(no subject)
(Not back. I just realised I can't not post a completed fic).
Title: In Bloom.
Author: Jess.
Rating: R.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairings: Sam/Dean (Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC).
Notes: Beta by the fantastic mandysbitch. All left over mistakes are mine.
Summary: They say that our sense of smell is more powerful at evoking memories than any of our other senses.
The curve of her shoulder, the flip of hair against cleavage and the milky colour between her varied tan lines set Sam's teeth on edge. They spark something, and the memory sits on the tip of his tongue, irritating him.
His palm slips on the salt-shaker, and it rolls on its edge a few times as he dumps it on the table. He pops a fry in his mouth. Half a plate of tasteless fries later, Sam still sits in the vinyl booth chair, trying not to shift and squeak the plastic too much.
Dean finally gets back, sliding into the booth next to Sam, even though the other side is empty. The waitress glides past quickly, balancing too many coffees with practiced perfection.
The smell of her perfume drags past after her, faint, unobtrusive floral mixing with sweat and leather bathed in sunshine, the smell of Dean pressed to his side.
---
Yeah, she was pretty like the waitress. Plain face and a killer body carved by restless movements that seemed to be a compulsion for her. She couldn't sit still for a minute; always arms flying, talking her and everyone else's head off or swinging her heels against chairs and counters when she sat down.
Two years older than Sam, came up and spoke to him his first at school and made it his easiest new-guy couple of weeks ever. She was a popular, and chased off attempts by jocks at picking fights, and other high school hazing Sam was far too used to going through. She smoked in the bathrooms, didn’t do her schoolwork and was absolutely not the type of girl that introduced herself to Sam.
Sam didn't find out Dean knew her until they'd progressed past making out. He never called Dean on it, but Dean was obviously the one who’d asked her to look out for Sam.
---
Sam flexes his toes in the dubiously clean carpet. Hell, maybe it wasmeant to be puke and piss green-yellow-brown? He still didn't trust it.
Awake at two a.m., sleep in his eyes, and a headache from his dream of fire and Jess.
Sam stomps on the ugly carpet extra hard on his way to have another shower. Brushes his teeth and stands on the cool bathroom tiles for a while, just feeling, before he goes back to bed. The anger has drained out of him sometime during his pointless ablution, the horror of the dream shoved into its box at the back of his mind before Dean stumbles into the room. Dean fills the room with the smell of second hand smoke and drags the practically visible miasma of whatever busy, noisy bar he's been to with him. He's a little drunk, and he blinks at Sam with long lashed eyes, wide like a deer in headlights (or in this case, in the light of the particularly ugly motel lamp).
The stupid smile on Dean's face makes Sam's tired mind click over.
He doesn't really remember getting up off the bed, but he's holding Dean's pliant shoulders against the wall.
And there's smoke, beer, sweat, leather, cold night and... Sam presses his face against Dean's shoulder. It's not quite. It’s just almost… he slides his face to where Dean's jacket and shirt stop and Dean's neck begins, bending, bent a little to give Sam better access.
Oh yeah, Dean reeks of sex.
Sam inhales deeply and lets Dean go.
---
He’d never called Dean on it, but Dean was obviously the one who’d asked her to look out for Sam.
Her name was Constance, but Dean called her Connie (so did Sam, she said she'd hurt him otherwise. He understood. She didn’t call him Sammy). Connie and Sam were in Sam’s bedroom, the first time he realised Dean knew her. Sam heard Dean say her name and Sam’s hand flew out of Connie’s still buttoned jeans so fast he almost asked if he had hurt her.
Before Sam could say something stupid, or button his damn pants, Dean had sat on the chair at the end of Sam's bed, not bothering to avert his eyes while proposing a drive in his new car.
Connie sat in the front.
Sam's dick was hard the entire drive.
---
They're in Arizona, driving between towns through a stretch of desert. Dry heat pushes warm air over Sam's cheeks, and through his hair. It’s relaxing so long as he doesn’t move; the seat sticks to his sweat spotted lower back where his shirt rode up.
Dean is wearing sunglasses and talking about stopping for the night even though the sun is barely licking the horizon and they'd been driving easy, on and off, for less than twelve hours.
Sam doesn't relish a night spent kicking the interior of the Impala every time he shifts. Outside the windows, desert flowers spattered here and there whisk past, lush and fat cactus flowers, paper soft wildflowers. There must have been rain not long ago. Sam's couldn't help thinking this would be a good place to stop, even if it means a night in the car. Something tickles the back of his mind, dragging a yes out of him.
So Dean pulls over, in sight of the road, but not near it. They watch the occasional car whip past, stirring low clouds of sand that defy gravity to make it from the road to hit their ankles and the car's tires.
