Fic: SPN (Sam/Dean): At the End of the Day | PG | 770 words
Title: At the End of the Day
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: It's not about getting clean. It never really was.
Word Count: 770
A/N: Written for the spnkink_meme prompt: "Dean is exhausted and muddy after a difficult hunt. Sam and Dean shower together and Sam washes Dean while Dean leans on him for support."
There’s nothing that Sam would like more than to just fall face down into a bed but he can’t allow himself that luxury. There are things to attend to first. Like the fact that Dean is dead on his feet and streaked with mud from their latest hunt and Sam’s just glad that he’s alive. Stupid, suicidal Dean.
Sam groans as he leads the way and steps underneath the hot spray of the shower, his muscles finally starting to lose their tension with the heat. Sighing in weary satisfaction, he leans back against the tile of the shower wall and pulls an unresisting Dean in after him. Dean stumbles over the ledge of the tub, too tired to correctly judge the height, but manages to make it in and settles against Sam’s chest with a worrisome bonelessness. He doesn’t make a snide comment like usual and he doesn’t even try to stand on his own. He rubs himself against Sam’s body, unconcerned about his nakedness or the graveyard dirt drying against his skin but at least he’s upright.
Sam will take whatever small blessings that he can get because just a half hour ago, Dean had thrown himself headfirst at an unhappy ghost, serving as bait while Sam panicked and tried to torch the remains. By the time he’d managed, though, the ghost had already caught Dean running and pitched him across the graveyard, sending him skidding along the ground and for a few heart-stopping moments, Sam had honestly thought that Dean was dead.
Pushing the scene from his mind, Sam reaches up to angle the showerhead downward and grabs a washcloth, courtesy of the motel, trying not to move too much as he doesn’t trust Dean to remain standing on his own. He’d already been swaying dangerously back out in the main room and Sam’s not going to tempt fate. Sam wets the cloth and rubs a bit of cheap motel soap on it before he begins to scrap the mud off of Dean’s body, revealing blossoming bruises that of course Dean had been too proud to tell Sam about. Sam curses quietly and tries to be as gentle as possible even if he knows that it’s never going to be enough.
“Not gonna break, Sammy,” Dean slurs quietly and Sam snorts in derision.
“Shut up,” he says and, miraculously, Dean does as he’s told. Instead of complaining, Dean turns his head to bury his face in Sam’s neck, letting Sam have his way with him and Sam bites his lip, trying not to think that this is the most worrying thing of all.
Dean surprises him, though, when he suddenly sighs, bone weary but strangely content and his hands start moving against Sam’s chest. “Dean?” Sam asks.
“Shut up,” Dean mumbles tiredly. “You’re dirty.” He goes back to lazily rubbing his hands over Sam’s body, rinsing off the dirt that Sam hadn’t realized was there. Sam swallows, oddly touched by the gesture even if he and Dean have done this before, shared a shower when it just made sense. When it was either do that or have one or the other pass out from exhaustion-even if they both know that getting clean isn't the real reason why they've done it.
He runs the cloth over Dean’s back, drawing another sigh out of him as he strokes over the knotted muscles. Dean groans when Sam presses down hard, massaging a bit of tension out of him. “Need a massage,” Dean says and Sam nods in agreement. But later. After he’s done because right now he just likes how Dean leans against him, naked and defenseless and trusting Sam to keep him safe.
It’s heady and Sam thinks that if Dean would let him, he could keep this up for hours. He slowly washes Dean’s body under the warm spray as Dean sleepily returns the favor, just barely standing as his hands rub circles over Sam’s skin. Sam knows, too, that it’s not all about getting Sam clean, either.
The mud of the graveyard sluices down their bodies to circle at their feet and disappear down the drain, taking worries and fears down with it, one by one. They reassure each other with only a few simple touches and neither of them make a move to stop, because, at the end of the day, both of them need this more than they will ever admit.
It’s not about getting clean. It never really was.
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: It's not about getting clean. It never really was.
Word Count: 770
A/N: Written for the spnkink_meme prompt: "Dean is exhausted and muddy after a difficult hunt. Sam and Dean shower together and Sam washes Dean while Dean leans on him for support."
There’s nothing that Sam would like more than to just fall face down into a bed but he can’t allow himself that luxury. There are things to attend to first. Like the fact that Dean is dead on his feet and streaked with mud from their latest hunt and Sam’s just glad that he’s alive. Stupid, suicidal Dean.
Sam groans as he leads the way and steps underneath the hot spray of the shower, his muscles finally starting to lose their tension with the heat. Sighing in weary satisfaction, he leans back against the tile of the shower wall and pulls an unresisting Dean in after him. Dean stumbles over the ledge of the tub, too tired to correctly judge the height, but manages to make it in and settles against Sam’s chest with a worrisome bonelessness. He doesn’t make a snide comment like usual and he doesn’t even try to stand on his own. He rubs himself against Sam’s body, unconcerned about his nakedness or the graveyard dirt drying against his skin but at least he’s upright.
Sam will take whatever small blessings that he can get because just a half hour ago, Dean had thrown himself headfirst at an unhappy ghost, serving as bait while Sam panicked and tried to torch the remains. By the time he’d managed, though, the ghost had already caught Dean running and pitched him across the graveyard, sending him skidding along the ground and for a few heart-stopping moments, Sam had honestly thought that Dean was dead.
Pushing the scene from his mind, Sam reaches up to angle the showerhead downward and grabs a washcloth, courtesy of the motel, trying not to move too much as he doesn’t trust Dean to remain standing on his own. He’d already been swaying dangerously back out in the main room and Sam’s not going to tempt fate. Sam wets the cloth and rubs a bit of cheap motel soap on it before he begins to scrap the mud off of Dean’s body, revealing blossoming bruises that of course Dean had been too proud to tell Sam about. Sam curses quietly and tries to be as gentle as possible even if he knows that it’s never going to be enough.
“Not gonna break, Sammy,” Dean slurs quietly and Sam snorts in derision.
“Shut up,” he says and, miraculously, Dean does as he’s told. Instead of complaining, Dean turns his head to bury his face in Sam’s neck, letting Sam have his way with him and Sam bites his lip, trying not to think that this is the most worrying thing of all.
Dean surprises him, though, when he suddenly sighs, bone weary but strangely content and his hands start moving against Sam’s chest. “Dean?” Sam asks.
“Shut up,” Dean mumbles tiredly. “You’re dirty.” He goes back to lazily rubbing his hands over Sam’s body, rinsing off the dirt that Sam hadn’t realized was there. Sam swallows, oddly touched by the gesture even if he and Dean have done this before, shared a shower when it just made sense. When it was either do that or have one or the other pass out from exhaustion-even if they both know that getting clean isn't the real reason why they've done it.
He runs the cloth over Dean’s back, drawing another sigh out of him as he strokes over the knotted muscles. Dean groans when Sam presses down hard, massaging a bit of tension out of him. “Need a massage,” Dean says and Sam nods in agreement. But later. After he’s done because right now he just likes how Dean leans against him, naked and defenseless and trusting Sam to keep him safe.
It’s heady and Sam thinks that if Dean would let him, he could keep this up for hours. He slowly washes Dean’s body under the warm spray as Dean sleepily returns the favor, just barely standing as his hands rub circles over Sam’s skin. Sam knows, too, that it’s not all about getting Sam clean, either.
The mud of the graveyard sluices down their bodies to circle at their feet and disappear down the drain, taking worries and fears down with it, one by one. They reassure each other with only a few simple touches and neither of them make a move to stop, because, at the end of the day, both of them need this more than they will ever admit.
It’s not about getting clean. It never really was.