FIC: And You're Wired To Me
Title: And You're Wired To Me
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2,414
Summary: Time is running out, and Dean gets seriously injured on a hunt. Sam does what he can.
Warnings: Mild watersports.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.
Notes: Written for my Sam's 25th Birthday Drabble Party in response to oxoniensis's prompt: "Dean/Sam, and a lyric quote...And what can I say but 'I'm wired this way' / And you're wired to me. / And what can I do but wallow in you / unintentionally - Gray". And thank you to causeways for the help and my lazy_daze for the final read-through! <3!
And You're Wired To Me
The Bear Lake monster in Bear Lake, Utah, is not the hoax Sam expects it to be. There really is a fifty-foot long creature under the placid water, violent and hungry with strong snapping jaws and a piercing shriek that sends shivers through the trees.
They find it on the third day in town, huge abnormal ripples marring the glassy surface of the lake, razor-sharp bony protrusions along its spine that break the surface. That's more than enough to send them to the library, going through books of tall tales of the Southwest, Scottish lore, Japanese monsters. Sam calls three university professors and takes four pages of notes.
They stay in town a week, waiting for heavy brown parcels stamped FRAGILE on all sides to show up on the moldy doormat of their motel room. They assemble the spears with blessed wood and consecrated iron heads, wickedly sharp and forged with drops of holy blood in each serrated edge.
Dean's time is running out, day after day swirling down the drain like they haven't lived through them at all. Sam feels the grains of sand slipping through his fingers, feels Dean slipping through his fingers, and it's all he can do to hold on for the last few weeks. He basks in Dean whenever he can; long stretches of silence unfold between them where Sam just watches him, commits him to memory. He burns in the curve of Dean's shoulders, the cut of his waist, his long strides and smug smiles and expressive eyebrows.
Dean never tells him to stop, never mocks him for it or shrugs him off or leaves him to hit a bar on his own when Sam's in one of his moods, feeling the pull of Dean under his skin. It's enough that the loss is inevitable; Sam's body is entreating him to make up for lost time now, to clutch Dean closer and taste of him, drink of him. Have every part of him.
*
They go back to the lake prepared, sacred weapons pressed in their hands and Gaelic incantations pressed in their lips. They call the monster to them, watch it rise from the water, towering and awful, blocking out the sun as it screams and strikes.
It opens its jaws, yawning wide and ducking down to lunge at Sam, but Dean hurls his spear, too soon by far, catching it in the roof of its mouth. It shrieks and turns, lashing out and snapping at him, eyes burning dark-red and evil.
Sam can't help himself, can't stop the kneejerk response when he sees it going for Dean. He can't lose his brother, not again and not before he has to. He rushes the monster, crashes towards it recklessly, jamming his spear into its eyeball, straight through the socket, feeling the squelch and give as he punctures tissue and humor and bone.
Hot black blood gushes from the wound, bubbling thick and sticky like tar, and the creature goes slack. The body drifts back into the water, sinking heavy below the surface, dissolving as if in acid.
Sam doesn't wait, doesn't waste time checking like he should. He just rushes to Dean's side, gathers him up where he's crumpled to the wet, sandy soil of the shore. There are deep puncture wounds in the meat of Dean's thigh, through his ribs at the side, just missing his lungs. Through his collarbone and the span of his shoulder.
*
The hospital smells like ammonia and age, death collecting like dust in the corners. It's small and dark, serving two counties with a staff of fewer than a dozen doctors. Sam waits, counting the footsteps of the nurses in the hall, then after endless hours, counting Dean's freckles against his pale skin as Sam helps him back to the car.
Sam doesn't tell Dean how stupid he was, how thoughtless. Sam knows he would do the same. Did do the same, and the length of his life expectancy wouldn't make any difference. They know each other now, know the sacrifices and the dependency and they can't change it. Wouldn't change it.
Dean finally speaks, voice nothing but a hoarse croak. "Sorry you gotta deal with this, Sammy," he says, gingerly rearranging himself on the seat. Not sorry for doing it, not sorry for how it turned out, just sorry that he's inconveniencing Sam. His bandages are already soaking through with blood, though he's stitched everywhere and the doctor did all he could.
