(no subject)
Quicksand
by whereupon
Dean started it. Sam/Dean, nc-17, 3,100 words, not being of a particularly spoilery nature.
For girlmostlikely, on occasion of events.
And they're not fighting, not really, they're having an argument, a scholarly disagreement, except Dean's not a scholar and Sam's forgetting more and more every day, but Dean isn't listening, isn't listening at all, and Sam is trying to be reasonable, he really is.
It's just that the argument started before the waitress even brought their plates and now they've paid the check and they're back outside, heading for the car, and Sam doesn't even remember what they were arguing about in the first place anymore.
And he's not the one to throw the first punch, because he never is, but he hits back and they're still not really fighting, like any minute it could turn serious, turn deadly, but right now it's just them like always, Sam's knuckles aching, Sam trying to force air back into his lungs and Dean grinning, swaying back and saying, come on, man, I fuckin' dare you, huh.
You don't want me to try, Sam says, which if Dean would think about it, is true, because they're doing this outside of a goddamn mom and pop diner, of all places, probably little old ladies with their faces pressed up against the glass watching them.
Sure I do, Dean says, and Sam hits him, and maybe he moved a little faster than Dean expected, maybe he moved a little different than Dean remembers, because he hears something pop and Dean's nose is bleeding and Dean's coming at like him like he's gonna tear Sam apart right there in the parking lot of the diner next to the Gas'n'Go.
So Sam gets him in a headlock and says, fuck you, you started it, and Dean's making this weird whistling noise, like maybe Sam broke one of his ribs, which has happened before, once when Sam was sixteen and Dean was twenty and they were still learning how this worked, how Sam got tall real fast but Dean's always been faster with his fists. Sam looks down all concerned, mostly selfishly because he's either going to have to tape Dean up himself or maybe just tell the ER staff the truth, that Dean started it and maybe Sam might have contributed a little after that, but Dean takes things too far, always has, like it doesn't count unless somebody's bleeding or hysterical or smiling 'til it hurts, volume turned to eleven all the goddamn way, but Dean's laughing, hard enough that he can't breathe, his face red and his eyes watering, and Sam slaps the back of his head, short spiky hair sliding out between his fingers, which only makes Dean laugh harder, and what the hell do you do with that?
Fuck you, Sam says again, and Dean's hands are braced on his knees, but he reaches up to grasp at Sam, tug at the untucked hem of Sam's shirt, ragged thumbnail scratching (maybe accidentally, probably not) at the strip of skin beneath, and clings like he thinks Sam might go sulk in the passenger's seat if he doesn't, might turn on his heel and leave him dying oxygen-deprived in the parking lot.
Like he thinks Sam ever could.
Dean swallows and shakes his head and, Oh, man, you shoulda seen your face, he says.
Dude, it wasn't even funny, Sam says. There is something seriously wrong with you, and he crosses his arms and frowns distantly at Dean, because it's true and because there are few things that bother Dean more than this college-image he's built up about Sam, around Sam, how sometimes he thinks Sam forgot everything Dean taught him, which is ridiculous and a little heartwrenching, how angry he gets about it. So maybe Sam plays it up sometimes, just because he can.
You want I should call the cops, the waitress with the pink-streaked hair says, leaning out of the restaurant doorway.
No, Sam says. We're good, he does this all the time. He kicks at Dean's boot and heaves this little put-upon sigh, which makes Dean lose it again. The waitress eyes them both and backs inside.
We gotta move, Dean says, wiping at his eyes. She's calling the cops.
She's not calling the cops, Sam says, and he scuffs at the pavement, sends a spray of gravel in Dean's direction.
No, because there's one already in there, Dean says, knuckling at the blood on his face. He wipes the back of his hand on his jeans and straightens up. Big guy at the counter?
