Fic: Or We Might Drown | SPN | Sam/Dean | NC-17 | 1/1
Title: Or We Might Drown
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 (just barely)
Word Count: 1,982
Prompt: For dreamlittleyo, who won me at help_haiti: Supernatural, Sam/Dean. Again, I am a TOTAL first time nut (you might've noticed), and would love something where Sam knows what he wants and Dean is out of his depth. Maybe something to do with a hail storm.
Summary: Of all the times for Sam to bring up the past and mess with the system, sitting at the side of the road during a hail storm didn't seem likely.
Disclaimer: Kripke and WB own everything. I own nothing. Darnit!
Author's Notes: I hope this hits the mark, hon, and I'm so sorry for being so late with this! I think somehow *I* wound up being the one out of their depth with your awesome prompts and my hit-or-miss record with this fandom. :p
Or We Might Drown
Flipping the wipers up to the highest setting, Dean cursed the steadily worsening downpour as it pounded the Impala's windshield, and squinted into the distance to try to see past the heavy curtain of rain. It just figured they'd drive right into the heart of a thunderstorm smack in the middle of ass fuck nowhere.
“Why don't you just pull over?” Sam whined from the passenger seat, shifting forward. “I don't think it's gonna let up any time soon.”
“Now, why didn't I think of that?” Dean shot back with a huff. “We've gotta be in Ohio by ten, and times'a wastin'.”
Sam turned to look at him, his face scrunching up. “Not ten p.m., Dean. Ten a.m. Or weren't you listening when Bobby called?”
“What?” Tearing his gaze from what little he could see of the road in front of them for a split second, he gave his brother a hard glare.
“God, no wonder you've been driving like a maniac,” Sam laughed, pushing a hand through his hair and slumping back against the seat. “Just pull over already, and when it clears up a little, we'll go find a place to crash for the night.”
Dean chewed over the plan for just a moment, unable to keep from feeling like a complete dumbass as he watched the driving rain turn to tiny pelting hailstones. Bobby'd said ten. Said he'd got word of a pack of ghouls working their way through town, and he'd set up a meet with another hunter in the area. Ten o'clock. Get there quick, team up, get the jump on the situation. Ten.
But if Sam was right, and they had all night....
The tinny clanking of the ice pellets against the hood of the Impala filled his ears, hammering harder as they drove on, and that was the only other convincing he needed.
“Fuck,” he swore, and in as graceful a maneuver as he could manage in the current conditions, Dean pulled the car off the road and slowed to a stop on the gravel roadside, shutting off the wipers and the engine and letting the sounds of the storm fill the void. “Fuck.”
“Breathe, will you? It's just a hail storm.”
Dean shot a sharp, incredulous look at Sam. “You have any idea how much a new paint job will set us back? New body panels, 'cuz a thousand little dents ain't comin' out with a dent hammer. We can't afford to-”
But Sam cut him off with an equally incredulous laugh, shaking his head at him. “Seriously? After everything we've lived through? A little body work is pretty low on the Totem Pole.”
No way was Dean about to acknowledge that logic, though, no way his baby's well-being wasn't a priority, so he breathed out an annoyed huff in response and slid back and down into the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the wall of rain and hail smack the windshield and the hood. He could just see the black flakes of paint lost in the spray as they were dislodged, a gleam of midnight, and gone. It wasn't his imagination. It wasn't.
They must've lapsed into silence for a while as Dean watched the storm, because the next time Sam spoke, it felt like thunder filling the car, an indistinct rumble, warm and deep. Dean blinked, pulled out of his silent grumbling, and arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Huh?”
Sam shifted to lean against the window and door, and returned a soft, apologetic smile, actually looking a little sheepish, if that was even possible. “I said we'll get her taken care of as soon as the case is done. Okay?”
And how could Dean argue with that? Pursing his lips for just a moment, he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“You're adorable when you pout, you know that?”
“What!?” Practically snapping to attention, Dean scowled and eyed his brother with an intense look, catching the blooming smirk on Sam's face as he struggled to contain a laugh. “You did not just say that.”