"Not a problem," Sam says, overloud. "You'll be fine, they said. Just in a lot of pain for a while. We got pills for that, though."
Dean just nods, and Sam's heart squeezes tight in his chest.
*
Dean's asleep by the time they get back to the motel. He's also shaking with cold, wet clothes clinging to his body. Sam gets him up, gets him inside, can't stop touching him, feeling for the rise of his chest and flutter of his pulse.
"Dean, Dean, it's okay," Sam murmurs, peeling back each damp layer, pressing his warm hands against Dean's shivering skin, smoothing out the goosebumps.
Dean makes soft noises of assent, sharpening when he's in pain, and his lack of words is the scariest part. No assurances that he's okay, no brave face. Sam reassures himself with the feel of Dean's muscles flexing under his hands. He unwraps Dean's bandages, then strips down himself, and manages to get them both into the shower. He wishes this room had a tub, but he'll take what he can get.
"You'll be fine," Sam says again. "Just gotta get through the first few days. Just gotta hole up here for a little bit, get a lot of sleep and let me do the heavy lifting, right?" He smiles, and the stiff pull in his cheeks almost hurts.
"Feeling better already," Dean says, sighing and leaning against the wall. Color is flushing back into his cheeks, and he's trying out his range of motion. He runs his fingers over the teeny, neat rows of stitches on his leg, side, shoulder, chest. "What does it mean if there are stitches cutting through my tat," he asks, "besides that I'm the baddest bad-ass around?"
Sam doesn't know if the protection magic will still work if the design is broken like that, but he figures that's the least of their worries right now. "That you're a masochist, probably." The water is blessedly hot, pressure strong and steady against his back. Sam turns them, gets Dean under the spray so it isn't hitting any of his wounds. The sluggish ooze of blood welling up turns the rivulets of water running down his chest pink, getting redder as more blood mixes in the further down it falls. Sam looks away from it, focuses on the unmarred patches of skin instead, and the stark black edges of Dean's tattoo.
"If you're a sadist," Dean says, taking Sam's hand, placing it flat against the ink, "then I'd say we're set." Sam can practically feel Dean's blood buzzing against his palm. He looks up at Dean's suggestive words, catching his eyes. They're dark and bright, wide, laying Dean open for Sam to take. Dean puts his own palm over Sam's tattoo, licks his lips, and his meaning is plain.
Sam bows down just as Dean leans up. The kiss is deep and more than Sam thought it would be, intense from the start, diving into the deep end instead of wading out from the shallows. He can't taste anything but Dean, his mouth and his blood and the water on his lips, the words he breathes into Sam's throat.
It's quiet but strong, and Sam is swept away by the pull of it in his chest, in his gut, like every day is with Dean only a hundred times more. He's hard, can't help it when he sees Dean like this, beautiful and desperate and wanting him, and everything he's been feeling for the past year finally makes so much sense. The fear and the love and the need all wrapped up in this, and now it's bubbling over, flooding out of him, and Dean is there to catch it.
Dean's hard too, and Sam's surprised, can't help but laugh when he feels the hot length of him against his hip. Dean pulls back, raising an eyebrow, and if anything were to put Sam at ease, seeing that expression would be it. "Got a problem?" Dean says, and looks down at the both of them where they rub together. "Just because you're a huge freak of-"
"No, no, that's not-you're fine," Sam says, smile settling easy on his face now. "Just that, you know, you almost died and you're in enormous amounts of pain and probably drugged to the gills and yet your dick's still ready and raring to go."
"And doesn't that make you a lucky bastard," Dean says, pushing at Sam's shoulder. He's still weak, and there are still dark circles around his eyes, but he really will be okay. Sam takes what feels like his first real breath since they got to the lake. "Hold that thought," Dean says, backing under the showerhead, out of the spray. "I gotta piss, just a second-"
"Stay," Sam says, catching at Dean's wrists before he tries to get out of the shower. "You'll slip and crack your head and I'll have to spend the rest of the day in the god-forsaken hospital again."
