SPN FIC: Reclamation
Reclamation
by zionsstarfish
Adult, Sam/Dean, ~1500 words.
Summary: A few days in the desert.
Disclaimer: I own a bus pass, five pairs of shoes, and a broken umbrella, but not this.
Notes: for luzmaria8, on her birthday. ♥ Also, I've never been to the desert. Research included Wikipedia (ha), a library book put out by the highway people in Arizona (yeah, o_O???), and my own cracked-out imagination. Enjoy!! :D
Dawn cascaded across the sky in slow motion. Dean narrowed his eyes against the grains of sand in the cool wind and shivered into his jacket, turning up the collar.
He heard Sam behind him.
The hands that slid up under his shirt were hot, like they’d been cupping a mug of coffee. Another shiver ran through Dean, and Sam smoothed away the goose bumps, pressing his cold nose into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“See? Not so bad, is it?”
“It’s the desert, Sam. There’s nothing here.”
Those arms slipped around Dean’s waist, feeling suspiciously like a hug.
“Nope,” Sam agreed. Dean turned his head to look at Sam, catching a glimpse of his amused grin before feeling it against his mouth. “Nothing at all.”
*
Dean knew something was wrong even before he put his foot down; he didn’t need the warning rattle at all to know his boot was inches from a snake. He cursed himself for his inattention-mind wandering, occupied with other things. He was absolutely certain that even the inhalation of air needed to call Sam’s name would trigger a strike.
The sun beat down. A drop of sweat slid down the tip of his nose, and not being able to wipe it away was torture.
After thirty seconds or two hours-he’d lost track of time-he knew he had to do something. His gun was in the waistband of his jeans. And if he couldn't think of a better solution than possibly killing them both in the next few minutes, he'd have to risk it.
He didn't even hear Sam arrive-so focused was he on the rattlesnake, the way that sun caught on each scale, the rustle of its body coils, the hollow drum of its rattle-till Sam was disturbing his peripheral vision, a fuzzy, indistinct shape appearing at the corner of his eye. Sam was carrying a branch and dragging it along the dirt. Quiet, but unmistakably there. The snake twitched, and Dean clamped down hard on a flinch. He could read Sam's dilemma: too big a distraction, and the snake would strike Dean out of reflex. Too little, and Dean would remain the target of its unblinking attention. Sam inched forward. The rattle reached a new peak of intensity. The sweat droplet rolled off Dean's nose.
"Dean," Sam said, his voice pitched low and steady. "Get ready."
Sam thrust the branch forward, seeking to pin the rattler's head-at the same time, Dean threw himself backward in a confusion of adrenaline and fatigued limbs. He was scrambling for his feet in an instant, gun in both hands, seeking Sam (somehow always seeking Sam), but Sam was already tossing the branch aside and coming toward him.
"Went the other way, given the chance," he said. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. "You okay?"
Dean breathed. He checked the legs of his jeans for puncture marks, his skin for blood. "Think so," he said, and put away the gun. He scrubbed at his face with one hand, feeling hot and unsteady. "Dude, why didn't you just shoot it?"
Sam looked genuinely confused. "I didn't see the need. Come on."
They trudged back to camp, Dean sharply aware that he'd never thought it was Sam's soul that had needed saving.
*
Dean couldn't sleep. The coyotes were out, closer than they'd ever been, and even though Sam had been kind enough to inform him that coyotes didn't hunt in packs, Dean knew better. At least two of them were out there, and he could see them in his mind's eye: desert-tough, yellow-eyed, lean, and wise. Totally unaware of anything but the need to survive, whether that meant kill or fight or fuck or flee.
Simple.
"I only hear one tonight," Sam said softly.
The coyote barked again, and Dean felt all the hairs on his body stand up.
Silence answered.
"Yeah," he said. "Me, too."
*
They hiked along the bed of a dried-up creek. The inner brim of the hat Sam had insisted Dean buy was soaked with sweat. His whole body was sticky and coated with dust-he could taste the minerals in the back of his throat when he swallowed.
