Hit Me From Below, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 4x07 coda
Hit Me From Below
Sam/Dean, 1777 words, NC-17
Quick coda to 4x07
"How's your head?" Dean asks when he comes in, throwing his keys onto the side table, avoiding Sam's eyes.
"Fine," Sam says. "I took a couple Tylenol out of the kit, we'll have to pick up more tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure," Dean says, and turns out the lights.
"Hey, Sam," Dean says. When Sam forces his eyes open past the grogginess of three days without a real, solid sleep, the clock blinks 4:33.
"Sam, you up?"
"Yeah, Dean, what?"
"Good. Listen, I gotta-"
"Can't we do this tomorrow?" Sam asks, running a hand over his face. Jesus Christ. Fuck, that's blasphemy, which Sam guesses is pretty much a big deal now.
"No. I just want to- I mean, I'm sorry I-" Dean's stuttering, and Sam wished his eyes would adjust faster. It's easier to read Dean when he can see Dean's face, watch for the twitch of his lips that means he's pissed or nostalgic or horny or guilty.
Sam has no idea what he's talking about this time, and to be honest, he doesn't want to figure it out. Dean's his brother, and he loves him, but sometimes he's just too tired to handle the ups and downs of Dean's drama. "It's fine, Dean, go to sleep."
"Yeah," Dean says, and the rustling sounds of Dean tucking the blanket up under his chin start again, the familiar accompaniment to every time Sam closed his eyes on his pillow as a kid. Sam wants to let the silence lull him back to sleep, but now he's angry again, deep in the low down pit of his belly. He fucking had to do it, and if Dean wants to play good son all over again he can do it without Sam feeding him the lines.
"Hey, Sam," Dean says, and it's weird to hear him say Sam instead of Sammy in the dark, buried under blankets. They don't talk much at night, not since Dean turned sixteen and Dad started looking for three-bedroom apartments, so Sam guesses it's just habit to expect the casual, habitual 'Sammy' that Dean had never seemed to drop. It's been a while since he's heard it, actually, and that's just another thought that sets his shoulders tense against the sheets.
Sam doesn't reply but he turns over, and he knows Dean will pick up on the expectant silence, just like he knows when he walks into a dark room Dean's covering his back.
"It always do that? To your eyes," Dean clarifies, uselessly.
Sam thinks a minute, before answering, not sure he wants to talk about this. Actually, pretty sure he doesn't want to talk about this, and at four in the morning even less. "Not lately. At the beginning- yeah. But not so much, not anymore."
Dean's silent again, and Sam can practically feel the way he's weighing that over in his mind, turning it around like it'll give him any insight into what it was like to live here without him, him six feet under and Sam still walking around, a whole year past his expiry date.
"I'm sorry I walked out," Dean says, slow and thoughtful, like he means it.
"Yeah, no problem," Sam says, quick, and it comes out tinged with a little more bitterness than he wanted to let slip.
Sam had been panting, the pressure in his head throbbing and not ebbing away, and he'd been looking at Dean, noting the wide eyes, the open mouth that meant horror, and worse, resignation, looking at all the things he couldn't notice before because he had to concentrate everything on Samhain, because otherwise he'd kill them all, that mom and that little baby and Dean, Dean, fucking Dean, and fucking Dean had left, eyes dropping, had just walked out like Sam wasn't even his responsibility anymore, like Sam was a burden too big to carry.
Sam had wiped the blood off his face, mostly just smearing it onto his hands, and lay down with his face on the cold floor until it felt like someone had eased the vice-grip off his brain and onto the cold pit of his stomach, and then he'd gone back to the hotel and waited to see if Dean would show up.
"I said I'm sorry," Dean says, like he's pissed his half-assed apology didn't fix everything, and if it were any time other than four in the fucking morning, then Sam would let it go.
"Great, Dean, thanks."
"What," Dean says, affronted all of a sudden, fingers probably fisted. "You want me to just A-OK that kind of bullshit?"
Sam scoffs before he can stop himself, sick of trying to explain over and over. "Right, next time I'll let the demon walk out and start picking off kids."
Dean's sitting up as he speaks, punching the pillow behind him into the right shape, clearly itching for a fight but sullen and silent, trying to pull back from all-out brawl.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot you had a better idea, since you're apparently-"
"Shut the fuck up, Sam-"
"-literally holier-than-thou now-"
"Maybe I'm just sick of picking up the pieces after your lies-"
"I had to, Dean, it was my only option!" and Sam is up and pacing, flicking the lights on as he goes.