The hot air dries Sam's mouth and throat even though he does nothing more than breathe. The heat here is like a safe, distant fire, warming Sam through his bones. All fires burn you eventually, but right now, this one is safe. It isn’t in the dark, bringing the smell of charred flesh. They could leave this one tomorrow, trailed by the smell of the closing desert flowers.
Dean hands him a water bottle as they lean against the car’s hot side. Sam put it to his lips, thinking, well, of course as the first fat raindrop hits his eyelid.
Dean looks at Sam, then up, and laughs with his head thrown back.
Sam watches Dean's throat and smells wildflowers, dust and the hot car.
---
They watched the sunset, drinking what Dean had hidden under his car's seats, “in case of emergency.” The lime was a little soft, its skin leathery, but the inside was still juicy wet, parting under Dean's knife, ridiculously over sized for the job.
Dean explained to Sam that if he didn’t learn and do lick-sip-suck tequila he'd ‘actually die of terminal lame-it is’. Sam's pretty sure that's exactly what Dean said.
Connie and Dean talked in the background while Sam tried to think of a comeback to classic Dean-logic. He’d turned around to face Dean, only then Connie licked and sucked the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder wetly, and Sam’s mind went utterly blank.
---
The rain falls and Sam's shivering in the backseat of the car under a blanket, listening to Dean utterly failing to stay in tune with a slow Metallica song.
The rain had sucked the heat away, which was great, until the sun had set. In the pitch blackness the desert was colder than most people would imagine.
The car heater spilled a musky, dusty, warm engine smell into the car. Sam smelt warm bodies and dust and well-worn blankets.
---
It was like drowning. One minute Sam's was gasping for air and getting pulled down and the next he'd blacked out. Or. He opened his eyes, and found he’d drunkenly closed them and forgotten to finish that blink.
Sam had licked salt from Connie's neck and breast to take his shots, then the back of Dean's hand, and the inside of his wrist.
Sam swayed around to look in the back seat, the spinning stopped on Connie and Dean kissing messily. Dean popped her jeans’ buttons, and she was working at Dean’s. She’d whispered something.
Dean looked at Sam as his cock slid into Connie. She sat in Dean’s lap, her back to Sam, but Dean looked past her the whole time. And. Just kept looking, until Dean's eyes were forced shut tightly, as he came. But it was okay, Sam's eyes were screwed shut too, his hips arched up as he fucked his own hand.
When he opened his eyes a million years later, it must have been more like a second or two because Dean's just opening his. Sam’s whole body shook and shook until Dean had grabbed him, tugged his arm until Sam crawled over the seat and sat next to Dean, leaning on his shoulder. Connie was sliding off Dean's lap, half off the seat, looking melted, happy and perfectly still for the first time since Sam had met her. Dean's dick was still hanging out and Sam's fly was still undone and Connie's shirt still off.
The car spun around Sam a little more, but came to a complete and crashing halt as Dean finally moved his head from the back of the seat and dipped down to kiss Sam on the lips.
And then there was blackness.
---
Sam pulls his blanket tighter, and drags his eyes away from the blackness outside the window. He puts his hand under the front seat to feel around, in case there’s emergency spirits still rolling around there. It takes bumping Dean's seat (accidentally) about eight times before Dean's in the back with him.
Dean opens his mouth to say something. Sam closes it with his. Dean is above him, knee digging into Sam's leg, both in the worst place for this. Sam's feels something grown old and tough in his chest unravelling finally, finally. Dean kisses him hard, and long, strokes his tongue over Sam's tongue and teeth. It's a promise and Sam wants to get deeper, closer. And. Dean. Freezes.
Pulls away.
"Dean. You remember?" Sam feels like he hasn't used his voice in forever.
Dean pauses for an infinite second and Sam wants to cry laugh smash his fist into the window until he's bleeding only to not feel this thing inside him tense back up and dig in like cancer when…
---
Sam woke up with really, really sore knees, curled up on the back seat of the car, head in Dean's lap. Connie snored and shifted around in front, all movement again, even in sleep.
Sam looked up at Dean's sleeping face, drooling against the foggy window. Sam shifted, popped up to glance out the windshield at the dew covered Arizona desert, all blue and grey in the pre-dawn light.
"Dean. Promise me...?” He feels stupid, young, a little drunk still and not ready to face the real world again yet.
"Yeah. Yeah, I promise, Sammy." Dean says, sleepily and serious. Dean’s promising absolutely anything Sam does and doesn’t and will ever ask without a second of hesitation.
---
… Dean finally, finally.
Just says.
"Yeah. Yeah, I promise, Sammy."
