them since Sam nearly got himself killed this morning. Since Sam nearly got himself killed covering Dean's back, and Sam knows it's not meant to be that way, but he still zigged left when he should have zagged right, should have moved out of danger not into it. And it doesn't matter that it worked, that Dean shot a silver bullet clean through the witch's forehead before she had time to hurt Sam, that's not the point. Sam knows that.
Sam knows that, and he still does crazy-ass stuff, and then Dean has to deal with it.
Dean is pissed off, and rightly so. He's got the window cranked down, but the air's not any fresher outside, and it's making his head ache. Truthfully, Sam's making his head ache. Not deliberately, he'll give Sam that, but he's doing it all the same.
The trouble is, Dean's not dealing. He's brooding, and it's not helping any. Especially when he doesn't need any imagination at all to know what might have happened, if luck and training hadn't worked together for once.
Dean sees Sam lying on the ground, dead. He sees the road ahead of them, orange-brown rock masses rising up to the side of the road like rows of mocking demons. He sees a truck slamming into the side of them and Sam motionless in the seat in front of him. He sees Sam, a ghost, smiling blindly as the car passes right through him. He sees too much, and he's not the one with visions.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam in the passenger seat. Alive.
Dean doesn't take his eye off the road, but he can feel the stubbornness in Sam's silence and the tension that's only going to blow away when they do something to put this morning behind them. He's not sure what they're going to do though, because Sam's refusing to apologize, and Dean sure as hell isn't going to do so.
If he weren't driving, he'd reach out and touch Sam. It's not that Dean needs reassuring exactly - he's not a kid anymore, unable to believe someone's safe if he can't touch them - he just wants to feel Sam's heartbeat, strong and steady and there. Instead, all he feels are the rattles of the car battling against the rhythm of Ulrich's drumbeat, and Sam fidgeting, elbow knocking against Dean's as Sam stretches his ridiculously long legs.
Sam has a paper sack full of huge purple grapes, bought from a roadside farm stall when they gave up on finding anywhere that sold anything with Dean's prefered food groups. Sam passes Dean some of them, warm in his hands, and maybe he is saying sorry after all, a roundabout apology in fruit. It's the way they talk best, with objects and actions, not words.
The grapes are as sweet as they smell, rolling idly on his tongue before he digs his teeth in, squashing them satisfactorily between his molars. They tell him I'm sorry, and the hand that lingers a fraction too long against his mouth tells him I want you. And even though Dean knows Sam will do the same thing again, if he thinks he has to, no matter what Dean says, the ache behind his eyes starts to ease a little.
He pulls off the highway at the next road he sees, a last minute wrench of the wheel that tosses the bag out of Sam's lap and onto the floor. He doesn't remonstrate, even though he'd normally yell at Dean for that. The road's no more than a dirt track, meandering like a giant garter snake, lazy in the midday heat. Dean feels anything but lazy.
Sam's opening the door even before they stop. Eager. Dean doesn't need to explain why he's stopping here in the middle of nowhere.
As Dean gets out, Sam looks at him for the first time in hours, really looks at him, not ducking his head as soon as Dean looks back. Dean hopes he doesn't look as needy as Sam. Thinks he probably does. Doesn't really care, not when it comes down to it, not when Sam already knows how much Dean needs him, not when he doesn't have to try and say the words because they're there between them, as real as if either of them ever said them.
Sam leans against the car, just looking, and Dean thinks that if he could pick any sort of special power he'd want to be able to move as fast as Superman so he could be up against Sammy this second, not wasting time walking around the car. But then he's there, inside Sam's space, rocking against him as though he's never known how to do anything else. Sam dips his head and kisses him, soft and needy, and Dean forgets. Everything else. There's just Sam; the rest of the world is irrelevant. The reasons why not are irrelevant. They have to be when he can feel Sam plastered against every inch of his body, when Sam's big hands are pushing up Dean's tee and scraping lines up and down his back. Nothing else matters and that's good because there's always too much to do, too many people to save, too many mysteries to solve, and so he needs this moment right now when there are no other people in the world, no demons, no fear.