“Pretty sure I just did. Abso-freakin'-lutely adorable. All wibbly and brooding, your chin all stuck out. Is it any wonder women flock to you?”
Again, Dean couldn't argue. Shrugging and slumping back again, he agreed, “It's a gift, what can I say?” If he sounded a little too full of himself, well, it was all part of his charm.
But then his brain caught up, and he finally registered the almost-wistful tone to Sam's voice. Raising an eyebrow at his brother as one corner of his mouth curled upward, he ventured, “You jealous?”
Sam only pressed his lips tightly together and looked away, ever the Winchester.
Crap. Of all the times to open a can of worms.
Dean blew a breath out his nostrils, then started, “Sam, I-”
“Dean, I-” Sam began at the same time, their words running over each other.
A set of deep breaths, and Sam started again, “It's not like that, and you know it.”
The storm rocked the car just slightly as Dean considered that statement. Sam never had trouble with women. Not anymore, anyway. Fuck, not even when he wasn't the one driving his own body-and hadn't that been a weird trip? No, that wasn't what Sam had meant at all. And yeah, he knew it.
“Why now?” he finally said, slowly and carefully testing the water. This was a road they'd been down before, long ago, before Sam had even gone away to Stanford, and all it had done was cause grief. Denial had carried them a whole shitload of miles since then, kept things even and kept them going, allowed them to look each other in the eye and laugh and just be brothers. The system wasn't broken, it didn't need fixing. Everything was working just fine.
“Why not now?” Sam said, breathing deep again, looking like he was steeling himself, straightening a little even as he seemed to shrink back into the seat-not that Dean was looking; he couldn't, not now-and he turned a serious face to his brother. “You remember what you said to me? Back when I'd gone off by myself and you wanted me to come back? 'Love, family, whatever this is between us'. Well, I remember. And I remember before. Whatever this is. Dean, the apocalypse is over. We won. Every demon that ever crossed us is gone for good, every monster that ever so much as touched one of us is dead. Anything and everything that has ever... stood between us is history.”
“Sam, I-” Dean tried to interject.
“No, let me finish,” Sam cut him off quickly with a raised hand, continuing full steam ahead now that the dam had burst. “There's no one left to judge us. Dad's gone. Cas is gone. Ellen and Jo are gone. Bobby doesn't give a shit; he's just glad we're still alive. So who cares?”
Dean just shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, reaching to grip the steering wheel to keep from lashing out physically.
“Nobody cares, Dean. Nobody but us. And I-I can't ignore it anymore. Okay? All the crap we've been through, whatever crap waits for us on the horizon, I can't face another minute of it without-” Breaking off with a choking sound, he blew out a heavy breath. “I'm tired, okay? And your pouting was just the last straw.”
The next thing Dean was aware of was a heavy, warm hand on his thigh, and he resisted the urge to shake off Sam's touch. He didn't... dammit, he didn't want to.
Opening his eyes slowly, he looked down at Sam's hand on his leg, thought about all the ways that hand had been on him before. Tending wounds, carrying him out of someplace where he'd been injured, staunching bleeding, pushing him literally out of the way, lighting into him with the force of demon-blood-fed rage. Keeping him close. Clutching him tightly when death had separated them, seemingly forever. Before.
Before.
“You don't want this shit storm, Sam,” he said, voice barely above a whisper and nearly lost to the maelstrom outside.
“Don't pretend to know what I want. This is what I want. And if a storm comes with it, we'll just do what we always do; survive.”
A laugh escaped Dean, hard and bitter, and he fixed his brother with an incredulous look. “Or we might drown.”
“Bull. We'll tread water and drag each other to shore. And everything else can just go straight to Hell.”
Six months ago, Dean might have snapped back at Sam for treating the subject of Hell so lightly. But now... now all he could do was sigh; too much water under the bridge, too much old pain associated with so much as the mention of Hell. All that was over.
And Sam, damn his ass, was fucking right.
“Dean,” Sam prodded him, long fingers squeezing his thigh just barely. “Dean.”
