(no subject)
A Stolen Moment
They’re staying at Bobby’s for the time being. Sam is sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms, and Dean is sleeping in the other one across the hall. Only Sam isn’t sleeping. And Dean is awake too. He was woken up by what sounded like a hitch in breath. A sound of fear accompanied with a groan. Dean finds his mind is clouded. He’s thinking it’s five years ago when Sam was still having nightmares about Jess. But a lot of time has passed, and so much has changed yet a fundamental part remains the same.
The question remains: is Sam having a nightmare? A memory lurks on his peripheral, the one where Sam asks Dean why he didn’t wake him up when he fell asleep and had a bad dream as a result. He doesn’t want to make that mistake again, why he doesn’t know, considering all the very huge mistakes he’s made in regards to his brother over the years. Maybe it’s because he’s tired, and the sound coming from the other room is worrisome.
The house is quiet save for his brother’s room. The moon is trying haphazardly to beam through the windows, and there is a stillness to everything that is almost peaceful.
He approaches Sam’s bed in concern. Sam is lying awkwardly on his stomach, groaning in a way that confirms Dean’s suspicions of a nightmare. He moves slowly not wanting to startle him. The sounds coming from Sam change, however, they morph into something that at first seems foreign to Dean’s ears. He pauses mid-step mere inches from his brother now, and waits. He wants to do something but he doesn’t know what that is.
Somewhere in his groggy mind he knows the situation has turned into something that should have him walking quickly away.
But he doesn’t.
He reaches out a hand, rests it on his brothers shoulder while saying softly:
“Sam?”
No longer sure what he is trying to accomplish or if Sam’s name was meant to be a question, a plea, or a line with which to keep himself from drowning. Sam moans and then shudders all over, his bangs falling further into his eyes as he leans his head into the pillow. Dean’s instinct is to move away, retreat from what is beyond him. A feeling akin to heartache settles in.
He shouldn’t be here.
This was private and he intruded.
He relinquishes his hand and walks away, his brows knitted tightly together; his expression as pained as the night he prayed to God and heaven for some help when his brother was detoxing. Right now he isn’t praying, right now he needs to get away.
Sam’s voice punctures the air with a single word: “Dean.”
It grounds Dean to the spot, spoken as if it were a command, though he knows it’s not. Sam is suddenly standing beside him. He rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, their roles now reversed. Dean’s not sure he can handle any of what’s happening right now, and he’s not sure why that is. He wants to make a run for it, but finds he cannot move, he also wants to speak but the words are lodged deep in his quivering throat. Dean feels almost certain he’s on the verge of crying, which just adds to the peculiarity of the situation. He is still looking straight ahead, but he can feel Sam’s eyes on him, he can feel where his brother’s hand has moved from his shoulder to his chin, Sam’s thumb rubbing along the stubble of his jaw. The hand is not requesting that Dean look at him, and he’s grateful for that because he doesn’t trust himself.
“Dean…” Sam says quietly, tentatively.
“Sammy, I can’t…” Dean replies in a hoarse voice, not sure of what he can’t do.
Sam maneuvers Dean’s body so that they are facing each other, only Dean is looking at the ground, his brows permanently locked in confusion and pain.
“Dean look at me.” Sam implores softly, a hint of panic hanging on the edges of his words.
Dean shakes his head slowly from left to right. Everything that is on their plate has just become ten times more unbearable. They’re on the cusp of perhaps the most important and unfair turning-point of their lives. Lucifer is waiting to seize Sam’s body, just as Michael waits to takeover Dean’s. Yet here he stands in the middle of the night, unable to face his brother in a situation that was at first absurd, but which now scares him more than the fate that they were told was unchangeable.
“Please.” Sam sounds just as broken as Dean feels.
He finally meets his eyes; he’s not sure what he sees there. He should know everything about his brother, every emotion and look, and he usually does.
Sam now has both hands on Dean’s face, both thumbs working circles against his jaw and cheeks. It brings him back to four years ago when Sammy was intoxicated and begging for Dean to kill him should it come down to that. And in the here and now, it might come back down to that. But unlike three years ago, Dean isn’t moving Sam’s hands away and he isn’t dismissing him either.
Sam knows what he’s doing.
Deep down Dean’s aware that he knows what he’s doing too, though he’s frozen on the edge of inaction; he finds that he often is these days. He’s tired, and not from being woken up by Sammy.
He’s just tired.
Sam moves in closer and his breath ghosts against Dean’s lips. Dean has to close his eyes. He wants to warn his brother, wants to tell him that he may not like the outcome if he continues to push him like this. Dean knows he needs to stop this, but he’s weak these days, loathe though he is to admit it. He’s also a chicken-shit for not having the courage to stop what’s happening; part of him feels like he owes it to Sam to not stop him.