Dean holds Sam's face, not tenderly exactly - he's rough, but there's love in each careless-seeming brush of his thumb against the new stubble that Sam's trying to grow but which never amounts to much, over the bones that feel too fragile when he holds them like this. Sam's not fragile, but life is, and it scares Dean like little else does, so he shoves Sam's head back and bites down on the skin just where the tan ends, because he wants to be the only one who ever hurts Sam, and he wants the pain to feel good. He bites hard enough to bruise, not enough to break skin, but Sam groans against him and jerks his hips up.
And that's all it takes, that press of hipbone and hard cock, and Dean can't wait. He pulls away, grabs Sam by the arm and twists him around, face down against the car. He's grappling with belts and buttons and zips because he can't sort out which to undo first and Sam has to bat his hand away and undo his own jeans. They're so baggy they fall around his ankles as soon as they're undone, and Dean doesn't wait for Sam to step out of them. He just kicks off his own jeans and reaches around, wanting the weight of Sam's cock in his hand. Dean leans his head against Sam's neck, stray curls of hair whispering against his face, and holds on. Moves his free hand around, sliding up under Sam's shirt until he can place it flat on his chest. Over his heart. He closes his eyes and feels Sam's heart beat, steady and sure. He only remembers to move when Sam shudders in his grasp, and mutters, Dean, come on.
He presses his own cock against the sweaty crease of Sam's legs, swallows hard and pauses for a moment. Catches his breath. Just a moment. Needs that. Needs to last long enough to fuck Sam. Nothing else will do. He needs to be inside him, feel him from inside, feel Sam tight around him, feel the blood rushing by under thin skin and know that everything is good right now.
There are layers of shirt and tee-shirt between them still, but Dean can feel the bony ridges of Sam's back against his chest, moving up and down as Sam pants. Licks the pulse point at the base of Sam's neck, feels it steady, fast and keen against his tongue. He gives Sam's cock a tug and stumbles back a step as Sam bends his waist, makes space between him and the car door.
"More, fuck it, Dean," Sam demands, and Dean smiles into his neck and pulls harder. Sam's pushy and demanding and Dean'll give him everything he wants and to hell with what that says about Dean. He's not going to psychoanalyze the way he fucks his own brother, and neither is anyone else, so it's another irrelevance. Just a part of who they are and what they are to each other.
Sam's talking nonsense now, like he always does when he gets close, face mashed against the roof of the car and hands bracing himself against it. The metal must be hot, but Dean's not sure that Sam has even noticed. Dean twists his hand, thumbing the head, smearing the wetness back down the shaft and it feels so hot in his hand, hotter than the metal of the car, hotter than Hades. The only things that might be hotter are the sounds that are coming from Sam, fractions of words, no more than that now, not even nonsense words, his voice sounding as though it's broken into splinters. And. And Dean's done this to him, Dean's brought him to this, the shattered catch in his voice is all Dean's doing. Dean can almost ignore the ache in his own cock (just for now, not for long, but for now) as he brings Sam closer, closer. He slips his other hand down, cups Sam's balls, and teases one finger further back, teasing and taunting with the faintness of the touch until Sam's right at the edge, right there. And then he tips him over, eases him through the orgasm that seems to go on forever, even as Sam finds a voice again, a sex-soaked voice that's half an octave deeper than normal, and just says Dean, Dean, Dean over and over.
Dean holds him, pets him really, though he'll deny that with his dying breath, and his ghost will deny it too. But Sam's limpid and barely standing up without the support of the car and Dean. Dean feels a rush of something more than just the need to fuck Sam, wants to kiss him first. Sam catches on when Dean takes him by the arm (smart boy), and manages to turn around and face him with only a little help.
Sam's heavy-eyed and relaxed, but there's a split in his lower lip that wasn't there earlier, and Dean licks away the blood, soothing.
"How'd that happen?" he asks.
"What?" Sam sounds barely awake, the word slurring out as though Sam's not sure what he's asking.