The hail storm outside showed no sign of letting up, his poor baby getting pummeled and buffeted and rocked with with heavy winds, and Dean just couldn't hold onto his angry denial for one more minute.
“Sam,” was all he managed to get out, his throat tightening around his brother's name, the name he'd held in reverence since he could remember, and then there was nothing but the storm raging outside and the lightning crackle of all the tension that had built and held for so many years finally, finally breaking as the distance separating them across the seat disappeared. Dean barely had room and time to breathe as they crashed together, mouths and hands seeking, touching, tasting, all that they'd denied each other-that Dean had denied them-for so long.
Fingertips on heated skin, tongue and teeth over pulses, the roll of hips as they grappled for position on the narrow bench seat, the scent and taste of desire, of sex, it was total sensory overload. It was heading for the edge of a waterfall, the rush of blood in his ears was the roar of a river, letting go and giving in to gravity and momentum and Sam. Sam. Sam. His entire existence was just this, just them, here, and-
A new shock jolted through Dean as he felt fingers at the fly of his jeans, the gentle, deliberate brush over the bulge beneath the denim, and he couldn't help arching into that touch as Sam pulled open the zipper and moved the fabric out of his way, reached beneath the waistband of his boxers and took his cock in hand.
“Dean,” Sam whispered into the heavy air surrounding them, his eyes finding Dean's again as if searching for that final permission.
He couldn't deny him, not anymore, not after so many walls had been demolished.
“God, Sam, yes.”
Shivering with the tight grip that enveloped him, Dean closed his eyes and canted his hips, lost in the rapids of that falling river, the pressure of it building within him, faster and faster, and he fumbled with Sam's fly to even the score and bring him along over the falls. A few firm strokes in time with each other, Sam's whimpered tight little moans in his ear, and the pressure and the inevitability of it all swept through him, that final wave crashing over the precipice and dragging him with it, dragging both of them with it, and they plummeted, together, clinging to each other as they fell.
After a long time, as they recovered their wits and breaths and finally hit the ground, the storm outside finally, mercifully, came to an end.
~*~*~*~
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 (just barely)
Word Count: 1,982
Prompt: For dreamlittleyo, who won me at help_haiti: Supernatural, Sam/Dean. Again, I am a TOTAL first time nut (you might've noticed), and would love something where Sam knows what he wants and Dean is out of his depth. Maybe something to do with a hail storm.
Summary: Of all the times for Sam to bring up the past and mess with the system, sitting at the side of the road during a hail storm didn't seem likely.
Disclaimer: Kripke and WB own everything. I own nothing. Darnit!
Author's Notes: I hope this hits the mark, hon, and I'm so sorry for being so late with this! I think somehow *I* wound up being the one out of their depth with your awesome prompts and my hit-or-miss record with this fandom. :p
Or We Might Drown
Flipping the wipers up to the highest setting, Dean cursed the steadily worsening downpour as it pounded the Impala's windshield, and squinted into the distance to try to see past the heavy curtain of rain. It just figured they'd drive right into the heart of a thunderstorm smack in the middle of ass fuck nowhere.
“Why don't you just pull over?” Sam whined from the passenger seat, shifting forward. “I don't think it's gonna let up any time soon.”
“Now, why didn't I think of that?” Dean shot back with a huff. “We've gotta be in Ohio by ten, and times'a wastin'.”
Sam turned to look at him, his face scrunching up. “Not ten p.m., Dean. Ten a.m. Or weren't you listening when Bobby called?”
“What?” Tearing his gaze from what little he could see of the road in front of them for a split second, he gave his brother a hard glare.
“God, no wonder you've been driving like a maniac,” Sam laughed, pushing a hand through his hair and slumping back against the seat. “Just pull over already, and when it clears up a little, we'll go find a place to crash for the night.”
Dean chewed over the plan for just a moment, unable to keep from feeling like a complete dumbass as he watched the driving rain turn to tiny pelting hailstones. Bobby'd said ten. Said he'd got word of a pack of ghouls working their way through town, and he'd set up a meet with another hunter in the area. Ten o'clock. Get there quick, team up, get the jump on the situation. Ten.
