Fic: Maybe Spring Winds (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Maybe Spring Winds
Author: smalltrolven
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,639
Warning: None
Author’s Note: Not my characters, only my words. Written for firesign10 for the 2020 SPNSpringFling . I couldn’t choose between the all the great prompts so I incorporated all three in the story, reflections of light, spring winds, now you tell me.
Summary: Sam is coming to terms with what it means to have Jack back home, and Dean keeps asking if he’s okay.
Read it over on AO3 right here.
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A bitter spring wind stirs Sam’s hair, making him shiver and wish he’d thought to wear a hat. The sun hasn’t been up long, so the air is cool on his skin. He stands on top of the small hill that the bunker is built into, looking out at the long horizon. It’s so damn flat out here, the forever view reminds him of standing on the cliff in Santa Cruz with Jess looking out at the Pacific. Whenever he thinks of her, he sends up a prayer that she’s in her heaven and happy.
And that leads him to think of what’s ahead for them, he and his brother. He wonders whether or not they’ll still be together in their Heaven. It seems like it was a promise made lifetimes ago by a God who no longer feels that way about them. This war against Chuck has made him reconsider so many assumptions and he’s hashed a lot of them out with Dean. Being so unsure about what comes after they die is something he hasn’t specifically brought up with his brother. He wonders if Dean has even thought about it.
The sunlight reflects off the standing water in the drainage ditches on either side of the county road that stretches off into the distance. The water glows with the sun’s reflection going gold and unbearably beautiful. He sips his tea and hums to himself. The wind blows through him again, but the tea has warmed him up enough so he doesn’t shiver this time. He watches it stir the tops of the cover crops planted in the fields, the small plants bending under the invisible force. Just like they’ve been bending to Chuck’s plans all their lives.
He scuffs his feet through the dried-up winter weeds and grass to uncover the new green crocus leaves. Crouching down he can see the small buds forming, each tinted either purple, yellow or white. Jack and he had planted them last fall. Now that Jack is back home, he should really bring him up here to have a look.
He remembers telling Jack that planting a bulb requires faith. Because it takes months and months just to produce a flower. Jack had asked him a question that had given him chills with how accurate and prophetic it was. “And you might not even be there to see it, who knows, right?”
How right Jack had been. They’d all been yanked here and there and all over by Chuck and Michael and…Lucifer. It’s been a shit show the last few years, really truly awful. But still, after all that-he still has this, almost everyone he loves in this world is right here, right below where he’s standing. And it’s like one of the flowers that are going to be blooming here soon, hidden and protected from the spring winds until it finally shows itself.
He finishes his tea, crouching there by the crocus, looking out at the endless vista of cornfields.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asks from right behind him.
Sam almost falls over from his crouch in surprise. He must have really been deep in thought to miss Dean’s approach. His recognizable shadow falls over the bed of crocuses. Instead of answering, he leans back against Dean’s legs, enjoying the familiar heat from his brother’s body.
“Those the flowers you guys planted last year?” Dean asks.
Sam nods, not able to speak past the lump that’s formed in his throat. All of a sudden it’s hitting him, Jack is here, he can come see these flowers. It’s a miracle that Sam doesn’t understand or really want to. All he knows is their boy is really back.
Dean’s hand lands in his hair, gentle scratches at his scalp make Sam imagine purring like a cat, he turns his cheek and rubs it against Dean’s jeans-clad thigh instead.
“He’s really back, Sammy,” Dean says, reading his mind in that way he’s always been able to do that they’ve never tried to put a name to or quantify.
Sam leans even more of his weight back into Dean’s legs as his answer. Dean’s hands land on Sam’s shoulders to steady himself.
“You just not talking this morning?” Dean asks, fingers massaging Sam’s shoulders.
Sam can’t help the deep groan of pleasure from having his shoulders massaged, Dean always manages to hit the right spots.
“Well, if all you’re saying is happy noises like that, then I guess I oughta, ya know…” Dean says, leaving out the exact thing he’s going to do next.
