[SUPERNATURAL] One shot: Intent doesn't make a sound {slash}
Title: Intent doesn't make a sound
Author: frayen
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1, 953
Spoilers: Up till the end of S2
Summary: Dean would be the first to admit, ok maybe he wouldn’t and if he did admit anything (which he won’t) it would be grudgingly. He’d admit (grudgingly) that he isn’t quite as handy with knives as his little brother, but he’d never admit it and if that ever gets back to Sammy someone is gonna get fucked up.
Notes/Warnings: Beta'd by my charli_macboyd A bit of schmoop a bit of angst, all the good stuff., teeeeeny smidge of knifeplay and of course incest.
Intent Doesn’t Make A Sound
I. Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Dean would be the first to admit, ok maybe he wouldn’t and if he did admit anything (which he won’t) it would be grudgingly. He’d admit (grudgingly) that he isn’t quite as handy with knives as his little brother, but he’d never admit it and if that ever gets back to Sammy someone is gonna get fucked up.
It’s not like he can’t hit a target or several or take down a something (or several somethings) if the situation requires it, he is Dean fucking Winchester, bitch. It’s just that he has always preferred the comforting weight of a Glock or his new favourite toy, a colt python he won in a poker game from some dumbass kid who didn’t know which way up to hold the cards. Sam didn’t see the funny side to this story; Dean said he did the world a favour taking the gun away from him. Maybe he didn’t need to take the kids designer jeans too, but that’s what you get for field tripping to a biker bar and wearing Superman underwear.
But Sam? Sam loves his knives.
Scratch that, Sammy loves his knives. And that ain’t something Dean is gonna complain about any time soon.
There is something reassuring about the soft click of a safety being flicked off and the snick of a bullet sliding into the chamber. Something sure in the knowledge that should he choose to fire his weapon, whatever he chooses to fire at will be going down. Or at least 9 times out of 10 they will be. There has been the odd few times where he’s just been a distraction so Sam can sneak in, all freak ass, giant stealth ninja and stab a bitch.
There was something sure and reassuring in that too.
Sam loves his knives.
He’s got his best toys too, blades he’s had for so long that the hilts have moulded to the shape of his palm, the knives he took to Stanford. Then there was the newest one, the one Dean had bought him for one of their makeshift Christmases - The Alpha Hunter. The name had appealed to Dean and it was a vicious, deadly looking thing and so it appealed to Sam. Long black-veneered hilt that, despite being longer than most, still didn’t fit completely in Sam’s hand (fucking giant.) The blade was a length and a half of the hilt, sharpened to the point that it hissed as it cut through air. There was a small, sharp hook on the end, just above the tip, a hunting knife - regular hunting - designed for the de-scaling and gutting of fish.
Oh it gutted things just perfect.
It was this knife that Sam held against Dean’s bare thigh right now. Or at least Dean thought it was. He imagined he could feel the ghost of the hooked tip. Sam was holding it sure and steady, extra close, but not touching. Still, Dean brushed against it as his thighs shuddered from the strain of keeping still.
“I said don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Yes you are.”
“Fucking do something then.”
“Patience.”
“Don’t have any.”
Sam pressed the flat of the blade against Dean’s skin and dragged it in a hap-hazard, lazy zig zag over and up to Dean’s groin. The hook caught in a tuft of leg hair and Dean winced.
“Wuss.”
“Bitch, I’m going to beat you down.”
II. Fucking In An Alley Only Leads To Trouble.
Dean likes a good, quick, hard fuck in an alley, or anywhere if he’s honest, not that he is much of that these days.
He likes a good, quick, hard fuck, a lot and often and repeatedly.
“I want sex now, Sammy.”
Well, it’s not like he’s got a lot of time left. Just don’t go saying that in front of Sam, it’s kind of a touchy subject.
Sam likes things to be long and drawn out. He maps Dean’s body like he’s committing it to memory, like it’s the first time he’s seen it. Like it’s the last time he’s ever going to. Sam was constantly aware of the time constraints pressing down on them, between looking for a way to con a demon out of a deal and killing every evil son of a bitch between here and there, their time was all filled. In the spare hours they slept, they ate and they fucked, quick and hard.