"This." Dean touches the damaged lip with the pad of his finger, brings it away with a red smear and shows Sam. "This," he repeats.
Sam shrugs vaguely. "On the car, I guess." They've both lost count of the number of split lips they've had, but Dean still wishes he'd not caused this one. He looks away, but he's too slow to hide the guilt.
"It's nothing," Sam assures him, more alert now. He can always tell when Dean feels guilty - he'd often use it when they were kids, still does sometimes. Dean has a near perfect poker face when he wants, with anyone but Sam. He needs to work on that.
Dean can't deny the aching in his cock any longer though, and he's not going to let a minor case of guilt sidetrack him. He leans in the open window and pops the glove compartment. There's his new Mark III Hunter, a giant bag of M&M's and a bottle of lube - he likes to be prepared.
The lube is cool in his hands, but he's impatient, and slicks himself up straight away, his breath catching. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath as though he's going into battle. When he opens his eyes, Sam is turned around, bent at the waist and fingering himself, opening himself up. Opening himself for Dean, and fuck, Dean's not going to come before he's even gotten inside Sam. More deep breaths, and Sam chuckles, the little fucker. He knows what he's doing to Dean, and Dean's not going to shoot all over his back and let Sam mock him for the rest of the journey.
"Hurry up," Dean asks calmly, not begging. He's not begging at all, just knows they've got miles to go today, and doesn't want to wait here forever. Sam laughs, but he pulls his hand back and says ready and that's the best fucking word in the whole wide world.
He pushes against Sam's hole, and even though Sam's had his huge fingers in there it's still tight and Dean feels like he hasn't taken a deep enough breath since the car stopped, and that seems like hours ago. He just holds on and pushes in, feeling the rings of muscle give with each blunt shove. And it's beginning to be that control's something he had once upon a time, when he wasn't sinking inside Sam, because the hell if he can go slow anymore.
There's sweat trickling down his forehead - he leans against Sam's back and rubs it off on Sam's shirt before it stings his eyes. Has to move, because this will kill him if he doesn't, and although this might be a good way to go (better than some options that have stared him in the face) he'd like to at least get to come first.
Sam's arching under him, and Dean's hands are slippery, sliding over the smooth fabric of Sam's shirt, and he's slamming Sam against the car and maybe Sam's going to have a matching split on his top lip but Dean doesn't think he'll care, not by the way he's moaning and encouraging and plain demanding Dean to give it more. And even though Dean doesn't think he's got any more to give, he finds it, somehow, and pounds harder, thigh muscles straining at the punishing angle.
He's under Sam's skin, and Sam's under his, and this is why it's them, why it's always about the two of them no matter what.
He doesn't know how long he keeps coming. Seems like forever and then some, and now he feels like he could sleep for another eternity, right here, even under a blistering sun that fills the sky and is so high it's barely casting any shadows. He stirs to pull off his tee and wipe himself off, though even that feels like an unwelcome effort, and only the thought of driving for hours caked in dried come stirs him. Leans over to Sam, lifts his too-long shirt and wipes the traces of come from his belly and thighs without even thinking.
"Dude," Sam says, looking down and mocking him, and Dean hands the shirt over with an embarrassed shrug and busies himself pulling his jeans back on, brushing off the worst of the dust. There's come on the car too, a thick trail already drying, and Dean makes a moue of distaste, grabbing the shirt back to wipe it off.
"Look what you did, man," he complains, but it's no more than a half-hearted complaint, and Sam doesn't bother to answer him. Just leans back against the car, and so Dean rests beside him for a while. The world's going to come rushing back in soon enough, and they'll have to move on, like they always do, but for a few minutes there's just now. A comfortable silence and a bright world that seems too beautiful for all the horror to be true.
He could use a cold beer, but the wish isn't enough to make him want to move. It'll wait, the world'll wait, everything can wait for a while.
*
(The five minute soundtrack.)