And Sam's eyes get wide for a second and then he shakes his head and says, See, I didn't laugh because that wasn't funny, sort of like whatever you thought you saw on my face, maybe you should get your eyes checked, hey, maybe you need bifocals, and then there's this buzz-cut deputy in the doorway, badge on his chest glinting when he steps out into the sunlight, and Sam says, Shit, and Dean shoves him at the car.
There a problem here, the deputy asks.
No sir, Dean says. This blinding grin that would probably be more effective if he didn't have blood on his teeth. Just me and my brother having a conversation, is all.
You wanna move it along, maybe, the deputy says.
Sure, Dean says. We were about done here anyway. Tell Linda in there hi for me.
Uh-huh, the deputy says.
So we'll be going now, Dean says.
Good plan, the deputy says, and Dean nods. Sam rolls his eyes and gets in the car and Dean tosses a jaunty wave at the deputy before doing the same.
Can you maybe not taunt the local law enforcement, Sam says when they're pulling out of the lot, and he is not going to turn around to see if the deputy's still watching them. Or would that be too hard?
Sure thing, Citizen Joe, Dean says. Didn't mean to ruffle your law-abiding feathers. You wanna stop and pick up some litter while we're in town?
Yeah, Sam says, as a matter of fact I do, because he doesn't remember when he last called Dean's bluff.
Dean's face pinches and he says, Fine, what the fuck ever, we'll pull over at the next exit, you're gonna wanna get your parasol outta the back, Mary Jane. Because he can't ever give in, can't ever just let things go, and sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's endearing, and sometimes it just irritates the hell out of Sam.
A psychologist would have a field day with you, Sam says. You know that, right?
Don't gimme that psychology bullshit again, it doesn't fucking work on me.
Right, Sam says. Obviously. Dean's still got blood smeared across his face. It looks like war paint. It looks natural, the way it matches something deadly in his eyes, like he was born to fight, born into this.
This grassy place on the side of the road, take-out cups and plastic bags all over, and Dean raises his eyebrows, says, Get the hell out then, and Sam does, and Dean's mouth opens like he can't believe Sam is such an idiot, can't believe Sam is even related to him, can't believe Sam is actually listening to him, which is completely worth the part where Sam actually does look like an idiot.
Not that there's anybody around to see. Nobody coming to Mayberry, nobody leaving Mayberry, or whatever the hell it was called, because there's nothing in Mayberry, one more town built for passing through. Dean gets out of the car, rests his arms on the roof and squints into the sunlight, says, Get back in the car already.
You sure? Sam asks. Because I could do this all day.
I'm gonna leave in thirty seconds whether or not you're in the car, Dean announces to the world at large, not looking at him, looking up at the sky, looking anywhere but at him, like he genuinely could not care less if Sam decides to stay here forever, move in with the squirrels.
And the thing is that he would, Dean really would do it, would take off and leave Sam here, but he'd only get off at the next exit, come back and cruise by real slow, probably whistle, and there's a limit to how far Sam is willing to take this right now.
So he gets in the car. So he gets back in the car, and so does Dean, and Sam can't help it, this ridiculous grin, because he totally won this round, and Dean's smoldering on the other side of the car, glaring daggers, his mouth pressed in a thin little line like he does not see what's funny at all.
Knock it the hell off, Dean says. Or so help me god, I'll knock it off for you. Which is something Dad used to say all the time and Dean's even got the intonation down, matches it perfectly, and Sam doesn't even think it's deliberate.
Yeah? Sam says. Try it. I fuckin' dare you. His best Dean impersonation and he doesn't even come close, Dean's eyebrows drawing together in exaggerated outrage, offense, and then he's twisting across the seat, all up in Sam's personal space like he's been all his life, like the idea of Sam actually having personal space is completely foreign, is something he has to disprove every chance he gets.
Dean gets close enough for Sam's vision to start blurring, close enough for Sam to feel the displacement of air when he breathes, and then he stops cold. One hand gripping the back of the seat and he's leaning in, expectant curve to his neck like he's waiting for Sam to move, to accommodate, to fit, the other half of the puzzle, fill in the blanks, and.
