I have only one itching desire (let me stand next to your fire) - Sam/Dean NC-17
Title - I have only one itching desire (let me stand next to your fire)
Author - queerly_it_is
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - NC-17
Word Count - ~3k
Warnings - Wincest (explicit), profanity, slight mentions of canon character death (it’s Supernatural, what’re you gonna do), references to underage!wincest (not specified), vague references to pyrophilia (nothing too extreme though).
Disclaimer - I own none of the characters mentioned, nor the universe they live in.
Summary - In which Sam teaches English and is exasperated, while Dean hates matches, teenagers and gym class, and is kinda-maybe-sorta turned on by fire.
Authors Notes - This whole thing was inspired by a picture I came across of a simple box of matches, and since wincest has clearly eaten my brain, my thoughts immediately turned to fic *facepalm*. Title from Jimmy Hendrix.
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They go through matches like you wouldn’t believe.
Just once; Dean’d like to be able to stop in the podunk town-of-the-week, restock the trunk of the Impala, hustle some pool, fuck Sam stupid in generic motel room number six-thousand-and-whatever, and not have to deal with the suspicious eyes of the convenience store clerk drilling into him as he approaches the counter with as many boxes of matches as possible without actually getting picked up by the cops for arson.
Again.
Oh sure, gasoline he can store by the can and nothin’, not even the slightest hint of trouble, same with lighter fluid - though he doesn’t like keeping it in the car after that one incident with the firecrackers and the faulty catch on the trunk - and he gets pulled in for overstocking on matches.
Sam showing up at the station to bail him out that one time; puppy-eyes out in full force, shuffling his feet like he wasn‘t tall as a barn and just as broad, acting all aw shucks embarrassed about how his boyfriend was “a pyrophiliac who’s undergoing sexual habituation therapy” really didn’t help enamour Dean to the whole experience. Sam’d totally deserved the itching powder in his boxers for that, no matter how much he’d bitched about his ‘sensitive skin’ for days afterward. Besides, the blowjob had totally shut him up.
Don’t get him wrong, he loved his lighter, but the fluid didn’t always last “only when you don’t check it before the salt and burns Dean” Sam’s exasperated voice in his head insists, not for the first time. Plus it was a bitch trying to get a skeleton burning when you didn’t wanna just toss the lighter into the grave. Nah, Dean was just an old-school kinda guy when it came to certain things; be it music, cars, or setting corpses on fire.
Not that he’d had the chance, lately.
They’d been in this pathetic dustbowl for three weeks already, trying to identify the ghost that’d been terrorising the local high school - fuck Dean hated going undercover in high schools, didn’t matter how much Sam claimed to like the shorts, gym socks made his knees look knobbly as hell, and how’d Sam get the ‘sexy English teacher’ role anyway? - Three victims, all women in their mid-thirties, no real connection between them aside from place of employment far as anyone could tell, all bludgeoned from behind in various places around the school grounds.
Apart from the standard haunting signs, so far they’d come up with nothing more than rumours, clique-wars that made Dean wanna roll his eyes so bad they were twitching in their sockets, a boatload of teenage apathy, and more jailbait coming onto them - Dean winking and laughing it off, Sam blushing and sitting them down for a lecture about self-respect and the dangers of untrustworthy authority figures - than Dean could actually keep track of.
Still, sex in supply closets never got old, no matter if you actually attended the school or not, or if the dude you‘re fucking is more brotherlovereverything than fellow student. Reminded Dean of enumerable encounters with Sammy at whatever local high school they were stuck at while Dad was off hunting solo. “Take care of Sammy, Dean” echoing in his head as he shoved his gangly, too-skinny baby brother against the shelving and kissed the crap out of him, or dropped to his knees while Sam bit down hard on his own hand, trying to stay quiet. Rubbing off on Sam as he kissed the taste of come into his brother’s mouth, groaning his release against the long line of Sam’s neck. ‘Course, Sam’d be hard again by the time Dean was done - blessing of teenage hormones - so it’d be rinse and repeat ‘till the shrill, muffled noise of the bell filtered through the wooden door; Sam rushing off to class flushed and loose-limbed, Dean sauntering in in his own sweet time, cocky grin aimed at the teacher, and whatever pretty but forgettable girl in the front row caught his eye first.