Sam eventually closes the distance, and presses his lips against his brothers. Dean does not respond to the kiss. He just lets his mouth be assaulted with the unsure pecks and nibbles of Sam’s.
Sam isn’t relenting, and Dean isn’t moving away.
So what the hell is he doing?
Not a heartbeat later, he’s grabbing Sam firmly around the waist and plunging his tongue into Sam’s mouth, which elicits a startled moan from his brother.
Dean numbly wonders how it came down to this. His other, more alert and unremitting half, reminds him that this was always lurking under the surface.
He still feels like he’s going to cry.
They’re plundering each other’s mouths now, gripping each other so close and tight their hands are turning white, limbs going numb from the exertion.
Dean wants to pretend this is a dream.
The room is still and quiet, it’s only darkness and them; all reasoning was left outside of a forgotten door. That’s the only way Dean can make sense of this, because it lacks sense, assurance and a plan: it’s the Winchester way. Always has been.
Dean breaks the kiss to hug Sam. He whispers “Sammy” over and over again against his brother’s ear. Dean feels raw, completely consumed by emotions that are ineffable; no words could do them justice anyways.
Sam is holding on for dear life, because Dean is his life. The constant mantra of his name grounds him in reality, he knows there’s no going back from this moment, no more sweeping it under the rug, though tomorrow morning Dean might do just that. Pretend it never happened, carry on and bury the rest. It is how Dean handles everything, so why would this be any different? The question is: does Sam want to take this plunge when he knows what the results will be?
He pulls back from his brother’s embrace to cup his face once more. Dean looks frightened, he also looks years younger. His eyes glassy and his lips parted. Sam resumes kissing those full lips. He knows he has to seize the moment, because it’s the only time Dean is going to let him.
Dean made up his mind without even knowing it. He finds himself steering his brother to the bed, sitting him down upon it. Sam’s eyes are alert, and Dean reaches out a hand to smooth aside the hair from Sam’s forehead. Sam leans into his touch with a sigh. It’s beautiful.
“Sammy.” He says again, as if it’s the only word in his vocabulary. It just might be.
They both know this is happening. Sam scoots further up into the bed to make room for Dean. He slides underneath the sheets, both now laying on their sides face to face. Dean stares into Sam’s eyes. The unspoken words between them are deafening. And then, almost imperceptibly, Sam nods.
Dean’s hand trails timidly down Sam’s torso. He hears his brothers breathing quicken. His hand finds the half-hard erection and brings it further to life with slow, purposeful strokes. Sam has closed his eyes, his mouth is open, and he’s pressing the left side of his face into the pillow, making the sweetest sounds Dean has ever heard. Dean’s eyes grow wide with disbelief, astonished that he’s the source of Sam’s pleasure filled face, the whole situation seeming surreal.
He tries not to think because thoughts are too sobering.
Sam is growing accustomed to the ministrations and seems to snap from his pleasure reprieve. His hand snakes forward to reach into Deans sweat pants. He matches his brother’s rhythm and now Dean has to close his eyes under the onslaught. He focuses on the sound of their breathing, the feeling of Sam’s enormous hand, the stillness of the room around them.
He finds he needs more contact. He broaches his brother’s mouth with a softness that surprises him. Sam whimpers under his lips before kissing back with a bruising force. Their hands speed up in unison and a sweat breaks out, mingling between them and the sheets. Dean gets Sammy off first, who twitches and buries his face deeper into the pillow, saying Dean’s name as he spills over his brother’s hand. Sam’s constant breathy whispers of “Dean” are like the flute of the pied piper, leading Dean over the edge to his orgasm.
Dean isn’t sure he has ever felt something so real in all his life.
Dean eventually collects his senses and removes his hand from Sam’s softening member, realizing Sam’s had retreated awhile ago. He wipes his own hand on the sheets before resting it on Sam’s chest, feeling the heartbeat of the one person he loves more than anything. The gravity of the situation has yet to hit him, and he’s fine with that. Sam smiles almost shyly at him, before pressing himself against Dean, burrowing his large head under Dean’s chin. Dean thinks he might explode because it’s all so sweet and terrible at the same time. But then he stops his thinking, reminding himself it’s doing nothing good at the moment. He just wraps his arms around Sam, holding him closer. He can almost pretend that they’re kids again, that they haven’t died several times over and come back to a world that’s always slowly dissolving. But Dean is tired of lying to himself.
He’s also tired of thinking, which he can’t seem to ever stop doing.
He clutches Sam closer, trying to ignore the nagging fear of what the Dean Winchester of tomorrow will do about all of this.