There was this one alley, Dean remembers it like it was yesterday (well it was, or close enough to it.) An alley just like the one before and like the one after (though Sam hopes with one minor difference.) Dank, not as smelly most, which was always a plus, but it was dark and almost private and almost hidden.
“Mmmm, sexy.” Sam had muttered just before Dean grabbed him and shoved him hard against the wall.
“Fuck you.”
“Okay.”
It wasn’t until after Dean had zipped his jeans back up that he noticed the CCTV camera.
Sam had wanted to mount an immediate ‘liberate the footage’ mission. Dean hadn’t thought it was worth bothering about, you know, in the grand scheme of things.
“Dean, what if Hendrickson gets a hold of it?”
“So what, Sammy? He can perv on us, it’s not like he doesn’t know every little thing about us already.”
“Incest is illegal, Dean.”
“Yeah, so is everything else we’ve been charged with. All that tape gives him is a good view of my ass, which he can kiss.”
“Dean.”
(Fucking puppy dog eyes)
“Ok, fine, we’ll go get it. But I get to keep it and you have to watch it with me.”
III. Curtains close, fade to black. . .And then they had sex.
Sam gets his way in the end. Sammy always gets his way. Sam gets his way even when he doesn’t know he’s getting it. Twisted thing is, Dean does too. It’s like they’re fixed in the same default setting where they can’t do anything but defer to the other. They haven’t had a proper fight in god knows how long, not a straight up shouting match of the ‘almost leads to blows’ kind.
It goes unspoken that they’re afraid that harsh words might be the last words they say to each other.
Dean kinda misses it. He’s sick of this floundering holding pattern, with neither of them willing to back down about giving the other exactly what he wants.
Dean’s sick of it and he has to figure that Sam is too.
Sam eventually starts something before Dean has a chance too. Starts it in that sudden way of his, one minute he’s his usual Broody McBroodenstein self, then the next he is pushing Dean up against the nearest wall, hard.
Well, Dean just got back from getting coffee and Sam was his usual Broody McBroodenstein, propped up on the bed, elbows leaning on his knees, head in hands. Brooding. It didn’t seem like a second after Dean had entered the motel and Sam was up and pushing him against the wall, hard.
“Whoa, easy there, Sammy.” Dean said. He hadn’t even had time to put down the take out cups. One was pressed against his chest, hot, but cooling quickly, coffee splashed from the lid that was straining to keep its shape. The other he had by his side, but with both hands full, he couldn’t fight Sam off, even if he wanted to. Dean kept up his easy smile in the face of Sam’s giant desperation. Ok, Dean might have provoked some kind of reaction from Sam by taking a little more time than was needed to get them a hot beverage that didn’t taste like liquid cardboard. It’s not like he did it on purpose, he says.
Sam’s hands were fisted in Dean’s shirt. Sam’s face was contorted with worry. Sam kissed him. And then Sam let go, took the coffee from Dean, set the cups down on the rickety thing that passed for a table, and threw Dean on the bed.
“Where the fuck were you?” Sam asked, but never waited for a response, just started rucking up Dean’s shirt, pulling it over Dean’s head. “What the fuck took you so long?” All rhetorical questions in Dean’s mind, because Sam didn’t seem to want an answer, just needed to feel Dean, feel that he was still here and alive. And the frenzy of Sam’s hands were making him feel very alive. Sam was this mad rush of hands and tongue and teeth and pure desperate need.
“Whoa there,” Dean murmured, not even thinking about trying to disentangle himself from his brother. “I thought you liked to slow your roll.”
“I’m gonna fuck you into the mattress.” Sam slurred.
“Well you’d best get on it then.” Dean said even though it was a redundant statement, Sam was already ‘getting on it.’