Author: Signe
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,646 words
A/N: Car porn! I actually wrote car porn! An unashamed, unapologetic PWP. Billy Corgan helped with the title. ice_crystal saved me from myself, slapped me around the head, and betaed! And thanks to clex_monkie89 for a last minute beta. [Edited 30th June 2006]
The dial on the cassette player's turned up to full volume. It's too loud even for Dean, but it covers the silence that's settled over them since Sam nearly got himself killed this morning. Since Sam nearly got himself killed covering Dean's back, and Sam knows it's not meant to be that way, but he still zigged left when he should have zagged right, should have moved out of danger not into it. And it doesn't matter that it worked, that Dean shot a silver bullet clean through the witch's forehead before she had time to hurt Sam, that's not the point. Sam knows that.
Sam knows that, and he still does crazy-ass stuff, and then Dean has to deal with it.
Dean is pissed off, and rightly so. He's got the window cranked down, but the air's not any fresher outside, and it's making his head ache. Truthfully, Sam's making his head ache. Not deliberately, he'll give Sam that, but he's doing it all the same.
The trouble is, Dean's not dealing. He's brooding, and it's not helping any. Especially when he doesn't need any imagination at all to know what might have happened, if luck and training hadn't worked together for once.
Dean sees Sam lying on the ground, dead. He sees the road ahead of them, orange-brown rock masses rising up to the side of the road like rows of mocking demons. He sees a truck slamming into the side of them and Sam motionless in the seat in front of him. He sees Sam, a ghost, smiling blindly as the car passes right through him. He sees too much, and he's not the one with visions.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam in the passenger seat. Alive.
Dean doesn't take his eye off the road, but he can feel the stubbornness in Sam's silence and the tension that's only going to blow away when they do something to put this morning behind them. He's not sure what they're going to do though, because Sam's refusing to apologize, and Dean sure as hell isn't going to do so.
If he weren't driving, he'd reach out and touch Sam. It's not that Dean needs reassuring exactly - he's not a kid anymore, unable to believe someone's safe if he can't touch them - he just wants to feel Sam's heartbeat, strong and steady and there. Instead, all he feels are the rattles of the car battling against the rhythm of Ulrich's drumbeat, and Sam fidgeting, elbow knocking against Dean's as Sam stretches his ridiculously long legs.
Sam has a paper sack full of huge purple grapes, bought from a roadside farm stall when they gave up on finding anywhere that sold anything with Dean's prefered food groups. Sam passes Dean some of them, warm in his hands, and maybe he is saying sorry after all, a roundabout apology in fruit. It's the way they talk best, with objects and actions, not words.
The grapes are as sweet as they smell, rolling idly on his tongue before he digs his teeth in, squashing them satisfactorily between his molars. They tell him I'm sorry, and the hand that lingers a fraction too long against his mouth tells him I want you. And even though Dean knows Sam will do the same thing again, if he thinks he has to, no matter what Dean says, the ache behind his eyes starts to ease a little.
He pulls off the highway at the next road he sees, a last minute wrench of the wheel that tosses the bag out of Sam's lap and onto the floor. He doesn't remonstrate, even though he'd normally yell at Dean for that. The road's no more than a dirt track, meandering like a giant garter snake, lazy in the midday heat. Dean feels anything but lazy.
Sam's opening the door even before they stop. Eager. Dean doesn't need to explain why he's stopping here in the middle of nowhere.
As Dean gets out, Sam looks at him for the first time in hours, really looks at him, not ducking his head as soon as Dean looks back. Dean hopes he doesn't look as needy as Sam. Thinks he probably does. Doesn't really care, not when it comes down to it, not when Sam already knows how much Dean needs him, not when he doesn't have to try and say the words because they're there between them, as real as if either of them ever said them.
Sam leans against the car, just looking, and Dean thinks that if he could pick any sort of special power he'd want to be able to move as fast as Superman so he could be up against Sammy this second, not wasting time walking around the car. But then he's there, inside Sam's space, rocking against him as though he's never known how to do anything else. Sam dips his head and kisses him, soft and needy, and Dean forgets. Everything else. There's just Sam; the rest of the world is irrelevant. The reasons why not are irrelevant. They have to be when he can feel Sam plastered against every inch of his body, when Sam's big hands are pushing up Dean's tee and scraping lines up and down his back. Nothing else matters and that's good because there's always too much to do, too many people to save, too many mysteries to solve, and so he needs this moment right now when there are no other people in the world, no demons, no fear.