Nostalgic sexcapades aside though, the sooner he could clear his nose of the slightly sour smell of teenager (body odour, acne cream and too-much cologne) the happier he’d be. And if he spent more than a few minutes a day peering through the windowpane into Sam’s (Mr Rhoades to the kids, and Dean, once, during a slightly kinky little romp on his desk) classroom, watching Sam’s emphatic gesturing as he rambled about whatever the hell it was English teachers actually taught kids; muscles bunching under his jacket, fake glasses slipping down the ski-jump shape of his nose, hair flopping over his forehead…well that was no ones business but Dean’s.
OK, so maybe it was more than a few minutes a day.
Collapsing back on the sagging mattress of the ‘Wagon Wheel Inn’ - fucking Western-themed roach traps, offending Dean’s love of the era right down to his soul - he let out an explosive sigh, turning his head to stare at Sammy, sitting at the table across the room.
“Dude, how much longer do we have to stay here?” He whined, with the tone someone else might’ve used to talk about sitting next to a creepy homeless guy on the subway.
“As long as it takes to salt and burn whoever’s been clubbing people to death at the school, Dean” Sam said, sounding - and looking, in that teacher’s getup - way too patronising to Dean’s way of thinking.
“Yeah but, come on man, no attacks in almost three weeks. Might not even be a ghost, could just be a garden variety nutbar.” His voice sounding way too hopeful to his own ears, Sam still not looking up from the periodicals and notes that’ve accumulated to a dangerous degree on every available surface in their room.
“Cold spots, flickering lights, unexplained noises, random attacks with no obvious motive, all with the same M.O.” Sam lists the signs there’ve been at the school over the last few months, ticking them off on his long fingers, still not looking up at Dean.
“Three weeks, Sammy” Dean reiterates; hands slapping over his eyes, trying to block out the sheer amount of dodge ball he’s overseen in that time. “Three weeks and nothin'.”
We can’t just leave.” Sam says, in the ‘I’m-so-sincere’ voice he usually saves for witnesses. “What if someone else dies ‘cos we just gave up, huh? What if it’s a kid next time Dean, rather than one of the staff?” Back to emphatic gesturing now then. Christ maybe he should’ve been a teacher. Or a mime.
“I know, I know. I just. The fucking gym Sam. I can’t take the sneaker smell anymore.” He wrinkles his nose at the sense memory.
Sam just snorts a laugh at him. Bastard.
“Not easy for me either Dean, I’m not actually a qualified teacher y‘know, I’m just going through the textbooks and trying to push novels I know about as part of the curriculum, trying to get them to read something other than frickin‘ Twilight.” Sam says the last part with particular venom, and Dean just knows Sam’s been confiscating those books from his students for the last three weeks.
Yeah, he knows Sam doesn’t have it easy, but c’mon. Sweaty. Sneakers.
“Yeah fine, but if we don’t figure this out soon, I’m telling ya Sammy, I’mma lose it.” He says, glaring at his gym teacher getup on the floor by the bathroom door.
“I’ve almost got it Dean, I swear. I’ve narrowed it down to a few former members of staff who worked at the school in the late 80’s” He says, picking up a page from a legal pad. “There’s no record on whether some of them died or just left town - bunch of papers got destroyed when a pipe burst in a storage room a few years back - but I’m close to figuring it out” He says all this with his Mr Researcher voice, and Dean knows he’ll find the answer, he’d just prefer it if Sam found it quicker.
“Yeah yeah okay, just don’t expect me to play dodge ball with the tween brigade for another three weeks.” He says warningly, almost shuddering at the thought.
“I’ll work it out before then, I promise. Then you can torch some bones and we can get outta here, okay?” His tone is one of a parent trying to placate a child that’s having a tantrum, and the nature of their relationship combined with that thought kinda creeps Dean out a little.
