New SPN Fic: The World About to Come
The World About to Come
SPN Sam/Dean
1,028 words
Notes: Down to the End 'verse, companion piece to Guardians of Rare Thing. Thanks to ethrosdemon, maygra, and thisdistance for excellent beta duty.
There is no beginning.
Not the first kiss, not the first fuck. Not the first time Sam slept in Dean's arms, when they were small enough that they still fit in Dean's narrow race-car bed. Not even when Dean carried him from the fire that robbed them of their mother and any semblance of a normal life.
There is no beginning. There is Sam and there is Dean and there is Sam and Dean and there's never been anything else. Only the mechanics change.
***
It was so typical, such vintage fucking Dean. Not the kiss, which had been shocking beyond the wrongness -- Dean is nothing if not predictable, and Sam couldn't have predicted that if he had a lifetime. But everything after. Or, more specifically, the nothing after. Dean swooped down like a conquering hero, kissed Sam until neither one of them could breathe, and then went on as if nothing had happened. As if making out with his brother wasn't even worth remarking on.
Dean went back to picking up waitresses and townies, and left Sam to piece together the whys and wherefores. Dean kissed him, and Sam kissed back, and Sam didn't know how or why or what the fuck it meant or anything beyond that it was, that it had happened, that something that big didn't just go away if you ignored it. That a shotgun and a little blood wasn't excuse enough.
Sam spent months picking at the memory like a scab, turning it over in his mind as he watched miles of flat midwestern nothing slip past his window, as he listened to Dean breathe, slow and heavy in the silence, from the bed next to his. Dean kissed him. Dean kissed him and Sam kissed back and it was weird and it was wrong and it couldn't ever happen again. And if the moment kept replaying in high-definition slowmo in his head, it was only because this bizarre little escapade managed to win the bizarro prize even in their own little bizarro world.
It wasn't until the memory started making him hard that he realized he was in trouble.
***
It's all catalogued in Sam's head, in neat little boxes with pristine evidence tags, the start of something that always was. The first time Dean kissed him. The first time he looked at Dean and felt a shock of want like a fist to his belly. The first time he came, thrusting into his own hand, with Dean's name on his lips. The first time he knew there was only one place this could end.
Inevitable. No other way.
It repeats endlessly in his mind, a mantra, a one-line soundtrack for every first. The first time he feels the length of Dean's body against his. The first time Dean slides into him, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. The first time Sam drops to his knees and wraps his lips around his brother's cock, fighting not to come as Dean fucks his mouth.
No other way, and neither one of them was meant for normal.
***
Dean fucks like he does everything else: hard and fast and deadly, damn the consequences. His teeth leave welts on Sam's chest and thighs, his fingers press bruises into Sam's hips, and when Sam says "please" and "more" and "harder" Dean always, always gives it to him.
***
It was a year between the first time they kissed and the first time they fucked. A year and then some, and Dean never blinked. A year and then some, while Sam moved from heat and horror to want and shame to need and finally, inevitably, justification, while he pushed the unnamable, unknowable something between them forward in fits and stumbles and false starts, and the bastard never blinked.
So fucking typical.
***
Once Dean says, "Sammy, Sammy, I missed this," hips bucking as he tries to work Sam deeper inside. It makes no sense -- the sex is new, as frequent and unspoken as cheap diners and scattered salt lines -- but Dean's voice is raw and harsh, and Sam digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders and holds on tight.
***
Dean made him beg, the first time. Sometimes, when the walls are closing in and Sam could kill Dean as easily as looking at him, he thinks this can be summed up by that alone: Dean tipped his whole world upside down on a whim, fucked with his head and his body and then went back to fucking anyone in a skirt he could get to hold still long enough, and when Sam couldn't stand it anymore, Dean wound him up and then made him beg like a cheap whore before giving him what he needed.
Sometimes, when Dean is pressed against him, face soft and childlike in sleep, he thinks of how Dean's eyes looked when he let Sam pull him back down to the bed. Sometimes, when Dean is moving inside him, he thinks that a single whispered please was all it took to shatter Dean's defenses.
Sometimes, when Dean says his name -- Sammy, only ever Sammy when they fuck -- as he comes apart, Sam thinks this is what they are and there's nothing else that matters.
***
No waitresses or townies now, not in any way that counts. Dean flirts like George Bush lies, thoughtless, constant, as much habit as intent, but Sam's the only one he touches. Sam's the only who sees his eyes go dark with need, hears the choked, breathless sound he makes right before he comes. Sam's the one he belongs to, and the sharp, vicious twist of possession that thrills through Sam at the thought is something he refuses to examine further.
***
Dean's in his blood, Dean is his blood, they fight and they hunt and they fuck and they hold each other together and break each other apart. And maybe it's not how it should be, but it is and it was and it will be, no beginning, no end, and there is no other way.
When they lie curled together, baptized in sweat and come, Sam thinks maybe it's enough.