And.
And he looks like he's going to kiss Sam, like that was the first thing that occurred to him, like that's what seemed logical, and Sam should push him back right now, should give in, because he knows what Dean will do, knows that Dean is completely incapable of acting rational or even sane in situations like this and that makes Sam the responsible one here.
Sam, Dean says carefully, and his breath is warm on Sam's face and he's holding himself tight, tense line of his arm and his hand splayed flat against the dash. You give in?
Hardly, Sam says, and it's not his fault his voice has gone all shaky and strained, like he's not getting enough oxygen, like his lungs won't expand.
Dean licks his lips. He looks a little pale and Sam almost feels bad, thinks maybe he should just let Dean win, should give this one to him, and isn't sure what it means that he won't.
A psychologist would have a field day with both of them, but that psychology bullshit doesn't work on Dean, so logically it doesn't work on Sam, either.
Fine, Dean says, he swallows, and he lets go of the dash and grips Sam's shoulder, sweaty palm edging up against Sam's neck, and he kisses Sam.
And really, Sam should pull away. Sam should not fucking escalate this, should not run his tongue across Dean's lower lip, should not pull Dean closer, a little hard already off the flat line of muscle against his palm, Dean's mouth opening, Dean's other hand curling off the back of the seat down around the back of Sam's neck. And the back of Sam's head hits the window, dull noise and it doesn't hurt, not at all, but Dean pulls away. Bright red flush burning up from his neck and Sam swallows.
I won, Dean says, already on the other side of the car and not looking at Sam, his voice hoarse and strangely deep and really, what about the horizon is so incredibly fascinating that he cannot for one instant look away? Whatever it is, it's scaring the hell out of Sam, like maybe Dean's looking out at the end of the world and Sam just can't see it yet.
Sure, Sam says, and his heart is hammering in his chest, fucking jackhammer like maybe it's gonna break through any second, blood all over everything, and he slides over, Dean turning to look at him, eyes wide and panicked, and Sam says, You gotta give me a second chance, though.
Says who, Dean says, and Sam is momentarily distracted by the line of his jaw, by the way he's turning to let Sam come closer, shifting so his legs are splayed, so his feet won't trip against the pedals, rather than shoving Sam back and saying what the hell, dude, and hitting the gas and never talking about this again.
Everybody, Sam says. It's just, it goes without saying.
You learn that at college, I guess, Dean says. I wouldn't know, and his eyes are narrowed and he's doing that angry self-pity thing he does sometimes, bitter edge to his voice, and now is really not the time for that, for guilt trips and could-have-beens, so Sam kisses him. Open-mouthed this time, desperate and greedy because if Sam's screwed (which he probably is), it's not gonna be for nothing.
These noises Dean makes, gasping little sounds, like he's struggling for air but he won't let himself breathe, because that would mean breaking this connection, Sam's mouth mashed against his (and Sam tasting blood, very faintly, and maybe he should try not to bump Dean's nose, probably it hurts, but Dean's not really giving him a choice here) and oh god, Dean's hand caught in Sam's shirt, thumbnail scratching Sam's stomach again, and Sam shivers, feels Dean grin, and when Sam pulls back, it almost looks like Dean's smirking, it could almost be right except for the needy edge, the flush to his skin, the sweat above his lip.
Dean, Sam says, and he's not sure how to say it, how to ask, because he's not sure there are words for this, and because what if Dean says no?
Dean swallows, curl of his adam's apple, and he's twisting at his ring, silver spinning round and round as he says, Yeah, Sammy, it's.
Weird, Sam says. I just, I don't, it's.
Okay, Dean says. I mean, if you're.
Okay, Sam says. Yeah.