Before he brings their lips back together, and Sam remembers.
Title: In Bloom.
Author: Jess.
Rating: R.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairings: Sam/Dean (Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC).
Notes: Beta by the fantastic mandysbitch. All left over mistakes are mine.
Summary: They say that our sense of smell is more powerful at evoking memories than any of our other senses.
The curve of her shoulder, the flip of hair against cleavage and the milky colour between her varied tan lines set Sam's teeth on edge. They spark something, and the memory sits on the tip of his tongue, irritating him.
His palm slips on the salt-shaker, and it rolls on its edge a few times as he dumps it on the table. He pops a fry in his mouth. Half a plate of tasteless fries later, Sam still sits in the vinyl booth chair, trying not to shift and squeak the plastic too much.
Dean finally gets back, sliding into the booth next to Sam, even though the other side is empty. The waitress glides past quickly, balancing too many coffees with practiced perfection.
The smell of her perfume drags past after her, faint, unobtrusive floral mixing with sweat and leather bathed in sunshine, the smell of Dean pressed to his side.
---
Yeah, she was pretty like the waitress. Plain face and a killer body carved by restless movements that seemed to be a compulsion for her. She couldn't sit still for a minute; always arms flying, talking her and everyone else's head off or swinging her heels against chairs and counters when she sat down.
Two years older than Sam, came up and spoke to him his first at school and made it his easiest new-guy couple of weeks ever. She was a popular, and chased off attempts by jocks at picking fights, and other high school hazing Sam was far too used to going through. She smoked in the bathrooms, didn’t do her schoolwork and was absolutely not the type of girl that introduced herself to Sam.
Sam didn't find out Dean knew her until they'd progressed past making out. He never called Dean on it, but Dean was obviously the one who’d asked her to look out for Sam.
---
Sam flexes his toes in the dubiously clean carpet. Hell, maybe it wasmeant to be puke and piss green-yellow-brown? He still didn't trust it.
Awake at two a.m., sleep in his eyes, and a headache from his dream of fire and Jess.
Sam stomps on the ugly carpet extra hard on his way to have another shower. Brushes his teeth and stands on the cool bathroom tiles for a while, just feeling, before he goes back to bed. The anger has drained out of him sometime during his pointless ablution, the horror of the dream shoved into its box at the back of his mind before Dean stumbles into the room. Dean fills the room with the smell of second hand smoke and drags the practically visible miasma of whatever busy, noisy bar he's been to with him. He's a little drunk, and he blinks at Sam with long lashed eyes, wide like a deer in headlights (or in this case, in the light of the particularly ugly motel lamp).
The stupid smile on Dean's face makes Sam's tired mind click over.
He doesn't really remember getting up off the bed, but he's holding Dean's pliant shoulders against the wall.
And there's smoke, beer, sweat, leather, cold night and... Sam presses his face against Dean's shoulder. It's not quite. It’s just almost… he slides his face to where Dean's jacket and shirt stop and Dean's neck begins, bending, bent a little to give Sam better access.
Oh yeah, Dean reeks of sex.
Sam inhales deeply and lets Dean go.
---
He’d never called Dean on it, but Dean was obviously the one who’d asked her to look out for Sam.
Her name was Constance, but Dean called her Connie (so did Sam, she said she'd hurt him otherwise. He understood. She didn’t call him Sammy). Connie and Sam were in Sam’s bedroom, the first time he realised Dean knew her. Sam heard Dean say her name and Sam’s hand flew out of Connie’s still buttoned jeans so fast he almost asked if he had hurt her.
Before Sam could say something stupid, or button his damn pants, Dean had sat on the chair at the end of Sam's bed, not bothering to avert his eyes while proposing a drive in his new car.
Connie sat in the front.
Sam's dick was hard the entire drive.
---
They're in Arizona, driving between towns through a stretch of desert. Dry heat pushes warm air over Sam's cheeks, and through his hair. It’s relaxing so long as he doesn’t move; the seat sticks to his sweat spotted lower back where his shirt rode up.
Dean is wearing sunglasses and talking about stopping for the night even though the sun is barely licking the horizon and they'd been driving easy, on and off, for less than twelve hours.
Sam doesn't relish a night spent kicking the interior of the Impala every time he shifts. Outside the windows, desert flowers spattered here and there whisk past, lush and fat cactus flowers, paper soft wildflowers. There must have been rain not long ago. Sam's couldn't help thinking this would be a good place to stop, even if it means a night in the car. Something tickles the back of his mind, dragging a yes out of him.
So Dean pulls over, in sight of the road, but not near it. They watch the occasional car whip past, stirring low clouds of sand that defy gravity to make it from the road to hit their ankles and the car's tires.