They’re staying at Bobby’s for the time being. Sam is sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms, and Dean is sleeping in the other one across the hall. Only Sam isn’t sleeping. And Dean is awake too. He was woken up by what sounded like a hitch in breath. A sound of fear accompanied with a groan. Dean finds his mind is clouded. He’s thinking it’s five years ago when Sam was still having nightmares about Jess. But a lot of time has passed, and so much has changed yet a fundamental part remains the same.
The question remains: is Sam having a nightmare? A memory lurks on his peripheral, the one where Sam asks Dean why he didn’t wake him up when he fell asleep and had a bad dream as a result. He doesn’t want to make that mistake again, why he doesn’t know, considering all the very huge mistakes he’s made in regards to his brother over the years. Maybe it’s because he’s tired, and the sound coming from the other room is worrisome.
The house is quiet save for his brother’s room. The moon is trying haphazardly to beam through the windows, and there is a stillness to everything that is almost peaceful.
He approaches Sam’s bed in concern. Sam is lying awkwardly on his stomach, groaning in a way that confirms Dean’s suspicions of a nightmare. He moves slowly not wanting to startle him. The sounds coming from Sam change, however, they morph into something that at first seems foreign to Dean’s ears. He pauses mid-step mere inches from his brother now, and waits. He wants to do something but he doesn’t know what that is.
Somewhere in his groggy mind he knows the situation has turned into something that should have him walking quickly away.
But he doesn’t.
He reaches out a hand, rests it on his brothers shoulder while saying softly:
“Sam?”
No longer sure what he is trying to accomplish or if Sam’s name was meant to be a question, a plea, or a line with which to keep himself from drowning. Sam moans and then shudders all over, his bangs falling further into his eyes as he leans his head into the pillow. Dean’s instinct is to move away, retreat from what is beyond him. A feeling akin to heartache settles in.
He shouldn’t be here.
This was private and he intruded.
He relinquishes his hand and walks away, his brows knitted tightly together; his expression as pained as the night he prayed to God and heaven for some help when his brother was detoxing. Right now he isn’t praying, right now he needs to get away.
Sam’s voice punctures the air with a single word: “Dean.”
It grounds Dean to the spot, spoken as if it were a command, though he knows it’s not. Sam is suddenly standing beside him. He rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, their roles now reversed. Dean’s not sure he can handle any of what’s happening right now, and he’s not sure why that is. He wants to make a run for it, but finds he cannot move, he also wants to speak but the words are lodged deep in his quivering throat. Dean feels almost certain he’s on the verge of crying, which just adds to the peculiarity of the situation. He is still looking straight ahead, but he can feel Sam’s eyes on him, he can feel where his brother’s hand has moved from his shoulder to his chin, Sam’s thumb rubbing along the stubble of his jaw. The hand is not requesting that Dean look at him, and he’s grateful for that because he doesn’t trust himself.
“Dean…” Sam says quietly, tentatively.
“Sammy, I can’t…” Dean replies in a hoarse voice, not sure of what he can’t do.
Sam maneuvers Dean’s body so that they are facing each other, only Dean is looking at the ground, his brows permanently locked in confusion and pain.
“Dean look at me.” Sam implores softly, a hint of panic hanging on the edges of his words.
Dean shakes his head slowly from left to right. Everything that is on their plate has just become ten times more unbearable. They’re on the cusp of perhaps the most important and unfair turning-point of their lives. Lucifer is waiting to seize Sam’s body, just as Michael waits to takeover Dean’s. Yet here he stands in the middle of the night, unable to face his brother in a situation that was at first absurd, but which now scares him more than the fate that they were told was unchangeable.
“Please.” Sam sounds just as broken as Dean feels.
He finally meets his eyes; he’s not sure what he sees there. He should know everything about his brother, every emotion and look, and he usually does.
Sam now has both hands on Dean’s face, both thumbs working circles against his jaw and cheeks. It brings him back to four years ago when Sammy was intoxicated and begging for Dean to kill him should it come down to that. And in the here and now, it might come back down to that. But unlike three years ago, Dean isn’t moving Sam’s hands away and he isn’t dismissing him either.
Sam knows what he’s doing.
Deep down Dean’s aware that he knows what he’s doing too, though he’s frozen on the edge of inaction; he finds that he often is these days. He’s tired, and not from being woken up by Sammy.
He’s just tired.
Sam moves in closer and his breath ghosts against Dean’s lips. Dean has to close his eyes. He wants to warn his brother, wants to tell him that he may not like the outcome if he continues to push him like this. Dean knows he needs to stop this, but he’s weak these days, loathe though he is to admit it. He’s also a chicken-shit for not having the courage to stop what’s happening; part of him feels like he owes it to Sam to not stop him.