"Yeah, I get it, you can't bear to be apart from me now that you've seen my perfect dick," Dean says, trying to pull out of Sam's grasp. He isn't getting very far. "I really do have to piss, though."
"No, Dean," Sam says, voice going low. "I meant stay."
Dean falls completely still, just staring at Sam in disbelief. "Wait, you want me to-"
"You know what I want," Sam murmurs, and he can feel it, the thrum starting all the way down in his toes, seeping through his body when he thinks of Dean doing that, letting him that far in, not shying away or cringing in disgust.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, barely audible over the splatter of the water against the floor of the shower. "If you-okay." He's standing too far back; Sam pulls him closer, crowds up against Dean so there's no space between them.
"Relax," Sam says, lips against Dean's ear. "Let go for me, please, want to feel you-" He slides his hand down Dean's chest, skirts the angry-bruised skin from the wound, stops when he gets to Dean's abdomen. He presses, just the right place, just hard enough. Dean sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. "Come on," Sam whispers.
Dean lets go with a keening sigh, cock still rock-hard against Sam as he pisses, hotter than the stream from the shower. It runs over Sam's belly, coating his angry-red dick where it juts out in front of him, pressed against Dean. The piss trickles between his balls, down between his thighs, runs over the soft skin behind his knees. It hits the floor of the shower with a splat and swirls with Dean's diluted blood, spiraling down the drain in a pink and yellow mess. It should be disgusting, ridiculous, but Sam just moans in the back of his throat, reaching for his dick with one hand and stroking the other up the side of Dean's neck.
Dean's still pissing, lips slack and eyes fixed wide and intense on Sam's, pupils huge and practically drowning the green of his iris. He swallows thickly, mouthing, "Yeah, Sammy, yeah," as Sam jerks himself between them, fingers slipping in the hot flood, rubbing it into his shaft, the head of his cock, smearing it together with the viscous precome blurting out of his slit. "Soak it up," Dean mutters, and leans in to bite at Sam's neck, slides his hands over where his piss is drenching Sam's belly, runs them through the coarse hair of Sam's thighs, matted down hot and wet.
The stream slows to a trickle to a drip to nothing at all, and Sam wraps his hand around both of them, cocks straining and dripping, everything thick and pungent with ammonia and sex and metallic blood. Dean shudders against him, moans into the skin of Sam's neck as Sam picks up his rhythm, hand slipping fast over them, thumbing under the heads, over the slit. "Sammy," Dean gasps, and digs his fingers into muscle and skin as he comes, thick spurts of it over Sam's hand, hips hitching as he shoots, white striping Sam's belly and dick.
Sam's not even breathing as he watches Dean's orgasm wash over him, split so wide open Sam can see clear through him. His hand slips in the copious slick of come smeared between them, and he squeezes himself just right, flicks his thumb and fucks his hips into his fist, catching Dean's mouth with his as he feels it tightening in him, gushing out of him. He pumps wide ropes of jizz against Dean's skin, breathes Dean's name against his lips, eyes shut tight against the intensity as it roils through him. He keens and pants through it, rides the aftershocks and tries not to weigh too heavy on Dean, leaning against the wall to keep himself from collapsing.
They stand there in the spray until it begins to run cool, curled towards each other, letting everything wash over them. Dean is the first to move, turning off the water, both of them rinsed but not actually soaped down. They'll have time later, when they're not shattered and aching and practically vibrating with the strength of this new thing between them.
Sam gets out and helps Dean out after him, makes Dean lean on him when he walks, still wobbly and pained. He doesn't ask if Dean's okay, doesn't fuss or nag. Just turns down one of the beds and pushes Dean down into it, brings him sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt to change into as Sam does the same.
He crawls under the blankets next to his brother, reaching around him, pulling him in close. Dean doesn't protest Sam sleeping in his bed, or being the little spoon, or Sam pressing a warm kiss to the back of his neck.
Sam drifts to sleep, lulled by Dean's heavy, even breaths, and he dreams of the Bear Lake monster.