Not a sequel or or a companion piece, but set next in the same universe:
Prayers to Summon the Destroying Angel
SPN Sam/Dean
1,028 words
Notes: Down to the End 'verse, companion piece to Guardians of Rare Thing. Thanks to ethrosdemon, maygra, and thisdistance for excellent beta duty.
There is no beginning.
Not the first kiss, not the first fuck. Not the first time Sam slept in Dean's arms, when they were small enough that they still fit in Dean's narrow race-car bed. Not even when Dean carried him from the fire that robbed them of their mother and any semblance of a normal life.
There is no beginning. There is Sam and there is Dean and there is Sam and Dean and there's never been anything else. Only the mechanics change.
***
It was so typical, such vintage fucking Dean. Not the kiss, which had been shocking beyond the wrongness -- Dean is nothing if not predictable, and Sam couldn't have predicted that if he had a lifetime. But everything after. Or, more specifically, the nothing after. Dean swooped down like a conquering hero, kissed Sam until neither one of them could breathe, and then went on as if nothing had happened. As if making out with his brother wasn't even worth remarking on.
Dean went back to picking up waitresses and townies, and left Sam to piece together the whys and wherefores. Dean kissed him, and Sam kissed back, and Sam didn't know how or why or what the fuck it meant or anything beyond that it was, that it had happened, that something that big didn't just go away if you ignored it. That a shotgun and a little blood wasn't excuse enough.
Sam spent months picking at the memory like a scab, turning it over in his mind as he watched miles of flat midwestern nothing slip past his window, as he listened to Dean breathe, slow and heavy in the silence, from the bed next to his. Dean kissed him. Dean kissed him and Sam kissed back and it was weird and it was wrong and it couldn't ever happen again. And if the moment kept replaying in high-definition slowmo in his head, it was only because this bizarre little escapade managed to win the bizarro prize even in their own little bizarro world.
It wasn't until the memory started making him hard that he realized he was in trouble.
***
It's all catalogued in Sam's head, in neat little boxes with pristine evidence tags, the start of something that always was. The first time Dean kissed him. The first time he looked at Dean and felt a shock of want like a fist to his belly. The first time he came, thrusting into his own hand, with Dean's name on his lips. The first time he knew there was only one place this could end.
Inevitable. No other way.
It repeats endlessly in his mind, a mantra, a one-line soundtrack for every first. The first time he feels the length of Dean's body against his. The first time Dean slides into him, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. The first time Sam drops to his knees and wraps his lips around his brother's cock, fighting not to come as Dean fucks his mouth.
No other way, and neither one of them was meant for normal.
***
Dean fucks like he does everything else: hard and fast and deadly, damn the consequences. His teeth leave welts on Sam's chest and thighs, his fingers press bruises into Sam's hips, and when Sam says "please" and "more" and "harder" Dean always, always gives it to him.
***
It was a year between the first time they kissed and the first time they fucked. A year and then some, and Dean never blinked. A year and then some, while Sam moved from heat and horror to want and shame to need and finally, inevitably, justification, while he pushed the unnamable, unknowable something between them forward in fits and stumbles and false starts, and the bastard never blinked.
So fucking typical.
***
Once Dean says, "Sammy, Sammy, I missed this," hips bucking as he tries to work Sam deeper inside. It makes no sense -- the sex is new, as frequent and unspoken as cheap diners and scattered salt lines -- but Dean's voice is raw and harsh, and Sam digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders and holds on tight.
***
Dean made him beg, the first time. Sometimes, when the walls are closing in and Sam could kill Dean as easily as looking at him, he thinks this can be summed up by that alone: Dean tipped his whole world upside down on a whim, fucked with his head and his body and then went back to fucking anyone in a skirt he could get to hold still long enough, and when Sam couldn't stand it anymore, Dean wound him up and then made him beg like a cheap whore before giving him what he needed.
Sometimes, when Dean is pressed against him, face soft and childlike in sleep, he thinks of how Dean's eyes looked when he let Sam pull him back down to the bed. Sometimes, when Dean is moving inside him, he thinks that a single whispered please was all it took to shatter Dean's defenses.
Sometimes, when Dean says his name -- Sammy, only ever Sammy when they fuck -- as he comes apart, Sam thinks this is what they are and there's nothing else that matters.
***
No waitresses or townies now, not in any way that counts. Dean flirts like George Bush lies, thoughtless, constant, as much habit as intent, but Sam's the only one he touches. Sam's the only who sees his eyes go dark with need, hears the choked, breathless sound he makes right before he comes. Sam's the one he belongs to, and the sharp, vicious twist of possession that thrills through Sam at the thought is something he refuses to examine further.
***
Dean's in his blood, Dean is his blood, they fight and they hunt and they fuck and they hold each other together and break each other apart. And maybe it's not how it should be, but it is and it was and it will be, no beginning, no end, and there is no other way.
When they lie curled together, baptized in sweat and come, Sam thinks maybe it's enough.
Not a sequel or or a companion piece, but set next in the same universe:
Prayers to Summon the Destroying Angel