The hot air dries Sam's mouth and throat even though he does nothing more than breathe. The heat here is like a safe, distant fire, warming Sam through his bones. All fires burn you eventually, but right now, this one is safe. It isn’t in the dark, bringing the smell of charred flesh. They could leave this one tomorrow, trailed by the smell of the closing desert flowers.
Dean hands him a water bottle as they lean against the car’s hot side. Sam put it to his lips, thinking, well, of course as the first fat raindrop hits his eyelid.
Dean looks at Sam, then up, and laughs with his head thrown back.
Sam watches Dean's throat and smells wildflowers, dust and the hot car.
---
They watched the sunset, drinking what Dean had hidden under his car's seats, “in case of emergency.” The lime was a little soft, its skin leathery, but the inside was still juicy wet, parting under Dean's knife, ridiculously over sized for the job.
Dean explained to Sam that if he didn’t learn and do lick-sip-suck tequila he'd ‘actually die of terminal lame-it is’. Sam's pretty sure that's exactly what Dean said.
Connie and Dean talked in the background while Sam tried to think of a comeback to classic Dean-logic. He’d turned around to face Dean, only then Connie licked and sucked the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder wetly, and Sam’s mind went utterly blank.
---
The rain falls and Sam's shivering in the backseat of the car under a blanket, listening to Dean utterly failing to stay in tune with a slow Metallica song.
The rain had sucked the heat away, which was great, until the sun had set. In the pitch blackness the desert was colder than most people would imagine.
The car heater spilled a musky, dusty, warm engine smell into the car. Sam smelt warm bodies and dust and well-worn blankets.
---
It was like drowning. One minute Sam's was gasping for air and getting pulled down and the next he'd blacked out. Or. He opened his eyes, and found he’d drunkenly closed them and forgotten to finish that blink.
Sam had licked salt from Connie's neck and breast to take his shots, then the back of Dean's hand, and the inside of his wrist.
Sam swayed around to look in the back seat, the spinning stopped on Connie and Dean kissing messily. Dean popped her jeans’ buttons, and she was working at Dean’s. She’d whispered something.
Dean looked at Sam as his cock slid into Connie. She sat in Dean’s lap, her back to Sam, but Dean looked past her the whole time. And. Just kept looking, until Dean's eyes were forced shut tightly, as he came. But it was okay, Sam's eyes were screwed shut too, his hips arched up as he fucked his own hand.
When he opened his eyes a million years later, it must have been more like a second or two because Dean's just opening his. Sam’s whole body shook and shook until Dean had grabbed him, tugged his arm until Sam crawled over the seat and sat next to Dean, leaning on his shoulder. Connie was sliding off Dean's lap, half off the seat, looking melted, happy and perfectly still for the first time since Sam had met her. Dean's dick was still hanging out and Sam's fly was still undone and Connie's shirt still off.
The car spun around Sam a little more, but came to a complete and crashing halt as Dean finally moved his head from the back of the seat and dipped down to kiss Sam on the lips.
And then there was blackness.
---
Sam pulls his blanket tighter, and drags his eyes away from the blackness outside the window. He puts his hand under the front seat to feel around, in case there’s emergency spirits still rolling around there. It takes bumping Dean's seat (accidentally) about eight times before Dean's in the back with him.
Dean opens his mouth to say something. Sam closes it with his. Dean is above him, knee digging into Sam's leg, both in the worst place for this. Sam's feels something grown old and tough in his chest unravelling finally, finally. Dean kisses him hard, and long, strokes his tongue over Sam's tongue and teeth. It's a promise and Sam wants to get deeper, closer. And. Dean. Freezes.
Pulls away.
"Dean. You remember?" Sam feels like he hasn't used his voice in forever.
Dean pauses for an infinite second and Sam wants to cry laugh smash his fist into the window until he's bleeding only to not feel this thing inside him tense back up and dig in like cancer when…
---
Sam woke up with really, really sore knees, curled up on the back seat of the car, head in Dean's lap. Connie snored and shifted around in front, all movement again, even in sleep.
Sam looked up at Dean's sleeping face, drooling against the foggy window. Sam shifted, popped up to glance out the windshield at the dew covered Arizona desert, all blue and grey in the pre-dawn light.
"Dean. Promise me...?” He feels stupid, young, a little drunk still and not ready to face the real world again yet.
"Yeah. Yeah, I promise, Sammy." Dean says, sleepily and serious. Dean’s promising absolutely anything Sam does and doesn’t and will ever ask without a second of hesitation.
---
… Dean finally, finally.
Just says.
"Yeah. Yeah, I promise, Sammy."
Before he brings their lips back together, and Sam remembers.