*
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2,414
Summary: Time is running out, and Dean gets seriously injured on a hunt. Sam does what he can.
Warnings: Mild watersports.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.
Notes: Written for my Sam's 25th Birthday Drabble Party in response to oxoniensis's prompt: "Dean/Sam, and a lyric quote...And what can I say but 'I'm wired this way' / And you're wired to me. / And what can I do but wallow in you / unintentionally - Gray". And thank you to causeways for the help and my lazy_daze for the final read-through! <3!
And You're Wired To Me
The Bear Lake monster in Bear Lake, Utah, is not the hoax Sam expects it to be. There really is a fifty-foot long creature under the placid water, violent and hungry with strong snapping jaws and a piercing shriek that sends shivers through the trees.
They find it on the third day in town, huge abnormal ripples marring the glassy surface of the lake, razor-sharp bony protrusions along its spine that break the surface. That's more than enough to send them to the library, going through books of tall tales of the Southwest, Scottish lore, Japanese monsters. Sam calls three university professors and takes four pages of notes.
They stay in town a week, waiting for heavy brown parcels stamped FRAGILE on all sides to show up on the moldy doormat of their motel room. They assemble the spears with blessed wood and consecrated iron heads, wickedly sharp and forged with drops of holy blood in each serrated edge.
Dean's time is running out, day after day swirling down the drain like they haven't lived through them at all. Sam feels the grains of sand slipping through his fingers, feels Dean slipping through his fingers, and it's all he can do to hold on for the last few weeks. He basks in Dean whenever he can; long stretches of silence unfold between them where Sam just watches him, commits him to memory. He burns in the curve of Dean's shoulders, the cut of his waist, his long strides and smug smiles and expressive eyebrows.
Dean never tells him to stop, never mocks him for it or shrugs him off or leaves him to hit a bar on his own when Sam's in one of his moods, feeling the pull of Dean under his skin. It's enough that the loss is inevitable; Sam's body is entreating him to make up for lost time now, to clutch Dean closer and taste of him, drink of him. Have every part of him.
*
They go back to the lake prepared, sacred weapons pressed in their hands and Gaelic incantations pressed in their lips. They call the monster to them, watch it rise from the water, towering and awful, blocking out the sun as it screams and strikes.
It opens its jaws, yawning wide and ducking down to lunge at Sam, but Dean hurls his spear, too soon by far, catching it in the roof of its mouth. It shrieks and turns, lashing out and snapping at him, eyes burning dark-red and evil.
Sam can't help himself, can't stop the kneejerk response when he sees it going for Dean. He can't lose his brother, not again and not before he has to. He rushes the monster, crashes towards it recklessly, jamming his spear into its eyeball, straight through the socket, feeling the squelch and give as he punctures tissue and humor and bone.
Hot black blood gushes from the wound, bubbling thick and sticky like tar, and the creature goes slack. The body drifts back into the water, sinking heavy below the surface, dissolving as if in acid.
Sam doesn't wait, doesn't waste time checking like he should. He just rushes to Dean's side, gathers him up where he's crumpled to the wet, sandy soil of the shore. There are deep puncture wounds in the meat of Dean's thigh, through his ribs at the side, just missing his lungs. Through his collarbone and the span of his shoulder.
*
The hospital smells like ammonia and age, death collecting like dust in the corners. It's small and dark, serving two counties with a staff of fewer than a dozen doctors. Sam waits, counting the footsteps of the nurses in the hall, then after endless hours, counting Dean's freckles against his pale skin as Sam helps him back to the car.
Sam doesn't tell Dean how stupid he was, how thoughtless. Sam knows he would do the same. Did do the same, and the length of his life expectancy wouldn't make any difference. They know each other now, know the sacrifices and the dependency and they can't change it. Wouldn't change it.
Dean finally speaks, voice nothing but a hoarse croak. "Sorry you gotta deal with this, Sammy," he says, gingerly rearranging himself on the seat. Not sorry for doing it, not sorry for how it turned out, just sorry that he's inconveniencing Sam. His bandages are already soaking through with blood, though he's stitched everywhere and the doctor did all he could.