He just sighs and wills his headache to go away.
The next day starts off significantly better. Dean wakes to the sensation of warm, wet suction wrapped around his dick. Moaning and blinking hard to clear his eyes of sleep, voice still gruff and a little cracked, he looks down to see Sam with his wide pink mouth sliding up and down on his cock, hazel eyes mostly pupil and watching Dean’s reaction.
“Fuck Sammy, g’mornin’ to you too.” He manages to groan, hands sliding into Sam’s hair, still sticking up at all angles from sleep. He tugs slightly, the way he knows Sam likes it, feels the vibration from Sam’s moan all the way through his body. Fuck, Sam’s fucking mouth. He sinks into the hot pressure of his brother’s lips, rush of orgasm building slow and sweet ‘till he crests over the edge and spurts into Sam’s throat, feels him swallow around him, pulling off with one last obscene pop. He drags Sam up the mattress, kisses him hard and open-mouthed, morning breath be damned, tongue demanding entrance, and licks the taste of himself away until there’s nothing there but Sam. Wraps his hand around his brother’s length, only manages a handful of rough strokes, calluses rubbing at the spot just under the head, before Sam tenses and comes all over Dean’s stomach, himself, the sheets.
Panting, they both just lay there for a moment, bird song outside the window - too early to get up, too late to sleep any more - and indulge in a little shared body-heat no way is he calling it cuddling. Stumbling out of bed, only to both end up ten minutes late for their classes, showing up with hair still wet and dopey expressions on their faces thanks to an awesome fuck in the shower - Dean keeping Sam pressed against the tile, shoving up at just the right angle to make Sam lose it without a hand on him - before they headed out the door.
Dean finds he doesn’t mind donning the gym socks quite so much that day. The jealous looks they both get from several of the staff certainly don’t hurt.
Lunch break, middle of week four - or “day five-hundred-and-nine” as Dean’d said to Sam that morning - and Sam skids to a halt next to the table Dean’s camped at in the staff room, doing paperwork of all fucking things, startling Mrs Hornby the aging school librarian beside him, who doesn’t get that she‘s about thirty years too old for him and she’s not Sam.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” He asks, sounding slightly out of breath, shooting a quick polite smile at poor Mrs Hornby, who seems torn between blinking owlishly (the effect made all the more alarming by the magnification from her thick, round glasses) at the way Sam’s looming over the table, and swooning like she’s on the cover of a harlequin romance novel.
Sam can have that effect.
“Uh, sure” Dean replies, excusing himself, and determinedly ignoring the feeling of Mrs Hornby “Call me Susanna” staring at his ass as he heads for the door.
“I’ve got it” Sam says, no preamble once they get out into the empty corridor. “I know who the ghost is.”
Dean’s caught between wanting to climb Sam like a tree in gratitude, and the desire to just sob with relief. “You sure?” he asks, already feeling the grin tugging at his mouth, the jittery energy beneath his skin that says he gets to torch something.
“Yep” Sam just beams at him, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, all white teeth and dimples and fuck Dean wants to kiss him. So he does, paying no heed to the wolf-whistle from somewhere down the end of the hall, drags Sam in by the back of his neck and sweeps his tongue across is brother‘s until they pull back, both grinning now.
“So!” He says, clapping his hands, rubs them together, more buzzed than he’s felt in forever it feels like. “Who’re we burnin’?”
“I’ll tell you on the way to the store.” Sam answers, leading Dean by the arm toward the nearest exit, “we need to get matches first.”
Fucking matches.
Between them, they manage to keep the clerk off-balance enough that he doesn’t suspect them of terrorism-by-matches or whatever. Sam chatting him up about fuck-knows-what while the guy absently scans Dean’s purchases through; matches, matches, lube, matches, condoms, matches, beef jerky. Not even an eyebrow raise and fuck if he’s doing this on his own ever again, easy as this one was. They’re gone quick as they came in, clerk looking slightly bewildered, like he’s not sure what just happened as his eyes go from them, to the bills sitting on the counter and back again. He can feel Sam shaking with poorly suppressed laughter where he’s pressed along his right side.