Okay, Dean says. Okay, fuckin' kiss me again or I swear to god, and Sam's heart is quaking as he does. Force like gravity, Dean's teeth clicking against his, and he mouths his way down Dean's neck and Dean bares his throat, fingers caught up in the belt loops of Sam's jeans like he's holding on, like he can't help himself. Sam's high on it, that gesture, the look on his face, the promise of it all, better than adrenaline. So he goes for it, takes the plunge, pushes his luck and all of those other things he's been doing all his life 'cause Dean's always said yes, never given him a reason not to.
He runs a palm across the front of Dean's jeans and Dean groans.
Making out like teenagers, Sam thinks, it's ridiculous, they're both, they're both adults, and any minute somebody could come by, the deputy to make sure they're out of town, that the riff-raff's not loitering, and this is so fucking reckless, so wrong, Dean's tongue curling behind his ear and he says fuck oh god Dean without really meaning to, works on getting his brother's jeans open. Looks up and Dean's watching him, half-lidded eyes. This thing that could be a nod, could be yes, and could be nothing at all, but Sam goes with the first interpretation. He works a hand into Dean's shorts and Dean's eyes slam shut, Dean's breath thundering in Sam's ears, and they're fucking steaming up the windows, and Sam blushes because that is so cliche, as Dean's hips jerk and he grabs for the back of Sam's neck, pulls Sam close and hisses, Doesn't, Sammy, oh fuck-- as he comes, and Sam isn't sure what to do with that. He isn't sure, so he bites his lip and swallows and stays there, pressed up close to Dean, this smell all over everything, aching in his jeans through Dean's comedown because he's not sure what the rules are, not sure if there are rules, until Dean cracks his neck and sits up.
This terrifying, exhilarating thing in Sam's throat, this bursting worldchanging thing that's equal parts fear and joy as Dean places a hand on his chest, shoving him back, shoving him down, Sam's neck at some impossible jacked-up angle against the passenger's side door as Dean unzips Sam's jeans and puts his head down and Dean can't do this, this isn't fair, this is totally awesome and cheating at the same time, as Dean lifts his head and grins and Sam makes this stupid choking noise because there is no way he is going to talk right now, no way he's even going to try, and Dean's tongue on his cock and the roof of the Impala and the way the sun slants in through the windshield, jesus fucking christ.
Dean backs off, shifts back, wipes a hand across his mouth and Sam looks away. He sits up and tucks himself back into his jeans and wonders what the hell they do now, because this awkward silence is. Awkward. And silent. Fuckin' Dean, ruining his fuckin' eloquence.
This expanse of dirty body-hot black vinyl between them and he doesn't know, because maybe he should have thought this through, maybe he shouldn't have let it go so far, so fast, just because Dean. Dean started it.
He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye, catches Dean watching him.
You good, Dean says. His lips are bloodless and his expression is way too blank and his hands (which were very recently on Sam, all over Sam) are white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
Yeah, Sam says, and he gives in, gives up, thinks he might die otherwise. I don't know, you maybe wanna, um. Do that again sometime.
And Dean cracks up. Sure, Samuel, he says, and he sounds better, sounds more like himself, less like he's scared to death that they've fucked something up, that Sam's gonna leave, gonna want anything but this, but everything. I would be honored to have the pleasure of your company, you bitch. Obviously.
Right, Sam says. Obviously, okay, I'm sorry, I forgot I was talking to somebody who didn't even bother to finish high school.
Too busy being your little stay-at-home wife, Dean says. Making sure your pencils were sharp and shit, and you know how much you owe me for that? And there are like three different innuendos there and Sam's not sure if any of them were intentional, is sure as hell not going to say anything because then Dean will spend the rest of the day making fun of him and telling him to get his mind outta the gutter, you little pervert, even if Dean was baiting him in the first place.
Fuck you, Sam says instead, and Dean starts the engine.
Litter, he says. We're gonna be late because you had to pick up litter.
You started it, Sam points out, and Dean shakes his head and turns up the music and hits the gas, and Sam rolls his eyes, even though Dean's not looking, and counts the miles until they can stop again.
