Supernatural fic: Tuscarora Cemetery
Tuscarora Cemetery [Supernatural, Dean/Sam, 1,042 words, NC-17, no spoilers. Quick and dirty beta thanks to tvm.]
The sun burns yellow and shiny, a happy child's painting. Sam leans against the car and paints the missing smile in the air with his finger, content like he hasn't been in years. The sky matches, a naïve paint-box blue. It goes on forever, sky and sunburned grass. No clouds.
The crosses in the cemetery are bleached wood for the most part, hand cut and nailed when there was forest here, before the desert took over. They're crooked where the ground's blistered around them, clumsily carved names baked into new names no one remembers. There's a marble column in the center, remembering the fallen in the Great War. The paint's flaked off the iron railings around it, but it's too dry for them to have rusted much.
Grasshoppers rustle through the sunburned grass. Two prairie dogs poke their heads up out of their burrow and begin foraging.
Dean slams the car door shut. The prairie dogs startle upright, look around, then carry on.
*
"Give it to me," Dean's begging, and Sam will. Soon.
Such a fucking slut for cock, Dean. Impatient, and he's dragging Sam by the belt, unbuckling him before they've taken two steps from the fence, and maybe some days Sam wouldn't have that, would make him wait. Today he falls as soon as Dean pushes, back hitting the ground in a cloud of red dust.
The shadow of a cross falls over his face, blocking the sun. Dean's a silhouette against the sun, straight back and crooked legs, and Sam can't see his face. He doesn't need to, knows what he'd see, the half-smile, the look in his eyes that tells more than Dean can ever say in words.
Sam feels the heat of the ground under his back, and hears the quiet chirrup of grasshoppers. It's peaceful here, just them and nature as far as the horizon.
He finishes unbuckling his belt, and he knows Dean's licking pink lips, knows it without seeing. Unzips his jeans and shuffles them down his thighs with his underwear caught inside, bare ass on the ground. He spreads his legs, inviting, and hears Dean swallow.
The sun's hot on his bare dick. He feels it swell under Dean's gaze.
Sam closes his eyes and blocks out everything apart from Dean. The way his hand pushes up under Sam's tee-shirt as though he can't help himself, has to touch first, hand splayed out on Sam's chest like he's feeling for a heartbeat. Sly tweak of his nipples, but Sam's expecting it, knows Dean. He feels the nubs of them under his tee-shirt after, tight now.
Sam lies there and waits while Dean touches. Hands on his thighs now, smoothing down the sensitive skin inside, followed by wetness, Dean's tongue, licking a stripe from the side of Sam's knee, right up to the crease of his thigh. He lingers there, pushes his hands against Sam's knees so Sam's spread open even wider and follows the crease down, sucking in Sam's balls, one at a time. Nudges his balls aside and licks further back, and Sam's hole tightens at the touch.
Sam shivers in the heat.
He reaches down and takes hold of his dick, gives himself a few lazy strokes. Hinting.
Dean laughs softly, then takes hold of his hand and moves it away. "Patience, Sammy." Such a hypocrite. Sam laughs, loud and real, and a flock of birds take off into the blue sky, wings noisy.
Next, the sound of Dean's clothes hitting the ground. Naked, and Sam's belly clenches just from imagining the sight.
Sam opens his eyes again when Dean sinks down on top of him, riding him bareback because there's only them these days, no one else. Takes in the curve of Dean's throat - head back like he's in pain, but Sam knows Dean, knows bliss from pain. The flutter of muscles across his belly, and Sam reaches up to touch smooth skin where there used to be scars. Dean's making sounds, small in the big expanse, little moans that the air swallows up almost before Sam can hear them. But Sam does hear them, quick, before they're gone, hears them and holds them to himself, each one a sound he's drawn out of Dean, each one a part of what they are.
He wants to grab hold of Dean, tight at the waist, pull them even closer together though he's already sunk deep inside Dean, wants to hold onto him, onto this. So he does. Presses his thumbs against Dean's hips, pushes in, please, home, belong. Love. They're shaking, and Sam can't tell which one of them started, can't tell the heat of his own cock from the heat of Dean's hole, can't tell where he ends and Dean starts. Dean's the center of his universe, and it wouldn't matter if there were nothing else.
"God," Dean whispers, or maybe Sam. Maybe both of them at the same time. They say the same words when they're like this, matching fucks and gods, so in tune Sam can't imagine being whole without this.
Sam's panting now, like he's been running, though running never makes him this kind of breathless, heart pounding and breath stuttering. Heat pooling in his belly. Dean does this to him. He does this to Dean. Makes him whimper and beg and there's no shame between them any more - maybe never was - not when they both want so bad.
Dean howls when he comes, like an animal, wild and long. Like he wants to make enough sound to leave a permanent mark. Splatters on Sam's belly where his tee-shirt's rucked up. Sam's silent when he comes, swallowing up the sound and saving it to tell Dean, sometime, when he's sleeping or dying, sometime, he'll let it all out and tell Dean everything.
Though he thinks Dean already knows.
*
The sun can't help but shine. The sky can't help being blue. The grasshoppers chirrup because that is what grasshoppers do, and the prairie dogs scrabble for food because they must.
Sam has choices: he fucks his brother in a cemetery, under a child's fat golden sun.