Dean holds Sam's face, not tenderly exactly - he's rough, but there's love in each careless-seeming brush of his thumb against the new stubble that Sam's trying to grow but which never amounts to much, over the bones that feel too fragile when he holds them like this. Sam's not fragile, but life is, and it scares Dean like little else does, so he shoves Sam's head back and bites down on the skin just where the tan ends, because he wants to be the only one who ever hurts Sam, and he wants the pain to feel good. He bites hard enough to bruise, not enough to break skin, but Sam groans against him and jerks his hips up.
And that's all it takes, that press of hipbone and hard cock, and Dean can't wait. He pulls away, grabs Sam by the arm and twists him around, face down against the car. He's grappling with belts and buttons and zips because he can't sort out which to undo first and Sam has to bat his hand away and undo his own jeans. They're so baggy they fall around his ankles as soon as they're undone, and Dean doesn't wait for Sam to step out of them. He just kicks off his own jeans and reaches around, wanting the weight of Sam's cock in his hand. Dean leans his head against Sam's neck, stray curls of hair whispering against his face, and holds on. Moves his free hand around, sliding up under Sam's shirt until he can place it flat on his chest. Over his heart. He closes his eyes and feels Sam's heart beat, steady and sure. He only remembers to move when Sam shudders in his grasp, and mutters, Dean, come on.
He presses his own cock against the sweaty crease of Sam's legs, swallows hard and pauses for a moment. Catches his breath. Just a moment. Needs that. Needs to last long enough to fuck Sam. Nothing else will do. He needs to be inside him, feel him from inside, feel Sam tight around him, feel the blood rushing by under thin skin and know that everything is good right now.
There are layers of shirt and tee-shirt between them still, but Dean can feel the bony ridges of Sam's back against his chest, moving up and down as Sam pants. Licks the pulse point at the base of Sam's neck, feels it steady, fast and keen against his tongue. He gives Sam's cock a tug and stumbles back a step as Sam bends his waist, makes space between him and the car door.
"More, fuck it, Dean," Sam demands, and Dean smiles into his neck and pulls harder. Sam's pushy and demanding and Dean'll give him everything he wants and to hell with what that says about Dean. He's not going to psychoanalyze the way he fucks his own brother, and neither is anyone else, so it's another irrelevance. Just a part of who they are and what they are to each other.
Sam's talking nonsense now, like he always does when he gets close, face mashed against the roof of the car and hands bracing himself against it. The metal must be hot, but Dean's not sure that Sam has even noticed. Dean twists his hand, thumbing the head, smearing the wetness back down the shaft and it feels so hot in his hand, hotter than the metal of the car, hotter than Hades. The only things that might be hotter are the sounds that are coming from Sam, fractions of words, no more than that now, not even nonsense words, his voice sounding as though it's broken into splinters. And. And Dean's done this to him, Dean's brought him to this, the shattered catch in his voice is all Dean's doing. Dean can almost ignore the ache in his own cock (just for now, not for long, but for now) as he brings Sam closer, closer. He slips his other hand down, cups Sam's balls, and teases one finger further back, teasing and taunting with the faintness of the touch until Sam's right at the edge, right there. And then he tips him over, eases him through the orgasm that seems to go on forever, even as Sam finds a voice again, a sex-soaked voice that's half an octave deeper than normal, and just says Dean, Dean, Dean over and over.
Dean holds him, pets him really, though he'll deny that with his dying breath, and his ghost will deny it too. But Sam's limpid and barely standing up without the support of the car and Dean. Dean feels a rush of something more than just the need to fuck Sam, wants to kiss him first. Sam catches on when Dean takes him by the arm (smart boy), and manages to turn around and face him with only a little help.
Sam's heavy-eyed and relaxed, but there's a split in his lower lip that wasn't there earlier, and Dean licks away the blood, soothing.