--
end
by whereupon
Dean started it. Sam/Dean, nc-17, 3,100 words, not being of a particularly spoilery nature.
For girlmostlikely, on occasion of events.
And they're not fighting, not really, they're having an argument, a scholarly disagreement, except Dean's not a scholar and Sam's forgetting more and more every day, but Dean isn't listening, isn't listening at all, and Sam is trying to be reasonable, he really is.
It's just that the argument started before the waitress even brought their plates and now they've paid the check and they're back outside, heading for the car, and Sam doesn't even remember what they were arguing about in the first place anymore.
And he's not the one to throw the first punch, because he never is, but he hits back and they're still not really fighting, like any minute it could turn serious, turn deadly, but right now it's just them like always, Sam's knuckles aching, Sam trying to force air back into his lungs and Dean grinning, swaying back and saying, come on, man, I fuckin' dare you, huh.
You don't want me to try, Sam says, which if Dean would think about it, is true, because they're doing this outside of a goddamn mom and pop diner, of all places, probably little old ladies with their faces pressed up against the glass watching them.
Sure I do, Dean says, and Sam hits him, and maybe he moved a little faster than Dean expected, maybe he moved a little different than Dean remembers, because he hears something pop and Dean's nose is bleeding and Dean's coming at like him like he's gonna tear Sam apart right there in the parking lot of the diner next to the Gas'n'Go.
So Sam gets him in a headlock and says, fuck you, you started it, and Dean's making this weird whistling noise, like maybe Sam broke one of his ribs, which has happened before, once when Sam was sixteen and Dean was twenty and they were still learning how this worked, how Sam got tall real fast but Dean's always been faster with his fists. Sam looks down all concerned, mostly selfishly because he's either going to have to tape Dean up himself or maybe just tell the ER staff the truth, that Dean started it and maybe Sam might have contributed a little after that, but Dean takes things too far, always has, like it doesn't count unless somebody's bleeding or hysterical or smiling 'til it hurts, volume turned to eleven all the goddamn way, but Dean's laughing, hard enough that he can't breathe, his face red and his eyes watering, and Sam slaps the back of his head, short spiky hair sliding out between his fingers, which only makes Dean laugh harder, and what the hell do you do with that?
Fuck you, Sam says again, and Dean's hands are braced on his knees, but he reaches up to grasp at Sam, tug at the untucked hem of Sam's shirt, ragged thumbnail scratching (maybe accidentally, probably not) at the strip of skin beneath, and clings like he thinks Sam might go sulk in the passenger's seat if he doesn't, might turn on his heel and leave him dying oxygen-deprived in the parking lot.
Like he thinks Sam ever could.
Dean swallows and shakes his head and, Oh, man, you shoulda seen your face, he says.
Dude, it wasn't even funny, Sam says. There is something seriously wrong with you, and he crosses his arms and frowns distantly at Dean, because it's true and because there are few things that bother Dean more than this college-image he's built up about Sam, around Sam, how sometimes he thinks Sam forgot everything Dean taught him, which is ridiculous and a little heartwrenching, how angry he gets about it. So maybe Sam plays it up sometimes, just because he can.
You want I should call the cops, the waitress with the pink-streaked hair says, leaning out of the restaurant doorway.
No, Sam says. We're good, he does this all the time. He kicks at Dean's boot and heaves this little put-upon sigh, which makes Dean lose it again. The waitress eyes them both and backs inside.
We gotta move, Dean says, wiping at his eyes. She's calling the cops.
She's not calling the cops, Sam says, and he scuffs at the pavement, sends a spray of gravel in Dean's direction.
No, because there's one already in there, Dean says, knuckling at the blood on his face. He wipes the back of his hand on his jeans and straightens up. Big guy at the counter?