Sam was ahead, bandana tied around his neck, shirt collar open and damp. He scooted up into the shadow of an outcropping of rock and Dean followed. Sam tipped his hat back and uncapped his water bottle; Dean pressed up next to him and Sam jostled back amicably, jockeying for shade.
Dean's water was no longer cold, but it tasted like heaven anyway. Dean licked his lips and breathed a sigh. Striated stone sculptures surrounded them, eerily human shapes hiding in their formations. He was sure there was enough fodder here for some truly spectacular local legends and myths-maybe stories of men cursed and twisted into rock, or tracks in the sand that were too uniform to be entirely wind-formed. Sam probably had some library's worth of folklore stored away in that big brain of his, and Dean turned to ask if they should be worried about the ravens watching them from the trees on the other side of the creek bed. But Dean was surprised into silence at Sam just looking at him, drinking in the sight of him like he was water.
"Sam," he said uncertainly.
Sam's skin was hot and gritty, and his mouth was dry; Dean thought he'd been thirsty before this, but now he had a whole new reference for parched, a whole new reference for quench.
*
The second coyote returned on their last night in the desert, and Dean listened to the two of them call and answer as they packed up all but their tent into the truck. They had enough supplies for two more days, but Sam had started to make noises about wanting a real bed to sleep in, and air conditioning, and brewed coffee, and a shower-either he’d been reading Dean’s mind, or Dean wasn’t being as subtle as he’d thought.
The temperature was dipping now that the sun had almost vanished, but the sky was still tinted gold and pink. A breeze chased goose bumps across Dean’s bare skin, causing him to tighten his grip on the back fender of the truck.
There was nobody around for miles, nobody but Sam to see his shirt unbuttoned and shoved off his shoulders, nobody to see the shine of saliva and the redness of teeth marks where Sam had licked and bit and kissed his way down Dean's chest on his way to his knees. They were alone, and Dean had still never felt so vulnerable, a moment away from hauling Sam up and dragging him to their tent for a little privacy. But when his fingers sought purchase in Sam's hair, it wasn't to pull him off but to urge him on, Sam's hot, soft throat playing counterpoint to the two lube-slick fingers Sam was working into his ass.
The bed of the truck was grimy-Dean's sweaty hands and elbows left prints when Sam stood up and bent him over the back of it. Sam's dick fit him like he was built to take it, and every little discomfort-the blisters on his feet, the dust in his mouth, the burn in his ass-was suddenly washed away by a hit of pleasure. He gave up some leverage to claw at Sam's hip with one hand, trying to get him closer, to fuck harder, deeper. Eyes closed, Dean twisted blindly up into the sting of Sam's teeth at his shoulder. He stretched up onto his tiptoes to change the angle, arched his back to feel Sam rubbing up against him with every thrust.
Sam's hands spanned the whole of Dean's belly, palms flat against the hip-to-hip scars that were still pink from healing. It was the first time Sam had touched him there so freely since the night the demon had almost eviscerated him and pinned him to the ceiling so Sam could watch him die.
"Dean," Sam gasped, clutching him hard, his hips stuttering and breaking rhythm. He swore, knees buckling, rough stubble scraping Dean's back. A moment later, he was working Dean's cock with his hand and whispering, “C'mon. Let me-"
Yeah, Dean thought, shutting his eyes and letting himself go completely. Yeah, okay.
*
“You want us to die of exposure,” Dean had said, when Sam had returned from the tents lugging both their zipped-together sleeping bags and their extra blankets.
“We’ll be fine,” Sam had said, in a tone that brooked no argument. He’d shoved their gear aside in the flatbed of the truck and piled down the sleeping bags and the blankets right in the middle of it. “I want to sleep under the stars.”
“You won’t know the difference once you’re asleep, genius,” Dean had said, but the nest of blankets had looked inviting, especially with Sam curling up underneath.
And it was cold, but bearable, as many things were, with Sam by his side. Dean counted one hundred and seventy-seven stars before he felt Sam fall asleep. Then he lost count and had to start over.
