SPN fic: Nightshifter coda (R, Wincest)
Hey, I wrote something! This piece completely owes its existence to apetslife and monkiedude, who got the idea stuck in my head. Extra thanks to Monkie for beta & general cheerleading.
They’ll swear that the shaking is the comedown from the adrenaline rush, that they’re clinging to each other like the only piece of flotsam in an ocean because they’re exhausted, nothing else.
Dean’s got Sam’s upper arms in his hands and Sam’s lower lip between his teeth, and he’s happy to surrender everything else. To let go and tip his head back, let Sam turn and slide his cheek down from Dean’s temple to jaw, feel Sam’s teeth scrape behind his ear.
By the time Dean’s coverall is down and Sam’s hand is curved tight and possessive around the muscle of Dean’s ass, Dean’s ready to let got completely, unlock his knees, swoon, and wait for Sam to carry him home. But that’s not how it works. It’s a nice fantasy, that Sam could hold them together, make the plans and get it all right, listen to the bitching instead of doing it.
But he’s still here, at least. Hasn’t run, hasn’t sold Dean out yet for what he always wanted. Sam could be a baby lawyer by now, in a suit custom-made for his ginormousness and a better haircut than the one Dean gives him every couple of months. Instead he’s in ill-fitting SWAT gear and boots, murmuring, “Come on, come on,” and shuffling them towards the sorry excuse for a bed.
Dean’s the one who shoves first; knocks Sam down then pulls, pushes, gets his hands under whatever-the-fuck the coveralls are made of and gets them off of Sam as quick as he can. The feel of the scratchy-slick material makes his heart pound, a stupid, bulletproof reminder of how very fucked they are. Which is something he needs to forget right now, or make an ugly pulp of himself, Sam, and what’s left of their life.
And now he’s not panting, he’s close to hyperventilating. He rests his head on the hardsoft warmth of Sam’s chest, finds the side of his face covered by Sam’s huge hand, petting through his hair and pulling back to trace his face with just fingertips.
Then Sam’s hand is at the top of his head, pushing down gently and insistently, and oh yeah, there’s an actual point to all this besides Dean trying not to lose his fucking mind. He licks slow and rough all over Sam’s stomach, around and over the curves of his hipbones, and for once Sam doesn’t growl and shove him, tell Dean he’s a fucking tease. He just breathes, deep and uneven, and Dean feels himself rising and falling with his brother.
At some point, maybe when he’s pushing Sam’s legs open and tonguing high up on Sam’s inner thigh, he realizes that Sam’s talking, saying, “Dean, come on, Dean. You know I want it, come on.” The last part hits him square in the gut, finally knocks anything that isn’t Sam right out of his body. “Ask nicely,” he mutters, but moves to mouth at the base of Sam’s cock anyway, because he isn’t really in the mood to tease. It’s just habit.
Sam complies, though, murmuring, “Please, oh, please.”
Dean chokes on a moan, then shoves Sam’s legs up and sets himself to licking Sam open, because he needs to focus right now, focus on getting Sam to make that breathy, girly noise that makes Dean want to tear him open and climb inside, live in his blood and bones.
He manages to work two fingers in alongside his tongue before Sam starts grabbing at him, not even asking anymore, since the noises coming from his mouth ceased to be words awhile ago.
Dean raises his head and then takes Sam deep, swallows around Sam’s cock until he’s choking, until bright spots appear behind his eyelids, until Sam’s thrashing beneath him. Dean shoves Sam down hard as he pulls up, and that’s it, Sam’s coming, gasping in time to the pounding in Dean’s ears.
The panic edges in again while Sam catches his breath. But then Sam grabs Dean by the jaw, drags him up and wraps his furnace-hot body around Dean, rubbing against him in small bursts, almost shivering.
Dean threads his fingers into Sam’s damp hair, sucks the sweat from around his hairline, and breathes out hard when Sam’s hand closes around his cock. He lets Sam roll him onto his back, not mentioning that he can hardly breathe with Sam’s weight on him, because, frankly, suffocating in Sam’s arms is the best way to go that he can think of.
Although maybe not, because then he wouldn’t get to feel the mind-numbing bliss as he comes hard, trying desperately to move and only managing to nearly shake himself apart beneath his brother. And he’d miss Sam bringing his hand up between their mouths, and how stupidly fucking hot it is when their tongues touch as they lick Sam’s hand clean.
The comforter’s up around their shoulders, and Dean can’t remember if he pulled it up or Sam did. In a few hours they’ll wake in the dark, shower, wipe down the room, and drive until they’ve both had too long to think about how the fuck they’re going to get even further off the map, even deeper into the darkness they’re supposed to be fighting.
Sam’ll snap at some point, yell and bang his hands against the dashboard, and Dean’ll make a stupid joke about not hurting the car, even though he really wants to do the same damn thing.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, breath ghosting over Dean’s lips.
Dean sets his shoulders, waits for the question, the confession, whatever sucker-punch Sam’s got for him now.