And Sam's eyes get wide for a second and then he shakes his head and says, See, I didn't laugh because that wasn't funny, sort of like whatever you thought you saw on my face, maybe you should get your eyes checked, hey, maybe you need bifocals, and then there's this buzz-cut deputy in the doorway, badge on his chest glinting when he steps out into the sunlight, and Sam says, Shit, and Dean shoves him at the car.
There a problem here, the deputy asks.
No sir, Dean says. This blinding grin that would probably be more effective if he didn't have blood on his teeth. Just me and my brother having a conversation, is all.
You wanna move it along, maybe, the deputy says.
Sure, Dean says. We were about done here anyway. Tell Linda in there hi for me.
Uh-huh, the deputy says.
So we'll be going now, Dean says.
Good plan, the deputy says, and Dean nods. Sam rolls his eyes and gets in the car and Dean tosses a jaunty wave at the deputy before doing the same.
Can you maybe not taunt the local law enforcement, Sam says when they're pulling out of the lot, and he is not going to turn around to see if the deputy's still watching them. Or would that be too hard?
Sure thing, Citizen Joe, Dean says. Didn't mean to ruffle your law-abiding feathers. You wanna stop and pick up some litter while we're in town?
Yeah, Sam says, as a matter of fact I do, because he doesn't remember when he last called Dean's bluff.
Dean's face pinches and he says, Fine, what the fuck ever, we'll pull over at the next exit, you're gonna wanna get your parasol outta the back, Mary Jane. Because he can't ever give in, can't ever just let things go, and sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's endearing, and sometimes it just irritates the hell out of Sam.
A psychologist would have a field day with you, Sam says. You know that, right?
Don't gimme that psychology bullshit again, it doesn't fucking work on me.
Right, Sam says. Obviously. Dean's still got blood smeared across his face. It looks like war paint. It looks natural, the way it matches something deadly in his eyes, like he was born to fight, born into this.
This grassy place on the side of the road, take-out cups and plastic bags all over, and Dean raises his eyebrows, says, Get the hell out then, and Sam does, and Dean's mouth opens like he can't believe Sam is such an idiot, can't believe Sam is even related to him, can't believe Sam is actually listening to him, which is completely worth the part where Sam actually does look like an idiot.
Not that there's anybody around to see. Nobody coming to Mayberry, nobody leaving Mayberry, or whatever the hell it was called, because there's nothing in Mayberry, one more town built for passing through. Dean gets out of the car, rests his arms on the roof and squints into the sunlight, says, Get back in the car already.
You sure? Sam asks. Because I could do this all day.
I'm gonna leave in thirty seconds whether or not you're in the car, Dean announces to the world at large, not looking at him, looking up at the sky, looking anywhere but at him, like he genuinely could not care less if Sam decides to stay here forever, move in with the squirrels.
And the thing is that he would, Dean really would do it, would take off and leave Sam here, but he'd only get off at the next exit, come back and cruise by real slow, probably whistle, and there's a limit to how far Sam is willing to take this right now.
So he gets in the car. So he gets back in the car, and so does Dean, and Sam can't help it, this ridiculous grin, because he totally won this round, and Dean's smoldering on the other side of the car, glaring daggers, his mouth pressed in a thin little line like he does not see what's funny at all.
Knock it the hell off, Dean says. Or so help me god, I'll knock it off for you. Which is something Dad used to say all the time and Dean's even got the intonation down, matches it perfectly, and Sam doesn't even think it's deliberate.
Yeah? Sam says. Try it. I fuckin' dare you. His best Dean impersonation and he doesn't even come close, Dean's eyebrows drawing together in exaggerated outrage, offense, and then he's twisting across the seat, all up in Sam's personal space like he's been all his life, like the idea of Sam actually having personal space is completely foreign, is something he has to disprove every chance he gets.
Dean gets close enough for Sam's vision to start blurring, close enough for Sam to feel the displacement of air when he breathes, and then he stops cold. One hand gripping the back of the seat and he's leaning in, expectant curve to his neck like he's waiting for Sam to move, to accommodate, to fit, the other half of the puzzle, fill in the blanks, and.