"It shouldn't even BE AN OPTION," Dean shouts back. Their neighbors probably hate them right now- it's a good thing they'll never have the same ones for more than a single night, Sam thinks, letting his lips curl into the same angry smirk he wore when he told Dad he was leaving.
"Yeah, I should have just laid down to die! That's what you'd do, right Dean?" Sam stalks up to where Dean's still sitting on the bed, hands tangled in the sheets.
"What-" Dean's looking away, backing down like he always does when Sam starts edging near certain territory.
"You were dead, and in hell, and I changed," Sam says, pushing down the sick feeling. "And now, what, you aren't- you don't- want to-"
"Sam," Dean says, and pulls him down with warm hands on his elbows, until he's is half-crouched over Dean on the motel bed, feeling like there's no way to stop the nervous vibrating thrumming through him. "Hey, Sam, come on."
Sam's heavy breathing is starting to turn into the panicked pants that he recognizes from the last time he did this, from the morning he woke up and realized he wasn't going to be able to save Dean, that Dean was going to stay in hell because Sam was a fucking failure of a brother, and Sam had just stayed in bed, only getting up to hand the motel manager bills from out of his wallet, until the day Ruby had walked in and dragged him in the shower by the hair.
"Quit it, Sam," Dean says, but he's got one hand on the back of Sam's neck and the other on the dry skin of Sam's elbow, and his voice is sorry and warm. Sam breathes into his brother's shoulder and clenches his eyes tight, feeling the last ache of the exorcism fading away.
Sam lets himself be pulled down onto the bed, curling up with his socked feet poking over the edge, and Dean rests his hand on Sam's head, and Sam pretends Dean's hand isn't shaking and Dean pretends the thigh of his sweatpants isn't a little damp from Sam's face.
Before Sam can breathe again, not really, he clenches one hand against the muscle of his brother's thigh, and turns over, head still in Dean's lap.
"Sam-" Dean says, straightening up a little, but Sam's mouth is already pressed in an open-mouthed kiss against his brother's dick, warm and soft under the worn cotton. Sam guesses the thunk he hears is Dean's head hitting back against the motel wall, but he's too busy mouthing along the head of Dean's dick, half-hard already and firming up as Sam thumbs at the strip of skin exposed when Sam pushes Dean's T-shirt up a little.
Sam runs his cheek along Dean's dick, feeling the cotton against his face, the way his brother is shifting underneath him. The scar across Dean's belly is missing, and Sam wishes he'd tried this earlier, before Castiel had wiped Dean's body clean of all the marks of their childhood, their hunts.
"Sam-" Dean chokes out, again, and when Sam brings his fingers to press up against the head, they come away just the littlest bit damp.
Dean shifts up and Sam wraps fingers in the drawstring and pulls the sweatpants down, just far enough to leave them tight around Dean's thighs, and Sam licks away the taste of precome from the tip of Dean's dick, a little sad that Dean's sweatpants soaked it up, and slides his mouth down on his brother, savoring the way Dean tugs a little at his hair, accidental and surprised.
Sam goes down fast and hard at first, mostly just afraid that at any moment, Dean's little jerks will turn into real shoves and panicked fighting, and Sam will have missed his chance, but they don't, so Sam slows down, lets his tongue rub in pushing circles around Dean's dick, keeps his hands clenched around Dean's thighs, pulling him tight, holding him close. His bangs are in his eyes, and Sam wants to cut them off just so he won't miss the shivers of muscle across Dean's belly as Dean shakes, then holds still, then shakes.
When Dean comes, he doesn't give Sam any warning, not like the muffled grunts of heads-up Sam's heard Dean mutter to a thousand girls before, and it makes Sam grin around the mouthful of come that he spits onto the sheets, hasty to sit up and what he's been missing in Dean's face. He's not disappointed- Dean's flushed, a little sweaty, his lips bitten, his eyes glazed but nervous, and Sam has to shove a hand down his boxers and close his eyes at the sight. He's almost- almost- there when Dean's callused fingers land over his own, and it's an embarrassing short time before he's muffling his gasps in the sleeve tight over Dean's bicep.
"I'm sorry I left you there," Dean says, as Sam fumbles for the light, feeling drunk.
Sam touches his brother's knee under the covers, loose cotton sliding under his fingers. "It's okay," he says, and goes to sleep, Dean breathing slowly next to him in the dark.
"All right," Dean says, when the lock swings open under his careful fingers.
"Ready?" Sam says. There's four demons inside, and Sam tries to steady his thoughts.