"How'd that happen?" he asks.
"What?" Sam sounds barely awake, the word slurring out as though Sam's not sure what he's asking.
"This." Dean touches the damaged lip with the pad of his finger, brings it away with a red smear and shows Sam. "This," he repeats.
Sam shrugs vaguely. "On the car, I guess." They've both lost count of the number of split lips they've had, but Dean still wishes he'd not caused this one. He looks away, but he's too slow to hide the guilt.
"It's nothing," Sam assures him, more alert now. He can always tell when Dean feels guilty - he'd often use it when they were kids, still does sometimes. Dean has a near perfect poker face when he wants, with anyone but Sam. He needs to work on that.
Dean can't deny the aching in his cock any longer though, and he's not going to let a minor case of guilt sidetrack him. He leans in the open window and pops the glove compartment. There's his new Mark III Hunter, a giant bag of M&M's and a bottle of lube - he likes to be prepared.
The lube is cool in his hands, but he's impatient, and slicks himself up straight away, his breath catching. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath as though he's going into battle. When he opens his eyes, Sam is turned around, bent at the waist and fingering himself, opening himself up. Opening himself for Dean, and fuck, Dean's not going to come before he's even gotten inside Sam. More deep breaths, and Sam chuckles, the little fucker. He knows what he's doing to Dean, and Dean's not going to shoot all over his back and let Sam mock him for the rest of the journey.
"Hurry up," Dean asks calmly, not begging. He's not begging at all, just knows they've got miles to go today, and doesn't want to wait here forever. Sam laughs, but he pulls his hand back and says ready and that's the best fucking word in the whole wide world.
He pushes against Sam's hole, and even though Sam's had his huge fingers in there it's still tight and Dean feels like he hasn't taken a deep enough breath since the car stopped, and that seems like hours ago. He just holds on and pushes in, feeling the rings of muscle give with each blunt shove. And it's beginning to be that control's something he had once upon a time, when he wasn't sinking inside Sam, because the hell if he can go slow anymore.
There's sweat trickling down his forehead - he leans against Sam's back and rubs it off on Sam's shirt before it stings his eyes. Has to move, because this will kill him if he doesn't, and although this might be a good way to go (better than some options that have stared him in the face) he'd like to at least get to come first.
Sam's arching under him, and Dean's hands are slippery, sliding over the smooth fabric of Sam's shirt, and he's slamming Sam against the car and maybe Sam's going to have a matching split on his top lip but Dean doesn't think he'll care, not by the way he's moaning and encouraging and plain demanding Dean to give it more. And even though Dean doesn't think he's got any more to give, he finds it, somehow, and pounds harder, thigh muscles straining at the punishing angle.
He's under Sam's skin, and Sam's under his, and this is why it's them, why it's always about the two of them no matter what.
He doesn't know how long he keeps coming. Seems like forever and then some, and now he feels like he could sleep for another eternity, right here, even under a blistering sun that fills the sky and is so high it's barely casting any shadows. He stirs to pull off his tee and wipe himself off, though even that feels like an unwelcome effort, and only the thought of driving for hours caked in dried come stirs him. Leans over to Sam, lifts his too-long shirt and wipes the traces of come from his belly and thighs without even thinking.
"Dude," Sam says, looking down and mocking him, and Dean hands the shirt over with an embarrassed shrug and busies himself pulling his jeans back on, brushing off the worst of the dust. There's come on the car too, a thick trail already drying, and Dean makes a moue of distaste, grabbing the shirt back to wipe it off.
"Look what you did, man," he complains, but it's no more than a half-hearted complaint, and Sam doesn't bother to answer him. Just leans back against the car, and so Dean rests beside him for a while. The world's going to come rushing back in soon enough, and they'll have to move on, like they always do, but for a few minutes there's just now. A comfortable silence and a bright world that seems too beautiful for all the horror to be true.
He could use a cold beer, but the wish isn't enough to make him want to move. It'll wait, the world'll wait, everything can wait for a while.
*
(The five minute soundtrack.)