And.
And he looks like he's going to kiss Sam, like that was the first thing that occurred to him, like that's what seemed logical, and Sam should push him back right now, should give in, because he knows what Dean will do, knows that Dean is completely incapable of acting rational or even sane in situations like this and that makes Sam the responsible one here.
Sam, Dean says carefully, and his breath is warm on Sam's face and he's holding himself tight, tense line of his arm and his hand splayed flat against the dash. You give in?
Hardly, Sam says, and it's not his fault his voice has gone all shaky and strained, like he's not getting enough oxygen, like his lungs won't expand.
Dean licks his lips. He looks a little pale and Sam almost feels bad, thinks maybe he should just let Dean win, should give this one to him, and isn't sure what it means that he won't.
A psychologist would have a field day with both of them, but that psychology bullshit doesn't work on Dean, so logically it doesn't work on Sam, either.
Fine, Dean says, he swallows, and he lets go of the dash and grips Sam's shoulder, sweaty palm edging up against Sam's neck, and he kisses Sam.
And really, Sam should pull away. Sam should not fucking escalate this, should not run his tongue across Dean's lower lip, should not pull Dean closer, a little hard already off the flat line of muscle against his palm, Dean's mouth opening, Dean's other hand curling off the back of the seat down around the back of Sam's neck. And the back of Sam's head hits the window, dull noise and it doesn't hurt, not at all, but Dean pulls away. Bright red flush burning up from his neck and Sam swallows.
I won, Dean says, already on the other side of the car and not looking at Sam, his voice hoarse and strangely deep and really, what about the horizon is so incredibly fascinating that he cannot for one instant look away? Whatever it is, it's scaring the hell out of Sam, like maybe Dean's looking out at the end of the world and Sam just can't see it yet.
Sure, Sam says, and his heart is hammering in his chest, fucking jackhammer like maybe it's gonna break through any second, blood all over everything, and he slides over, Dean turning to look at him, eyes wide and panicked, and Sam says, You gotta give me a second chance, though.
Says who, Dean says, and Sam is momentarily distracted by the line of his jaw, by the way he's turning to let Sam come closer, shifting so his legs are splayed, so his feet won't trip against the pedals, rather than shoving Sam back and saying what the hell, dude, and hitting the gas and never talking about this again.
Everybody, Sam says. It's just, it goes without saying.
You learn that at college, I guess, Dean says. I wouldn't know, and his eyes are narrowed and he's doing that angry self-pity thing he does sometimes, bitter edge to his voice, and now is really not the time for that, for guilt trips and could-have-beens, so Sam kisses him. Open-mouthed this time, desperate and greedy because if Sam's screwed (which he probably is), it's not gonna be for nothing.
These noises Dean makes, gasping little sounds, like he's struggling for air but he won't let himself breathe, because that would mean breaking this connection, Sam's mouth mashed against his (and Sam tasting blood, very faintly, and maybe he should try not to bump Dean's nose, probably it hurts, but Dean's not really giving him a choice here) and oh god, Dean's hand caught in Sam's shirt, thumbnail scratching Sam's stomach again, and Sam shivers, feels Dean grin, and when Sam pulls back, it almost looks like Dean's smirking, it could almost be right except for the needy edge, the flush to his skin, the sweat above his lip.
Dean, Sam says, and he's not sure how to say it, how to ask, because he's not sure there are words for this, and because what if Dean says no?
Dean swallows, curl of his adam's apple, and he's twisting at his ring, silver spinning round and round as he says, Yeah, Sammy, it's.
Weird, Sam says. I just, I don't, it's.
Okay, Dean says. I mean, if you're.
Okay, Sam says. Yeah.