Sam presses his face hard into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and says, “Let me drive tomorrow, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dean replies, and decides he’s shaking because it’s cold.
They’ll swear that the shaking is the comedown from the adrenaline rush, that they’re clinging to each other like the only piece of flotsam in an ocean because they’re exhausted, nothing else.
Dean’s got Sam’s upper arms in his hands and Sam’s lower lip between his teeth, and he’s happy to surrender everything else. To let go and tip his head back, let Sam turn and slide his cheek down from Dean’s temple to jaw, feel Sam’s teeth scrape behind his ear.
By the time Dean’s coverall is down and Sam’s hand is curved tight and possessive around the muscle of Dean’s ass, Dean’s ready to let got completely, unlock his knees, swoon, and wait for Sam to carry him home. But that’s not how it works. It’s a nice fantasy, that Sam could hold them together, make the plans and get it all right, listen to the bitching instead of doing it.
But he’s still here, at least. Hasn’t run, hasn’t sold Dean out yet for what he always wanted. Sam could be a baby lawyer by now, in a suit custom-made for his ginormousness and a better haircut than the one Dean gives him every couple of months. Instead he’s in ill-fitting SWAT gear and boots, murmuring, “Come on, come on,” and shuffling them towards the sorry excuse for a bed.
Dean’s the one who shoves first; knocks Sam down then pulls, pushes, gets his hands under whatever-the-fuck the coveralls are made of and gets them off of Sam as quick as he can. The feel of the scratchy-slick material makes his heart pound, a stupid, bulletproof reminder of how very fucked they are. Which is something he needs to forget right now, or make an ugly pulp of himself, Sam, and what’s left of their life.
And now he’s not panting, he’s close to hyperventilating. He rests his head on the hardsoft warmth of Sam’s chest, finds the side of his face covered by Sam’s huge hand, petting through his hair and pulling back to trace his face with just fingertips.
Then Sam’s hand is at the top of his head, pushing down gently and insistently, and oh yeah, there’s an actual point to all this besides Dean trying not to lose his fucking mind. He licks slow and rough all over Sam’s stomach, around and over the curves of his hipbones, and for once Sam doesn’t growl and shove him, tell Dean he’s a fucking tease. He just breathes, deep and uneven, and Dean feels himself rising and falling with his brother.
At some point, maybe when he’s pushing Sam’s legs open and tonguing high up on Sam’s inner thigh, he realizes that Sam’s talking, saying, “Dean, come on, Dean. You know I want it, come on.” The last part hits him square in the gut, finally knocks anything that isn’t Sam right out of his body. “Ask nicely,” he mutters, but moves to mouth at the base of Sam’s cock anyway, because he isn’t really in the mood to tease. It’s just habit.
Sam complies, though, murmuring, “Please, oh, please.”
Dean chokes on a moan, then shoves Sam’s legs up and sets himself to licking Sam open, because he needs to focus right now, focus on getting Sam to make that breathy, girly noise that makes Dean want to tear him open and climb inside, live in his blood and bones.
He manages to work two fingers in alongside his tongue before Sam starts grabbing at him, not even asking anymore, since the noises coming from his mouth ceased to be words awhile ago.
Dean raises his head and then takes Sam deep, swallows around Sam’s cock until he’s choking, until bright spots appear behind his eyelids, until Sam’s thrashing beneath him. Dean shoves Sam down hard as he pulls up, and that’s it, Sam’s coming, gasping in time to the pounding in Dean’s ears.
The panic edges in again while Sam catches his breath. But then Sam grabs Dean by the jaw, drags him up and wraps his furnace-hot body around Dean, rubbing against him in small bursts, almost shivering.
Dean threads his fingers into Sam’s damp hair, sucks the sweat from around his hairline, and breathes out hard when Sam’s hand closes around his cock. He lets Sam roll him onto his back, not mentioning that he can hardly breathe with Sam’s weight on him, because, frankly, suffocating in Sam’s arms is the best way to go that he can think of.
Although maybe not, because then he wouldn’t get to feel the mind-numbing bliss as he comes hard, trying desperately to move and only managing to nearly shake himself apart beneath his brother. And he’d miss Sam bringing his hand up between their mouths, and how stupidly fucking hot it is when their tongues touch as they lick Sam’s hand clean.
The comforter’s up around their shoulders, and Dean can’t remember if he pulled it up or Sam did. In a few hours they’ll wake in the dark, shower, wipe down the room, and drive until they’ve both had too long to think about how the fuck they’re going to get even further off the map, even deeper into the darkness they’re supposed to be fighting.
Sam’ll snap at some point, yell and bang his hands against the dashboard, and Dean’ll make a stupid joke about not hurting the car, even though he really wants to do the same damn thing.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, breath ghosting over Dean’s lips.
Dean sets his shoulders, waits for the question, the confession, whatever sucker-punch Sam’s got for him now.
Sam presses his face hard into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and says, “Let me drive tomorrow, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dean replies, and decides he’s shaking because it’s cold.