But if Sam was right, and they had all night....
The tinny clanking of the ice pellets against the hood of the Impala filled his ears, hammering harder as they drove on, and that was the only other convincing he needed.
“Fuck,” he swore, and in as graceful a maneuver as he could manage in the current conditions, Dean pulled the car off the road and slowed to a stop on the gravel roadside, shutting off the wipers and the engine and letting the sounds of the storm fill the void. “Fuck.”
“Breathe, will you? It's just a hail storm.”
Dean shot a sharp, incredulous look at Sam. “You have any idea how much a new paint job will set us back? New body panels, 'cuz a thousand little dents ain't comin' out with a dent hammer. We can't afford to-”
But Sam cut him off with an equally incredulous laugh, shaking his head at him. “Seriously? After everything we've lived through? A little body work is pretty low on the Totem Pole.”
No way was Dean about to acknowledge that logic, though, no way his baby's well-being wasn't a priority, so he breathed out an annoyed huff in response and slid back and down into the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the wall of rain and hail smack the windshield and the hood. He could just see the black flakes of paint lost in the spray as they were dislodged, a gleam of midnight, and gone. It wasn't his imagination. It wasn't.
They must've lapsed into silence for a while as Dean watched the storm, because the next time Sam spoke, it felt like thunder filling the car, an indistinct rumble, warm and deep. Dean blinked, pulled out of his silent grumbling, and arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Huh?”
Sam shifted to lean against the window and door, and returned a soft, apologetic smile, actually looking a little sheepish, if that was even possible. “I said we'll get her taken care of as soon as the case is done. Okay?”
And how could Dean argue with that? Pursing his lips for just a moment, he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“You're adorable when you pout, you know that?”
“What!?” Practically snapping to attention, Dean scowled and eyed his brother with an intense look, catching the blooming smirk on Sam's face as he struggled to contain a laugh. “You did not just say that.”
“Pretty sure I just did. Abso-freakin'-lutely adorable. All wibbly and brooding, your chin all stuck out. Is it any wonder women flock to you?”
Again, Dean couldn't argue. Shrugging and slumping back again, he agreed, “It's a gift, what can I say?” If he sounded a little too full of himself, well, it was all part of his charm.
But then his brain caught up, and he finally registered the almost-wistful tone to Sam's voice. Raising an eyebrow at his brother as one corner of his mouth curled upward, he ventured, “You jealous?”
Sam only pressed his lips tightly together and looked away, ever the Winchester.
Crap. Of all the times to open a can of worms.
Dean blew a breath out his nostrils, then started, “Sam, I-”
“Dean, I-” Sam began at the same time, their words running over each other.
A set of deep breaths, and Sam started again, “It's not like that, and you know it.”
The storm rocked the car just slightly as Dean considered that statement. Sam never had trouble with women. Not anymore, anyway. Fuck, not even when he wasn't the one driving his own body-and hadn't that been a weird trip? No, that wasn't what Sam had meant at all. And yeah, he knew it.
“Why now?” he finally said, slowly and carefully testing the water. This was a road they'd been down before, long ago, before Sam had even gone away to Stanford, and all it had done was cause grief. Denial had carried them a whole shitload of miles since then, kept things even and kept them going, allowed them to look each other in the eye and laugh and just be brothers. The system wasn't broken, it didn't need fixing. Everything was working just fine.
“Why not now?” Sam said, breathing deep again, looking like he was steeling himself, straightening a little even as he seemed to shrink back into the seat-not that Dean was looking; he couldn't, not now-and he turned a serious face to his brother. “You remember what you said to me? Back when I'd gone off by myself and you wanted me to come back? 'Love, family, whatever this is between us'. Well, I remember. And I remember before. Whatever this is. Dean, the apocalypse is over. We won. Every demon that ever crossed us is gone for good, every monster that ever so much as touched one of us is dead. Anything and everything that has ever... stood between us is history.”
“Sam, I-” Dean tried to interject.