Sam prepped and spread him with a speed that was uncharacteristic and devastating. One, two, three slick fingers penetrated and stretched him before Sam fucked him hard and fast. Looking at the just this side of evil glint in Sam’s eye, Dean’s first thought was maybe he had pushed Sam a shade too far this time. His second thought was why the hell hadn’t he done it sooner.
Dean loved it when he could look at Sam when they fucked, he liked being able to tell the exact minute when Sam was going to come by the way Sam screwed up his face and threw back his head in blissful loss of control. It was especially good when Sam came ball deep inside Dean.
Oh yeah, Dean liked that a lot.
Sam thrust, unrelentless and hard. Dean had to stretch up his arms and curl his fingers round the bars of the headboard to protect his head from banging into the metal every time Sam slammed into him.
“Oh fuck yeah.” Dean murmured as Sam’s fist closed around his cock, jerking him roughly to orgasm.
They came at the same time, Sam in Dean and Dean in hot spurts, coming over Sam’s hand and his own belly.
IV. Some day I’ll have no tomorrows left, today is not that day.
Dean watches Sam, Like, all the time. Watches Sam eat, watches Sam sleep, watches Sam sharpen his knives with a quiet, revenant concentration that reminds him so much of his Dad that it hurts. Sam thinks it’s a little creepy how Dean can’t keep his eyes off him. Dean says he can’t help it if Sam’s a distraction.
“But I’m not doing anything.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Dean doesn’t want to say that he wants to remember Sam just like this, while Sam is being Sam doing Sam things, needs to be able to take these memories with him.
It’s not like he doesn’t think Sam can save him, Dean has this feeling that Sam can, Sam will. Thing is, Dean doesn’t want Sam to Save him, because if Dean lives then Sam dies, it’s that plain and that horribly simple.
So Dean watches Sam, watches Sam sharpen those knives that he loves so damn much and is lethal and tough and strong and alive. A feeling of something slinks low in his stomach, could be sadness - regret, could be the burrito he had earlier repeating on him. He knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left and would like to spend it doing something, killing things would be good, killing a lot of things would be better. But this, watching his little brother, being with his little brother, well that was just fine to.
THE END.
Author: frayen
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1, 953
Spoilers: Up till the end of S2
Summary: Dean would be the first to admit, ok maybe he wouldn’t and if he did admit anything (which he won’t) it would be grudgingly. He’d admit (grudgingly) that he isn’t quite as handy with knives as his little brother, but he’d never admit it and if that ever gets back to Sammy someone is gonna get fucked up.
Notes/Warnings: Beta'd by my charli_macboyd A bit of schmoop a bit of angst, all the good stuff., teeeeeny smidge of knifeplay and of course incest.
Intent Doesn’t Make A Sound
I. Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Dean would be the first to admit, ok maybe he wouldn’t and if he did admit anything (which he won’t) it would be grudgingly. He’d admit (grudgingly) that he isn’t quite as handy with knives as his little brother, but he’d never admit it and if that ever gets back to Sammy someone is gonna get fucked up.
It’s not like he can’t hit a target or several or take down a something (or several somethings) if the situation requires it, he is Dean fucking Winchester, bitch. It’s just that he has always preferred the comforting weight of a Glock or his new favourite toy, a colt python he won in a poker game from some dumbass kid who didn’t know which way up to hold the cards. Sam didn’t see the funny side to this story; Dean said he did the world a favour taking the gun away from him. Maybe he didn’t need to take the kids designer jeans too, but that’s what you get for field tripping to a biker bar and wearing Superman underwear.
But Sam? Sam loves his knives.
Scratch that, Sammy loves his knives. And that ain’t something Dean is gonna complain about any time soon.
There is something reassuring about the soft click of a safety being flicked off and the snick of a bullet sliding into the chamber. Something sure in the knowledge that should he choose to fire his weapon, whatever he chooses to fire at will be going down. Or at least 9 times out of 10 they will be. There has been the odd few times where he’s just been a distraction so Sam can sneak in, all freak ass, giant stealth ninja and stab a bitch.
There was something sure and reassuring in that too.