Sam finally looks up at him, upside down and from his crouch like this, his brother’s face seems strange and far away, but he can still see those damn eyebrows wiggling. He smiles instead of answering, and that results in his being pulled up abruptly into Dean’s arms. He melts into his brother’s hug, face tucked into his neck, back hunched in order to be short enough. Dean’s hands sprawl on Sam’s back, feeling wide and warm through his shirts.
“Really, I’ve got to ask you this again, you okay or what?” Dean asks, still hugging him tightly even though it’s about 5.6 seconds longer than they usually hug in moments like this.
Words are still not accessible to Sam, they also don’t seem necessary. He changes their hug by turning Dean in his arms, so they’re both facing out over the endless fields. He holds Dean from behind, arms locked around him, answering his brother’s question by keeping their bodies in full contact. He tucks his chin into the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder, humming again, the nonsense song he’d been humming to himself earlier. It’s the one that always means he’s as content as he ever gets, that he’s as okay as he can be. He knows for sure that Dean knows this one, it’s been the same almost their whole lives together. For all he knows, Dean’s the one who taught it to him in the first place.
The spring wind blows again, this time a little more sustained of a gust swirling around them on top of the hill. Sam’s hair whips around and tickles the side of Dean’s neck. He can feel his brother flinch and suppress something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. How long has it been since he’s heard that? Suddenly that’s all Sam wants.
Unfortunately for Dean, he’s in the wrong position to defend himself from a surprise tickle attack. Sam’s already got him wrapped up and pinned between his legs, his hands dart under Dean’s untucked shirts and find the warm vulnerable skin of his waist. His fingers flex and move, tickling Dean mercilessly for a few moments, until Sam hears it, Dean laughing and gasping for him to stop, fuck please stop, Sammy.
He does, changing the tickles into slow caresses instead, Dean almost protests but stops himself when Sam reaches one hand down into his jeans. The secret that Dean never wants to admit to having is that tickle wars get him very hard, very fast. And boy is he ever, hard and hot in Sam’s hand now, which is moving slow with pulsing squeezes at the tip. Sam gathers up all the moisture there, laving it back down the length of him, making the glide of his hand all the smoother.
Dean leans back into him, craning his face back in Sam’s range. “Sammy, oh fuck,” Dean says in a lovely slur of words that smear into Sam’s lips.
Sam speeds up his strokes for a few moments, waiting for Dean’s hips to buck forward, then slowing down when he can tell Dean is right on the edge, his thighs trembling with the effort to stay upright even though Sam’s got him.
The wind blows again, Sam’s hair lashes against Dean’s cheek as they kiss, Dean freely moaning into Sam’s mouth now, churning his hips forward into the strength of Sam’s hand. He’s not holding back, so Sam speeds up his strokes again, gripping even harder.
“Come for me, Dean,” Sam whispers into Dean’s mouth, simultaneously tickling his side again with his free hand.
Dean convulses, bending forward against Sam’s hold, screaming out nonsense as he comes, all mixed up with a laugh. It’s the best thing Sam’s heard in ages.
He takes his hand out of Dean’s jeans, the come pooled in his palm glints in the sunlight. It seems a shame to waste it. He’s got himself pulled out and wet with it before Dean even realizes what he’s doing. Dean turns and adds his hand over Sam’s, kissing up the side of Sam’s neck just for good measure. He bites in the places he knows Sam responds to the most, sucking a mark that will piss Sam off later, but right now he doesn’t care, not one bit.
“C’mon, Sammy, your turn, come for me now,” Dean says in that command voice Sam can never resist.
And Sam does. Wordless, yet still noisy, just the way Dean likes it.
Dean’s still holding him in a soft grip, but yet so possessive it makes Sam want to harden and surprise him. That’s when Dean asks again, “Are you okay, or what, Sammy?”
“Maybe,” Sam says, the first answer he’s spoken out loud today. He doesn’t elaborate further, Dean already knows all the qualifiers that go into it, they don’t need to be given the extra weight of talking about them all over again.
“That’s the first answer you’ve given me today. In case you’re wondering, I’d totally be okay with that from here on out,” Dean says, finally letting go and tucking Sam back in where he can warm up again.
“Now you tell me,” Sam says with a wash of relief that maybe is finally a good enough answer.