“No, let me finish,” Sam cut him off quickly with a raised hand, continuing full steam ahead now that the dam had burst. “There's no one left to judge us. Dad's gone. Cas is gone. Ellen and Jo are gone. Bobby doesn't give a shit; he's just glad we're still alive. So who cares?”
Dean just shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, reaching to grip the steering wheel to keep from lashing out physically.
“Nobody cares, Dean. Nobody but us. And I-I can't ignore it anymore. Okay? All the crap we've been through, whatever crap waits for us on the horizon, I can't face another minute of it without-” Breaking off with a choking sound, he blew out a heavy breath. “I'm tired, okay? And your pouting was just the last straw.”
The next thing Dean was aware of was a heavy, warm hand on his thigh, and he resisted the urge to shake off Sam's touch. He didn't... dammit, he didn't want to.
Opening his eyes slowly, he looked down at Sam's hand on his leg, thought about all the ways that hand had been on him before. Tending wounds, carrying him out of someplace where he'd been injured, staunching bleeding, pushing him literally out of the way, lighting into him with the force of demon-blood-fed rage. Keeping him close. Clutching him tightly when death had separated them, seemingly forever. Before.
Before.
“You don't want this shit storm, Sam,” he said, voice barely above a whisper and nearly lost to the maelstrom outside.
“Don't pretend to know what I want. This is what I want. And if a storm comes with it, we'll just do what we always do; survive.”
A laugh escaped Dean, hard and bitter, and he fixed his brother with an incredulous look. “Or we might drown.”
“Bull. We'll tread water and drag each other to shore. And everything else can just go straight to Hell.”
Six months ago, Dean might have snapped back at Sam for treating the subject of Hell so lightly. But now... now all he could do was sigh; too much water under the bridge, too much old pain associated with so much as the mention of Hell. All that was over.
And Sam, damn his ass, was fucking right.
“Dean,” Sam prodded him, long fingers squeezing his thigh just barely. “Dean.”
The hail storm outside showed no sign of letting up, his poor baby getting pummeled and buffeted and rocked with with heavy winds, and Dean just couldn't hold onto his angry denial for one more minute.
“Sam,” was all he managed to get out, his throat tightening around his brother's name, the name he'd held in reverence since he could remember, and then there was nothing but the storm raging outside and the lightning crackle of all the tension that had built and held for so many years finally, finally breaking as the distance separating them across the seat disappeared. Dean barely had room and time to breathe as they crashed together, mouths and hands seeking, touching, tasting, all that they'd denied each other-that Dean had denied them-for so long.
Fingertips on heated skin, tongue and teeth over pulses, the roll of hips as they grappled for position on the narrow bench seat, the scent and taste of desire, of sex, it was total sensory overload. It was heading for the edge of a waterfall, the rush of blood in his ears was the roar of a river, letting go and giving in to gravity and momentum and Sam. Sam. Sam. His entire existence was just this, just them, here, and-
A new shock jolted through Dean as he felt fingers at the fly of his jeans, the gentle, deliberate brush over the bulge beneath the denim, and he couldn't help arching into that touch as Sam pulled open the zipper and moved the fabric out of his way, reached beneath the waistband of his boxers and took his cock in hand.
“Dean,” Sam whispered into the heavy air surrounding them, his eyes finding Dean's again as if searching for that final permission.
He couldn't deny him, not anymore, not after so many walls had been demolished.
“God, Sam, yes.”
Shivering with the tight grip that enveloped him, Dean closed his eyes and canted his hips, lost in the rapids of that falling river, the pressure of it building within him, faster and faster, and he fumbled with Sam's fly to even the score and bring him along over the falls. A few firm strokes in time with each other, Sam's whimpered tight little moans in his ear, and the pressure and the inevitability of it all swept through him, that final wave crashing over the precipice and dragging him with it, dragging both of them with it, and they plummeted, together, clinging to each other as they fell.
After a long time, as they recovered their wits and breaths and finally hit the ground, the storm outside finally, mercifully, came to an end.
~*~*~*~