Sam loves his knives.
He’s got his best toys too, blades he’s had for so long that the hilts have moulded to the shape of his palm, the knives he took to Stanford. Then there was the newest one, the one Dean had bought him for one of their makeshift Christmases - The Alpha Hunter. The name had appealed to Dean and it was a vicious, deadly looking thing and so it appealed to Sam. Long black-veneered hilt that, despite being longer than most, still didn’t fit completely in Sam’s hand (fucking giant.) The blade was a length and a half of the hilt, sharpened to the point that it hissed as it cut through air. There was a small, sharp hook on the end, just above the tip, a hunting knife - regular hunting - designed for the de-scaling and gutting of fish.
Oh it gutted things just perfect.
It was this knife that Sam held against Dean’s bare thigh right now. Or at least Dean thought it was. He imagined he could feel the ghost of the hooked tip. Sam was holding it sure and steady, extra close, but not touching. Still, Dean brushed against it as his thighs shuddered from the strain of keeping still.
“I said don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Yes you are.”
“Fucking do something then.”
“Patience.”
“Don’t have any.”
Sam pressed the flat of the blade against Dean’s skin and dragged it in a hap-hazard, lazy zig zag over and up to Dean’s groin. The hook caught in a tuft of leg hair and Dean winced.
“Wuss.”
“Bitch, I’m going to beat you down.”
II. Fucking In An Alley Only Leads To Trouble.
Dean likes a good, quick, hard fuck in an alley, or anywhere if he’s honest, not that he is much of that these days.
He likes a good, quick, hard fuck, a lot and often and repeatedly.
“I want sex now, Sammy.”
Well, it’s not like he’s got a lot of time left. Just don’t go saying that in front of Sam, it’s kind of a touchy subject.
Sam likes things to be long and drawn out. He maps Dean’s body like he’s committing it to memory, like it’s the first time he’s seen it. Like it’s the last time he’s ever going to. Sam was constantly aware of the time constraints pressing down on them, between looking for a way to con a demon out of a deal and killing every evil son of a bitch between here and there, their time was all filled. In the spare hours they slept, they ate and they fucked, quick and hard.
There was this one alley, Dean remembers it like it was yesterday (well it was, or close enough to it.) An alley just like the one before and like the one after (though Sam hopes with one minor difference.) Dank, not as smelly most, which was always a plus, but it was dark and almost private and almost hidden.
“Mmmm, sexy.” Sam had muttered just before Dean grabbed him and shoved him hard against the wall.
“Fuck you.”
“Okay.”
It wasn’t until after Dean had zipped his jeans back up that he noticed the CCTV camera.
Sam had wanted to mount an immediate ‘liberate the footage’ mission. Dean hadn’t thought it was worth bothering about, you know, in the grand scheme of things.
“Dean, what if Hendrickson gets a hold of it?”
“So what, Sammy? He can perv on us, it’s not like he doesn’t know every little thing about us already.”
“Incest is illegal, Dean.”
“Yeah, so is everything else we’ve been charged with. All that tape gives him is a good view of my ass, which he can kiss.”
“Dean.”
(Fucking puppy dog eyes)
“Ok, fine, we’ll go get it. But I get to keep it and you have to watch it with me.”
III. Curtains close, fade to black. . .And then they had sex.
Sam gets his way in the end. Sammy always gets his way. Sam gets his way even when he doesn’t know he’s getting it. Twisted thing is, Dean does too. It’s like they’re fixed in the same default setting where they can’t do anything but defer to the other. They haven’t had a proper fight in god knows how long, not a straight up shouting match of the ‘almost leads to blows’ kind.
It goes unspoken that they’re afraid that harsh words might be the last words they say to each other.
Dean kinda misses it. He’s sick of this floundering holding pattern, with neither of them willing to back down about giving the other exactly what he wants.
Dean’s sick of it and he has to figure that Sam is too.
Sam eventually starts something before Dean has a chance too. Starts it in that sudden way of his, one minute he’s his usual Broody McBroodenstein self, then the next he is pushing Dean up against the nearest wall, hard.