"Yeah, show me," Dean says, and clicks on the flashlight.
Sam/Dean, 1777 words, NC-17
Quick coda to 4x07
"How's your head?" Dean asks when he comes in, throwing his keys onto the side table, avoiding Sam's eyes.
"Fine," Sam says. "I took a couple Tylenol out of the kit, we'll have to pick up more tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure," Dean says, and turns out the lights.
"Hey, Sam," Dean says. When Sam forces his eyes open past the grogginess of three days without a real, solid sleep, the clock blinks 4:33.
"Sam, you up?"
"Yeah, Dean, what?"
"Good. Listen, I gotta-"
"Can't we do this tomorrow?" Sam asks, running a hand over his face. Jesus Christ. Fuck, that's blasphemy, which Sam guesses is pretty much a big deal now.
"No. I just want to- I mean, I'm sorry I-" Dean's stuttering, and Sam wished his eyes would adjust faster. It's easier to read Dean when he can see Dean's face, watch for the twitch of his lips that means he's pissed or nostalgic or horny or guilty.
Sam has no idea what he's talking about this time, and to be honest, he doesn't want to figure it out. Dean's his brother, and he loves him, but sometimes he's just too tired to handle the ups and downs of Dean's drama. "It's fine, Dean, go to sleep."
"Yeah," Dean says, and the rustling sounds of Dean tucking the blanket up under his chin start again, the familiar accompaniment to every time Sam closed his eyes on his pillow as a kid. Sam wants to let the silence lull him back to sleep, but now he's angry again, deep in the low down pit of his belly. He fucking had to do it, and if Dean wants to play good son all over again he can do it without Sam feeding him the lines.
"Hey, Sam," Dean says, and it's weird to hear him say Sam instead of Sammy in the dark, buried under blankets. They don't talk much at night, not since Dean turned sixteen and Dad started looking for three-bedroom apartments, so Sam guesses it's just habit to expect the casual, habitual 'Sammy' that Dean had never seemed to drop. It's been a while since he's heard it, actually, and that's just another thought that sets his shoulders tense against the sheets.
Sam doesn't reply but he turns over, and he knows Dean will pick up on the expectant silence, just like he knows when he walks into a dark room Dean's covering his back.
"It always do that? To your eyes," Dean clarifies, uselessly.
Sam thinks a minute, before answering, not sure he wants to talk about this. Actually, pretty sure he doesn't want to talk about this, and at four in the morning even less. "Not lately. At the beginning- yeah. But not so much, not anymore."
Dean's silent again, and Sam can practically feel the way he's weighing that over in his mind, turning it around like it'll give him any insight into what it was like to live here without him, him six feet under and Sam still walking around, a whole year past his expiry date.
"I'm sorry I walked out," Dean says, slow and thoughtful, like he means it.
"Yeah, no problem," Sam says, quick, and it comes out tinged with a little more bitterness than he wanted to let slip.
Sam had been panting, the pressure in his head throbbing and not ebbing away, and he'd been looking at Dean, noting the wide eyes, the open mouth that meant horror, and worse, resignation, looking at all the things he couldn't notice before because he had to concentrate everything on Samhain, because otherwise he'd kill them all, that mom and that little baby and Dean, Dean, fucking Dean, and fucking Dean had left, eyes dropping, had just walked out like Sam wasn't even his responsibility anymore, like Sam was a burden too big to carry.
Sam had wiped the blood off his face, mostly just smearing it onto his hands, and lay down with his face on the cold floor until it felt like someone had eased the vice-grip off his brain and onto the cold pit of his stomach, and then he'd gone back to the hotel and waited to see if Dean would show up.
"I said I'm sorry," Dean says, like he's pissed his half-assed apology didn't fix everything, and if it were any time other than four in the fucking morning, then Sam would let it go.
"Great, Dean, thanks."
"What," Dean says, affronted all of a sudden, fingers probably fisted. "You want me to just A-OK that kind of bullshit?"
Sam scoffs before he can stop himself, sick of trying to explain over and over. "Right, next time I'll let the demon walk out and start picking off kids."
Dean's sitting up as he speaks, punching the pillow behind him into the right shape, clearly itching for a fight but sullen and silent, trying to pull back from all-out brawl.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot you had a better idea, since you're apparently-"
"Shut the fuck up, Sam-"
"-literally holier-than-thou now-"
"Maybe I'm just sick of picking up the pieces after your lies-"
"I had to, Dean, it was my only option!" and Sam is up and pacing, flicking the lights on as he goes.