Sam eventually closes the distance, and presses his lips against his brothers. Dean does not respond to the kiss. He just lets his mouth be assaulted with the unsure pecks and nibbles of Sam’s.
Sam isn’t relenting, and Dean isn’t moving away.
So what the hell is he doing?
Not a heartbeat later, he’s grabbing Sam firmly around the waist and plunging his tongue into Sam’s mouth, which elicits a startled moan from his brother.
Dean numbly wonders how it came down to this. His other, more alert and unremitting half, reminds him that this was always lurking under the surface.
He still feels like he’s going to cry.
They’re plundering each other’s mouths now, gripping each other so close and tight their hands are turning white, limbs going numb from the exertion.
Dean wants to pretend this is a dream.
The room is still and quiet, it’s only darkness and them; all reasoning was left outside of a forgotten door. That’s the only way Dean can make sense of this, because it lacks sense, assurance and a plan: it’s the Winchester way. Always has been.
Dean breaks the kiss to hug Sam. He whispers “Sammy” over and over again against his brother’s ear. Dean feels raw, completely consumed by emotions that are ineffable; no words could do them justice anyways.
Sam is holding on for dear life, because Dean is his life. The constant mantra of his name grounds him in reality, he knows there’s no going back from this moment, no more sweeping it under the rug, though tomorrow morning Dean might do just that. Pretend it never happened, carry on and bury the rest. It is how Dean handles everything, so why would this be any different? The question is: does Sam want to take this plunge when he knows what the results will be?
He pulls back from his brother’s embrace to cup his face once more. Dean looks frightened, he also looks years younger. His eyes glassy and his lips parted. Sam resumes kissing those full lips. He knows he has to seize the moment, because it’s the only time Dean is going to let him.
Dean made up his mind without even knowing it. He finds himself steering his brother to the bed, sitting him down upon it. Sam’s eyes are alert, and Dean reaches out a hand to smooth aside the hair from Sam’s forehead. Sam leans into his touch with a sigh. It’s beautiful.
“Sammy.” He says again, as if it’s the only word in his vocabulary. It just might be.
They both know this is happening. Sam scoots further up into the bed to make room for Dean. He slides underneath the sheets, both now laying on their sides face to face. Dean stares into Sam’s eyes. The unspoken words between them are deafening. And then, almost imperceptibly, Sam nods.
Dean’s hand trails timidly down Sam’s torso. He hears his brothers breathing quicken. His hand finds the half-hard erection and brings it further to life with slow, purposeful strokes. Sam has closed his eyes, his mouth is open, and he’s pressing the left side of his face into the pillow, making the sweetest sounds Dean has ever heard. Dean’s eyes grow wide with disbelief, astonished that he’s the source of Sam’s pleasure filled face, the whole situation seeming surreal.
He tries not to think because thoughts are too sobering.
Sam is growing accustomed to the ministrations and seems to snap from his pleasure reprieve. His hand snakes forward to reach into Deans sweat pants. He matches his brother’s rhythm and now Dean has to close his eyes under the onslaught. He focuses on the sound of their breathing, the feeling of Sam’s enormous hand, the stillness of the room around them.
He finds he needs more contact. He broaches his brother’s mouth with a softness that surprises him. Sam whimpers under his lips before kissing back with a bruising force. Their hands speed up in unison and a sweat breaks out, mingling between them and the sheets. Dean gets Sammy off first, who twitches and buries his face deeper into the pillow, saying Dean’s name as he spills over his brother’s hand. Sam’s constant breathy whispers of “Dean” are like the flute of the pied piper, leading Dean over the edge to his orgasm.
Dean isn’t sure he has ever felt something so real in all his life.
Dean eventually collects his senses and removes his hand from Sam’s softening member, realizing Sam’s had retreated awhile ago. He wipes his own hand on the sheets before resting it on Sam’s chest, feeling the heartbeat of the one person he loves more than anything. The gravity of the situation has yet to hit him, and he’s fine with that. Sam smiles almost shyly at him, before pressing himself against Dean, burrowing his large head under Dean’s chin. Dean thinks he might explode because it’s all so sweet and terrible at the same time. But then he stops his thinking, reminding himself it’s doing nothing good at the moment. He just wraps his arms around Sam, holding him closer. He can almost pretend that they’re kids again, that they haven’t died several times over and come back to a world that’s always slowly dissolving. But Dean is tired of lying to himself.
He’s also tired of thinking, which he can’t seem to ever stop doing.
He clutches Sam closer, trying to ignore the nagging fear of what the Dean Winchester of tomorrow will do about all of this.