"Not a problem," Sam says, overloud. "You'll be fine, they said. Just in a lot of pain for a while. We got pills for that, though."
Dean just nods, and Sam's heart squeezes tight in his chest.
*
Dean's asleep by the time they get back to the motel. He's also shaking with cold, wet clothes clinging to his body. Sam gets him up, gets him inside, can't stop touching him, feeling for the rise of his chest and flutter of his pulse.
"Dean, Dean, it's okay," Sam murmurs, peeling back each damp layer, pressing his warm hands against Dean's shivering skin, smoothing out the goosebumps.
Dean makes soft noises of assent, sharpening when he's in pain, and his lack of words is the scariest part. No assurances that he's okay, no brave face. Sam reassures himself with the feel of Dean's muscles flexing under his hands. He unwraps Dean's bandages, then strips down himself, and manages to get them both into the shower. He wishes this room had a tub, but he'll take what he can get.
"You'll be fine," Sam says again. "Just gotta get through the first few days. Just gotta hole up here for a little bit, get a lot of sleep and let me do the heavy lifting, right?" He smiles, and the stiff pull in his cheeks almost hurts.
"Feeling better already," Dean says, sighing and leaning against the wall. Color is flushing back into his cheeks, and he's trying out his range of motion. He runs his fingers over the teeny, neat rows of stitches on his leg, side, shoulder, chest. "What does it mean if there are stitches cutting through my tat," he asks, "besides that I'm the baddest bad-ass around?"
Sam doesn't know if the protection magic will still work if the design is broken like that, but he figures that's the least of their worries right now. "That you're a masochist, probably." The water is blessedly hot, pressure strong and steady against his back. Sam turns them, gets Dean under the spray so it isn't hitting any of his wounds. The sluggish ooze of blood welling up turns the rivulets of water running down his chest pink, getting redder as more blood mixes in the further down it falls. Sam looks away from it, focuses on the unmarred patches of skin instead, and the stark black edges of Dean's tattoo.
"If you're a sadist," Dean says, taking Sam's hand, placing it flat against the ink, "then I'd say we're set." Sam can practically feel Dean's blood buzzing against his palm. He looks up at Dean's suggestive words, catching his eyes. They're dark and bright, wide, laying Dean open for Sam to take. Dean puts his own palm over Sam's tattoo, licks his lips, and his meaning is plain.
Sam bows down just as Dean leans up. The kiss is deep and more than Sam thought it would be, intense from the start, diving into the deep end instead of wading out from the shallows. He can't taste anything but Dean, his mouth and his blood and the water on his lips, the words he breathes into Sam's throat.
It's quiet but strong, and Sam is swept away by the pull of it in his chest, in his gut, like every day is with Dean only a hundred times more. He's hard, can't help it when he sees Dean like this, beautiful and desperate and wanting him, and everything he's been feeling for the past year finally makes so much sense. The fear and the love and the need all wrapped up in this, and now it's bubbling over, flooding out of him, and Dean is there to catch it.
Dean's hard too, and Sam's surprised, can't help but laugh when he feels the hot length of him against his hip. Dean pulls back, raising an eyebrow, and if anything were to put Sam at ease, seeing that expression would be it. "Got a problem?" Dean says, and looks down at the both of them where they rub together. "Just because you're a huge freak of-"
"No, no, that's not-you're fine," Sam says, smile settling easy on his face now. "Just that, you know, you almost died and you're in enormous amounts of pain and probably drugged to the gills and yet your dick's still ready and raring to go."
"And doesn't that make you a lucky bastard," Dean says, pushing at Sam's shoulder. He's still weak, and there are still dark circles around his eyes, but he really will be okay. Sam takes what feels like his first real breath since they got to the lake. "Hold that thought," Dean says, backing under the showerhead, out of the spray. "I gotta piss, just a second-"
"Stay," Sam says, catching at Dean's wrists before he tries to get out of the shower. "You'll slip and crack your head and I'll have to spend the rest of the day in the god-forsaken hospital again."