But that was all right.
The end.
by zionsstarfish
Adult, Sam/Dean, ~1500 words.
Summary: A few days in the desert.
Disclaimer: I own a bus pass, five pairs of shoes, and a broken umbrella, but not this.
Notes: for luzmaria8, on her birthday. ♥ Also, I've never been to the desert. Research included Wikipedia (ha), a library book put out by the highway people in Arizona (yeah, o_O???), and my own cracked-out imagination. Enjoy!! :D
Dawn cascaded across the sky in slow motion. Dean narrowed his eyes against the grains of sand in the cool wind and shivered into his jacket, turning up the collar.
He heard Sam behind him.
The hands that slid up under his shirt were hot, like they’d been cupping a mug of coffee. Another shiver ran through Dean, and Sam smoothed away the goose bumps, pressing his cold nose into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“See? Not so bad, is it?”
“It’s the desert, Sam. There’s nothing here.”
Those arms slipped around Dean’s waist, feeling suspiciously like a hug.
“Nope,” Sam agreed. Dean turned his head to look at Sam, catching a glimpse of his amused grin before feeling it against his mouth. “Nothing at all.”
*
Dean knew something was wrong even before he put his foot down; he didn’t need the warning rattle at all to know his boot was inches from a snake. He cursed himself for his inattention-mind wandering, occupied with other things. He was absolutely certain that even the inhalation of air needed to call Sam’s name would trigger a strike.
The sun beat down. A drop of sweat slid down the tip of his nose, and not being able to wipe it away was torture.
After thirty seconds or two hours-he’d lost track of time-he knew he had to do something. His gun was in the waistband of his jeans. And if he couldn't think of a better solution than possibly killing them both in the next few minutes, he'd have to risk it.
He didn't even hear Sam arrive-so focused was he on the rattlesnake, the way that sun caught on each scale, the rustle of its body coils, the hollow drum of its rattle-till Sam was disturbing his peripheral vision, a fuzzy, indistinct shape appearing at the corner of his eye. Sam was carrying a branch and dragging it along the dirt. Quiet, but unmistakably there. The snake twitched, and Dean clamped down hard on a flinch. He could read Sam's dilemma: too big a distraction, and the snake would strike Dean out of reflex. Too little, and Dean would remain the target of its unblinking attention. Sam inched forward. The rattle reached a new peak of intensity. The sweat droplet rolled off Dean's nose.
"Dean," Sam said, his voice pitched low and steady. "Get ready."
Sam thrust the branch forward, seeking to pin the rattler's head-at the same time, Dean threw himself backward in a confusion of adrenaline and fatigued limbs. He was scrambling for his feet in an instant, gun in both hands, seeking Sam (somehow always seeking Sam), but Sam was already tossing the branch aside and coming toward him.
"Went the other way, given the chance," he said. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. "You okay?"
Dean breathed. He checked the legs of his jeans for puncture marks, his skin for blood. "Think so," he said, and put away the gun. He scrubbed at his face with one hand, feeling hot and unsteady. "Dude, why didn't you just shoot it?"
Sam looked genuinely confused. "I didn't see the need. Come on."
They trudged back to camp, Dean sharply aware that he'd never thought it was Sam's soul that had needed saving.
*
Dean couldn't sleep. The coyotes were out, closer than they'd ever been, and even though Sam had been kind enough to inform him that coyotes didn't hunt in packs, Dean knew better. At least two of them were out there, and he could see them in his mind's eye: desert-tough, yellow-eyed, lean, and wise. Totally unaware of anything but the need to survive, whether that meant kill or fight or fuck or flee.
Simple.
"I only hear one tonight," Sam said softly.
The coyote barked again, and Dean felt all the hairs on his body stand up.
Silence answered.
"Yeah," he said. "Me, too."
*
They hiked along the bed of a dried-up creek. The inner brim of the hat Sam had insisted Dean buy was soaked with sweat. His whole body was sticky and coated with dust-he could taste the minerals in the back of his throat when he swallowed.