Well, Dean just got back from getting coffee and Sam was his usual Broody McBroodenstein, propped up on the bed, elbows leaning on his knees, head in hands. Brooding. It didn’t seem like a second after Dean had entered the motel and Sam was up and pushing him against the wall, hard.
“Whoa, easy there, Sammy.” Dean said. He hadn’t even had time to put down the take out cups. One was pressed against his chest, hot, but cooling quickly, coffee splashed from the lid that was straining to keep its shape. The other he had by his side, but with both hands full, he couldn’t fight Sam off, even if he wanted to. Dean kept up his easy smile in the face of Sam’s giant desperation. Ok, Dean might have provoked some kind of reaction from Sam by taking a little more time than was needed to get them a hot beverage that didn’t taste like liquid cardboard. It’s not like he did it on purpose, he says.
Sam’s hands were fisted in Dean’s shirt. Sam’s face was contorted with worry. Sam kissed him. And then Sam let go, took the coffee from Dean, set the cups down on the rickety thing that passed for a table, and threw Dean on the bed.
“Where the fuck were you?” Sam asked, but never waited for a response, just started rucking up Dean’s shirt, pulling it over Dean’s head. “What the fuck took you so long?” All rhetorical questions in Dean’s mind, because Sam didn’t seem to want an answer, just needed to feel Dean, feel that he was still here and alive. And the frenzy of Sam’s hands were making him feel very alive. Sam was this mad rush of hands and tongue and teeth and pure desperate need.
“Whoa there,” Dean murmured, not even thinking about trying to disentangle himself from his brother. “I thought you liked to slow your roll.”
“I’m gonna fuck you into the mattress.” Sam slurred.
“Well you’d best get on it then.” Dean said even though it was a redundant statement, Sam was already ‘getting on it.’
Sam prepped and spread him with a speed that was uncharacteristic and devastating. One, two, three slick fingers penetrated and stretched him before Sam fucked him hard and fast. Looking at the just this side of evil glint in Sam’s eye, Dean’s first thought was maybe he had pushed Sam a shade too far this time. His second thought was why the hell hadn’t he done it sooner.
Dean loved it when he could look at Sam when they fucked, he liked being able to tell the exact minute when Sam was going to come by the way Sam screwed up his face and threw back his head in blissful loss of control. It was especially good when Sam came ball deep inside Dean.
Oh yeah, Dean liked that a lot.
Sam thrust, unrelentless and hard. Dean had to stretch up his arms and curl his fingers round the bars of the headboard to protect his head from banging into the metal every time Sam slammed into him.
“Oh fuck yeah.” Dean murmured as Sam’s fist closed around his cock, jerking him roughly to orgasm.
They came at the same time, Sam in Dean and Dean in hot spurts, coming over Sam’s hand and his own belly.
IV. Some day I’ll have no tomorrows left, today is not that day.
Dean watches Sam, Like, all the time. Watches Sam eat, watches Sam sleep, watches Sam sharpen his knives with a quiet, revenant concentration that reminds him so much of his Dad that it hurts. Sam thinks it’s a little creepy how Dean can’t keep his eyes off him. Dean says he can’t help it if Sam’s a distraction.
“But I’m not doing anything.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Dean doesn’t want to say that he wants to remember Sam just like this, while Sam is being Sam doing Sam things, needs to be able to take these memories with him.
It’s not like he doesn’t think Sam can save him, Dean has this feeling that Sam can, Sam will. Thing is, Dean doesn’t want Sam to Save him, because if Dean lives then Sam dies, it’s that plain and that horribly simple.
So Dean watches Sam, watches Sam sharpen those knives that he loves so damn much and is lethal and tough and strong and alive. A feeling of something slinks low in his stomach, could be sadness - regret, could be the burrito he had earlier repeating on him. He knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left and would like to spend it doing something, killing things would be good, killing a lot of things would be better. But this, watching his little brother, being with his little brother, well that was just fine to.
THE END.