"It shouldn't even BE AN OPTION," Dean shouts back. Their neighbors probably hate them right now- it's a good thing they'll never have the same ones for more than a single night, Sam thinks, letting his lips curl into the same angry smirk he wore when he told Dad he was leaving.
"Yeah, I should have just laid down to die! That's what you'd do, right Dean?" Sam stalks up to where Dean's still sitting on the bed, hands tangled in the sheets.
"What-" Dean's looking away, backing down like he always does when Sam starts edging near certain territory.
"You were dead, and in hell, and I changed," Sam says, pushing down the sick feeling. "And now, what, you aren't- you don't- want to-"
"Sam," Dean says, and pulls him down with warm hands on his elbows, until he's is half-crouched over Dean on the motel bed, feeling like there's no way to stop the nervous vibrating thrumming through him. "Hey, Sam, come on."
Sam's heavy breathing is starting to turn into the panicked pants that he recognizes from the last time he did this, from the morning he woke up and realized he wasn't going to be able to save Dean, that Dean was going to stay in hell because Sam was a fucking failure of a brother, and Sam had just stayed in bed, only getting up to hand the motel manager bills from out of his wallet, until the day Ruby had walked in and dragged him in the shower by the hair.
"Quit it, Sam," Dean says, but he's got one hand on the back of Sam's neck and the other on the dry skin of Sam's elbow, and his voice is sorry and warm. Sam breathes into his brother's shoulder and clenches his eyes tight, feeling the last ache of the exorcism fading away.
Sam lets himself be pulled down onto the bed, curling up with his socked feet poking over the edge, and Dean rests his hand on Sam's head, and Sam pretends Dean's hand isn't shaking and Dean pretends the thigh of his sweatpants isn't a little damp from Sam's face.
Before Sam can breathe again, not really, he clenches one hand against the muscle of his brother's thigh, and turns over, head still in Dean's lap.
"Sam-" Dean says, straightening up a little, but Sam's mouth is already pressed in an open-mouthed kiss against his brother's dick, warm and soft under the worn cotton. Sam guesses the thunk he hears is Dean's head hitting back against the motel wall, but he's too busy mouthing along the head of Dean's dick, half-hard already and firming up as Sam thumbs at the strip of skin exposed when Sam pushes Dean's T-shirt up a little.
Sam runs his cheek along Dean's dick, feeling the cotton against his face, the way his brother is shifting underneath him. The scar across Dean's belly is missing, and Sam wishes he'd tried this earlier, before Castiel had wiped Dean's body clean of all the marks of their childhood, their hunts.
"Sam-" Dean chokes out, again, and when Sam brings his fingers to press up against the head, they come away just the littlest bit damp.
Dean shifts up and Sam wraps fingers in the drawstring and pulls the sweatpants down, just far enough to leave them tight around Dean's thighs, and Sam licks away the taste of precome from the tip of Dean's dick, a little sad that Dean's sweatpants soaked it up, and slides his mouth down on his brother, savoring the way Dean tugs a little at his hair, accidental and surprised.
Sam goes down fast and hard at first, mostly just afraid that at any moment, Dean's little jerks will turn into real shoves and panicked fighting, and Sam will have missed his chance, but they don't, so Sam slows down, lets his tongue rub in pushing circles around Dean's dick, keeps his hands clenched around Dean's thighs, pulling him tight, holding him close. His bangs are in his eyes, and Sam wants to cut them off just so he won't miss the shivers of muscle across Dean's belly as Dean shakes, then holds still, then shakes.
When Dean comes, he doesn't give Sam any warning, not like the muffled grunts of heads-up Sam's heard Dean mutter to a thousand girls before, and it makes Sam grin around the mouthful of come that he spits onto the sheets, hasty to sit up and what he's been missing in Dean's face. He's not disappointed- Dean's flushed, a little sweaty, his lips bitten, his eyes glazed but nervous, and Sam has to shove a hand down his boxers and close his eyes at the sight. He's almost- almost- there when Dean's callused fingers land over his own, and it's an embarrassing short time before he's muffling his gasps in the sleeve tight over Dean's bicep.
"I'm sorry I left you there," Dean says, as Sam fumbles for the light, feeling drunk.
Sam touches his brother's knee under the covers, loose cotton sliding under his fingers. "It's okay," he says, and goes to sleep, Dean breathing slowly next to him in the dark.
"All right," Dean says, when the lock swings open under his careful fingers.
"Ready?" Sam says. There's four demons inside, and Sam tries to steady his thoughts.
"Yeah, show me," Dean says, and clicks on the flashlight.