Reaching the car, Sam takes the bags, puts them on the backseat, and shoves Dean against the driver’s side door, running a giant hand along the side of Dean’s throat and pressing their lips together, quick and sweet. Sharp grind of his hips against Dean’s, body rolling serpentine-like all along him, before he’s pulling back. Dean just kinda stands there, more than half-hard, eyes blinking at the light Sam’s not blocking out anymore, brain misfiring and breath firmly lodged somewhere behind his sternum.
“C’mon, big brother” Sam says, low and rough, smirk tilting his mouth slightly, “let’s go set some stuff on fire.”
Dean shivers in the sunlight.
He doesn’t know what it is about fire. Doesn’t think it’s really about the fire at all if he’s honest, too much history there. He remembers the first salt and burn his Dad took him on; feeling so grown up and accomplished even though he’d probably done less than one tenth of the digging. He remembers watching his Dad climb down into the grave, pry the coffin open, stench of death and mould rising up at him with the groan of old wood and rusty hinges. Remembers his Dad pouring lighter fluid and rock-salt onto the musty old bones, climbing out, pulling a motel room book of matches from his jacket, then turning and holding it out to Dean “go ahead son, light it up” encouraging tone, and Dean’d nearly dropped the damned thing his hands were trembling that much; so fucking eager, ready to show his Dad he could do it, that he could be just like him. He snapped one match off the end, lit it and set it against the others, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth a little in pure concentration. Soon as it caught - sudden burst of light and heat, chemical hiss - he’d flung it into the grave. Split-second delay goddidIdoitwrong? then a whoof as the bones went up, nasty smell following the heat up outta the ground, making him wrinkle his nose. “Well done Deano” his Dad’s hand ruffling his hair, rare smile on his face, every inch the proud papa. He’d been nine-years-old.
Went on like that for years, ‘till Dean was doing most of the digging and Dad was covering him; shotgun full of salt keeping the spirit at bay long enough for Dean to torch the bones. He hated it when he wasn’t quick enough, couldn’t get the flames going before the ghost hurt his Dad; he could hear the grunts of pain, didn’t turn around though “no matter what happens, you finish the job Dean, you understand?” He’d learned to ignore the tremble in his fingers, didn’t let it stop him from getting the matchbook lit and down into the grave, ‘till one day the tremble just wasn’t there anymore. He learned to remind himself that the spirits were hurting people, that they weren’t really human anymore, and that just because they might’ve been somebody’s Mom or Dad or brother, didn’t mean they shouldn’t be put to rest.
Fire took his Mom, but fire kept his Dad safe. Kept Sammy safe too, when he was old enough to be with them.
Seemed like his whole life’d been about fire, one way or another.
He still wasn’t fond of matches though.
Then again, he thinks, as the vengeful spirit of one Imelda Johanson - schoolteacher, killed by an obsessed wacko janitor back in ’86, and buried three feet under the bleachers, disturbed, it seemed, by the renovation of the grounds for the next football season - flings him into a tree so hard he sees stars, half expecting it to just give out and topple over on him ‘fuck Sam’d never let me live that down’, matches can sometimes be pretty fucking awesome.
He hears Sam spraying lighter fluid not far from where he’s slumped - crinkle of thin metal in Sam‘s giant hands, hiss of spray and patter of liquid hitting dirt - and wills him to hurry the fuck up already - shit he hates playing the decoy, and Sam totally cheats at rock, paper, scissors - before he ends up brained on a tree trunk.
Sudden otherworldly screech, gust of wind that stinks of rot, and then he’s watching as ol’ Miss Johanson’s spirit burns up from the inside out, ’till she flies apart in a screaming rend of flame and rage.
Looks over, sees Sam outlined by the flames licking up from the pile of bones and earth at the edge of the football field, slanted eyes glinting in the light, half of him in shadow; and Dean can’t help but think there might be something to that pyrophiliac thing after all.
Not that he’d ever tell that to Sam, of course.
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