"Yeah, I get it, you can't bear to be apart from me now that you've seen my perfect dick," Dean says, trying to pull out of Sam's grasp. He isn't getting very far. "I really do have to piss, though."
"No, Dean," Sam says, voice going low. "I meant stay."
Dean falls completely still, just staring at Sam in disbelief. "Wait, you want me to-"
"You know what I want," Sam murmurs, and he can feel it, the thrum starting all the way down in his toes, seeping through his body when he thinks of Dean doing that, letting him that far in, not shying away or cringing in disgust.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, barely audible over the splatter of the water against the floor of the shower. "If you-okay." He's standing too far back; Sam pulls him closer, crowds up against Dean so there's no space between them.
"Relax," Sam says, lips against Dean's ear. "Let go for me, please, want to feel you-" He slides his hand down Dean's chest, skirts the angry-bruised skin from the wound, stops when he gets to Dean's abdomen. He presses, just the right place, just hard enough. Dean sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. "Come on," Sam whispers.
Dean lets go with a keening sigh, cock still rock-hard against Sam as he pisses, hotter than the stream from the shower. It runs over Sam's belly, coating his angry-red dick where it juts out in front of him, pressed against Dean. The piss trickles between his balls, down between his thighs, runs over the soft skin behind his knees. It hits the floor of the shower with a splat and swirls with Dean's diluted blood, spiraling down the drain in a pink and yellow mess. It should be disgusting, ridiculous, but Sam just moans in the back of his throat, reaching for his dick with one hand and stroking the other up the side of Dean's neck.
Dean's still pissing, lips slack and eyes fixed wide and intense on Sam's, pupils huge and practically drowning the green of his iris. He swallows thickly, mouthing, "Yeah, Sammy, yeah," as Sam jerks himself between them, fingers slipping in the hot flood, rubbing it into his shaft, the head of his cock, smearing it together with the viscous precome blurting out of his slit. "Soak it up," Dean mutters, and leans in to bite at Sam's neck, slides his hands over where his piss is drenching Sam's belly, runs them through the coarse hair of Sam's thighs, matted down hot and wet.
The stream slows to a trickle to a drip to nothing at all, and Sam wraps his hand around both of them, cocks straining and dripping, everything thick and pungent with ammonia and sex and metallic blood. Dean shudders against him, moans into the skin of Sam's neck as Sam picks up his rhythm, hand slipping fast over them, thumbing under the heads, over the slit. "Sammy," Dean gasps, and digs his fingers into muscle and skin as he comes, thick spurts of it over Sam's hand, hips hitching as he shoots, white striping Sam's belly and dick.
Sam's not even breathing as he watches Dean's orgasm wash over him, split so wide open Sam can see clear through him. His hand slips in the copious slick of come smeared between them, and he squeezes himself just right, flicks his thumb and fucks his hips into his fist, catching Dean's mouth with his as he feels it tightening in him, gushing out of him. He pumps wide ropes of jizz against Dean's skin, breathes Dean's name against his lips, eyes shut tight against the intensity as it roils through him. He keens and pants through it, rides the aftershocks and tries not to weigh too heavy on Dean, leaning against the wall to keep himself from collapsing.
They stand there in the spray until it begins to run cool, curled towards each other, letting everything wash over them. Dean is the first to move, turning off the water, both of them rinsed but not actually soaped down. They'll have time later, when they're not shattered and aching and practically vibrating with the strength of this new thing between them.
Sam gets out and helps Dean out after him, makes Dean lean on him when he walks, still wobbly and pained. He doesn't ask if Dean's okay, doesn't fuss or nag. Just turns down one of the beds and pushes Dean down into it, brings him sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt to change into as Sam does the same.
He crawls under the blankets next to his brother, reaching around him, pulling him in close. Dean doesn't protest Sam sleeping in his bed, or being the little spoon, or Sam pressing a warm kiss to the back of his neck.
Sam drifts to sleep, lulled by Dean's heavy, even breaths, and he dreams of the Bear Lake monster.
*