Okay, Dean says. Okay, fuckin' kiss me again or I swear to god, and Sam's heart is quaking as he does. Force like gravity, Dean's teeth clicking against his, and he mouths his way down Dean's neck and Dean bares his throat, fingers caught up in the belt loops of Sam's jeans like he's holding on, like he can't help himself. Sam's high on it, that gesture, the look on his face, the promise of it all, better than adrenaline. So he goes for it, takes the plunge, pushes his luck and all of those other things he's been doing all his life 'cause Dean's always said yes, never given him a reason not to.
He runs a palm across the front of Dean's jeans and Dean groans.
Making out like teenagers, Sam thinks, it's ridiculous, they're both, they're both adults, and any minute somebody could come by, the deputy to make sure they're out of town, that the riff-raff's not loitering, and this is so fucking reckless, so wrong, Dean's tongue curling behind his ear and he says fuck oh god Dean without really meaning to, works on getting his brother's jeans open. Looks up and Dean's watching him, half-lidded eyes. This thing that could be a nod, could be yes, and could be nothing at all, but Sam goes with the first interpretation. He works a hand into Dean's shorts and Dean's eyes slam shut, Dean's breath thundering in Sam's ears, and they're fucking steaming up the windows, and Sam blushes because that is so cliche, as Dean's hips jerk and he grabs for the back of Sam's neck, pulls Sam close and hisses, Doesn't, Sammy, oh fuck-- as he comes, and Sam isn't sure what to do with that. He isn't sure, so he bites his lip and swallows and stays there, pressed up close to Dean, this smell all over everything, aching in his jeans through Dean's comedown because he's not sure what the rules are, not sure if there are rules, until Dean cracks his neck and sits up.
This terrifying, exhilarating thing in Sam's throat, this bursting worldchanging thing that's equal parts fear and joy as Dean places a hand on his chest, shoving him back, shoving him down, Sam's neck at some impossible jacked-up angle against the passenger's side door as Dean unzips Sam's jeans and puts his head down and Dean can't do this, this isn't fair, this is totally awesome and cheating at the same time, as Dean lifts his head and grins and Sam makes this stupid choking noise because there is no way he is going to talk right now, no way he's even going to try, and Dean's tongue on his cock and the roof of the Impala and the way the sun slants in through the windshield, jesus fucking christ.
Dean backs off, shifts back, wipes a hand across his mouth and Sam looks away. He sits up and tucks himself back into his jeans and wonders what the hell they do now, because this awkward silence is. Awkward. And silent. Fuckin' Dean, ruining his fuckin' eloquence.
This expanse of dirty body-hot black vinyl between them and he doesn't know, because maybe he should have thought this through, maybe he shouldn't have let it go so far, so fast, just because Dean. Dean started it.
He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye, catches Dean watching him.
You good, Dean says. His lips are bloodless and his expression is way too blank and his hands (which were very recently on Sam, all over Sam) are white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
Yeah, Sam says, and he gives in, gives up, thinks he might die otherwise. I don't know, you maybe wanna, um. Do that again sometime.
And Dean cracks up. Sure, Samuel, he says, and he sounds better, sounds more like himself, less like he's scared to death that they've fucked something up, that Sam's gonna leave, gonna want anything but this, but everything. I would be honored to have the pleasure of your company, you bitch. Obviously.
Right, Sam says. Obviously, okay, I'm sorry, I forgot I was talking to somebody who didn't even bother to finish high school.
Too busy being your little stay-at-home wife, Dean says. Making sure your pencils were sharp and shit, and you know how much you owe me for that? And there are like three different innuendos there and Sam's not sure if any of them were intentional, is sure as hell not going to say anything because then Dean will spend the rest of the day making fun of him and telling him to get his mind outta the gutter, you little pervert, even if Dean was baiting him in the first place.
Fuck you, Sam says instead, and Dean starts the engine.
Litter, he says. We're gonna be late because you had to pick up litter.
You started it, Sam points out, and Dean shakes his head and turns up the music and hits the gas, and Sam rolls his eyes, even though Dean's not looking, and counts the miles until they can stop again.
--
end