He lies there and smiles up at the sky. At peace with himself. At peace with Dean.
//
The sun burns yellow and shiny, a happy child's painting. Sam leans against the car and paints the missing smile in the air with his finger, content like he hasn't been in years. The sky matches, a naïve paint-box blue. It goes on forever, sky and sunburned grass. No clouds.
The crosses in the cemetery are bleached wood for the most part, hand cut and nailed when there was forest here, before the desert took over. They're crooked where the ground's blistered around them, clumsily carved names baked into new names no one remembers. There's a marble column in the center, remembering the fallen in the Great War. The paint's flaked off the iron railings around it, but it's too dry for them to have rusted much.
Grasshoppers rustle through the sunburned grass. Two prairie dogs poke their heads up out of their burrow and begin foraging.
Dean slams the car door shut. The prairie dogs startle upright, look around, then carry on.
*
"Give it to me," Dean's begging, and Sam will. Soon.
Such a fucking slut for cock, Dean. Impatient, and he's dragging Sam by the belt, unbuckling him before they've taken two steps from the fence, and maybe some days Sam wouldn't have that, would make him wait. Today he falls as soon as Dean pushes, back hitting the ground in a cloud of red dust.
The shadow of a cross falls over his face, blocking the sun. Dean's a silhouette against the sun, straight back and crooked legs, and Sam can't see his face. He doesn't need to, knows what he'd see, the half-smile, the look in his eyes that tells more than Dean can ever say in words.
Sam feels the heat of the ground under his back, and hears the quiet chirrup of grasshoppers. It's peaceful here, just them and nature as far as the horizon.
He finishes unbuckling his belt, and he knows Dean's licking pink lips, knows it without seeing. Unzips his jeans and shuffles them down his thighs with his underwear caught inside, bare ass on the ground. He spreads his legs, inviting, and hears Dean swallow.
The sun's hot on his bare dick. He feels it swell under Dean's gaze.
Sam closes his eyes and blocks out everything apart from Dean. The way his hand pushes up under Sam's tee-shirt as though he can't help himself, has to touch first, hand splayed out on Sam's chest like he's feeling for a heartbeat. Sly tweak of his nipples, but Sam's expecting it, knows Dean. He feels the nubs of them under his tee-shirt after, tight now.
Sam lies there and waits while Dean touches. Hands on his thighs now, smoothing down the sensitive skin inside, followed by wetness, Dean's tongue, licking a stripe from the side of Sam's knee, right up to the crease of his thigh. He lingers there, pushes his hands against Sam's knees so Sam's spread open even wider and follows the crease down, sucking in Sam's balls, one at a time. Nudges his balls aside and licks further back, and Sam's hole tightens at the touch.
Sam shivers in the heat.
He reaches down and takes hold of his dick, gives himself a few lazy strokes. Hinting.
Dean laughs softly, then takes hold of his hand and moves it away. "Patience, Sammy." Such a hypocrite. Sam laughs, loud and real, and a flock of birds take off into the blue sky, wings noisy.
Next, the sound of Dean's clothes hitting the ground. Naked, and Sam's belly clenches just from imagining the sight.
Sam opens his eyes again when Dean sinks down on top of him, riding him bareback because there's only them these days, no one else. Takes in the curve of Dean's throat - head back like he's in pain, but Sam knows Dean, knows bliss from pain. The flutter of muscles across his belly, and Sam reaches up to touch smooth skin where there used to be scars. Dean's making sounds, small in the big expanse, little moans that the air swallows up almost before Sam can hear them. But Sam does hear them, quick, before they're gone, hears them and holds them to himself, each one a sound he's drawn out of Dean, each one a part of what they are.
He wants to grab hold of Dean, tight at the waist, pull them even closer together though he's already sunk deep inside Dean, wants to hold onto him, onto this. So he does. Presses his thumbs against Dean's hips, pushes in, please, home, belong. Love. They're shaking, and Sam can't tell which one of them started, can't tell the heat of his own cock from the heat of Dean's hole, can't tell where he ends and Dean starts. Dean's the center of his universe, and it wouldn't matter if there were nothing else.
"God," Dean whispers, or maybe Sam. Maybe both of them at the same time. They say the same words when they're like this, matching fucks and gods, so in tune Sam can't imagine being whole without this.
Sam's panting now, like he's been running, though running never makes him this kind of breathless, heart pounding and breath stuttering. Heat pooling in his belly. Dean does this to him. He does this to Dean. Makes him whimper and beg and there's no shame between them any more - maybe never was - not when they both want so bad.
Dean howls when he comes, like an animal, wild and long. Like he wants to make enough sound to leave a permanent mark. Splatters on Sam's belly where his tee-shirt's rucked up. Sam's silent when he comes, swallowing up the sound and saving it to tell Dean, sometime, when he's sleeping or dying, sometime, he'll let it all out and tell Dean everything.
Though he thinks Dean already knows.
*
The sun can't help but shine. The sky can't help being blue. The grasshoppers chirrup because that is what grasshoppers do, and the prairie dogs scrabble for food because they must.
Sam has choices: he fucks his brother in a cemetery, under a child's fat golden sun.
He lies there and smiles up at the sky. At peace with himself. At peace with Dean.
//