Sam was ahead, bandana tied around his neck, shirt collar open and damp. He scooted up into the shadow of an outcropping of rock and Dean followed. Sam tipped his hat back and uncapped his water bottle; Dean pressed up next to him and Sam jostled back amicably, jockeying for shade.
Dean's water was no longer cold, but it tasted like heaven anyway. Dean licked his lips and breathed a sigh. Striated stone sculptures surrounded them, eerily human shapes hiding in their formations. He was sure there was enough fodder here for some truly spectacular local legends and myths-maybe stories of men cursed and twisted into rock, or tracks in the sand that were too uniform to be entirely wind-formed. Sam probably had some library's worth of folklore stored away in that big brain of his, and Dean turned to ask if they should be worried about the ravens watching them from the trees on the other side of the creek bed. But Dean was surprised into silence at Sam just looking at him, drinking in the sight of him like he was water.
"Sam," he said uncertainly.
Sam's skin was hot and gritty, and his mouth was dry; Dean thought he'd been thirsty before this, but now he had a whole new reference for parched, a whole new reference for quench.
*
The second coyote returned on their last night in the desert, and Dean listened to the two of them call and answer as they packed up all but their tent into the truck. They had enough supplies for two more days, but Sam had started to make noises about wanting a real bed to sleep in, and air conditioning, and brewed coffee, and a shower-either he’d been reading Dean’s mind, or Dean wasn’t being as subtle as he’d thought.
The temperature was dipping now that the sun had almost vanished, but the sky was still tinted gold and pink. A breeze chased goose bumps across Dean’s bare skin, causing him to tighten his grip on the back fender of the truck.
There was nobody around for miles, nobody but Sam to see his shirt unbuttoned and shoved off his shoulders, nobody to see the shine of saliva and the redness of teeth marks where Sam had licked and bit and kissed his way down Dean's chest on his way to his knees. They were alone, and Dean had still never felt so vulnerable, a moment away from hauling Sam up and dragging him to their tent for a little privacy. But when his fingers sought purchase in Sam's hair, it wasn't to pull him off but to urge him on, Sam's hot, soft throat playing counterpoint to the two lube-slick fingers Sam was working into his ass.
The bed of the truck was grimy-Dean's sweaty hands and elbows left prints when Sam stood up and bent him over the back of it. Sam's dick fit him like he was built to take it, and every little discomfort-the blisters on his feet, the dust in his mouth, the burn in his ass-was suddenly washed away by a hit of pleasure. He gave up some leverage to claw at Sam's hip with one hand, trying to get him closer, to fuck harder, deeper. Eyes closed, Dean twisted blindly up into the sting of Sam's teeth at his shoulder. He stretched up onto his tiptoes to change the angle, arched his back to feel Sam rubbing up against him with every thrust.
Sam's hands spanned the whole of Dean's belly, palms flat against the hip-to-hip scars that were still pink from healing. It was the first time Sam had touched him there so freely since the night the demon had almost eviscerated him and pinned him to the ceiling so Sam could watch him die.
"Dean," Sam gasped, clutching him hard, his hips stuttering and breaking rhythm. He swore, knees buckling, rough stubble scraping Dean's back. A moment later, he was working Dean's cock with his hand and whispering, “C'mon. Let me-"
Yeah, Dean thought, shutting his eyes and letting himself go completely. Yeah, okay.
*
“You want us to die of exposure,” Dean had said, when Sam had returned from the tents lugging both their zipped-together sleeping bags and their extra blankets.
“We’ll be fine,” Sam had said, in a tone that brooked no argument. He’d shoved their gear aside in the flatbed of the truck and piled down the sleeping bags and the blankets right in the middle of it. “I want to sleep under the stars.”
“You won’t know the difference once you’re asleep, genius,” Dean had said, but the nest of blankets had looked inviting, especially with Sam curling up underneath.
And it was cold, but bearable, as many things were, with Sam by his side. Dean counted one hundred and seventy-seven stars before he felt Sam fall asleep. Then he lost count and had to start over.
But that was all right.
The end.