Emo porn!
de_nugis, you are one of my favorite people in fandom, and we haven't even met. I hope that things turn for the better in your life soon, and I'm thinking all the good thoughts I have that you and your family get lots of good news in the near future.
I've been trying to write a real story for you, and it still might get finished one of these days, but this week/month/year, it is not in the cards. So I hope you will accept this snippet of emo-porn in lieu of an actual story, and know that it isn't lack of desire or affection, but only time and life-sanity. Assume this takes place some time after current canon, when these two idiots have realized how ridiculous it is that they're deeply, hopelessly married in every way except one.
* * *
They kiss for a long time. The world might go on turning, but Dean can't be sure; the heat lightning of Sam's mouth on his jolts through him again and again, and it's all he can think about. Any minute now, they'll stop and figure out how badly they've fucked things up. Soon. Just as soon as they can break apart, as soon as he figures out how to deal with the way feeling sings crazily through his whole body every time Sam's tongue touches his. He's vaguely aware that he's got both hands in Sam's hair and that Sam's holding on to him the same way, and that this is really, most definitely not only gay, but a disastrously bad idea on every possible level.
Every touch and taste pulls him deeper, until at last Dean can't take it any more. The ache in his body is intense, all-consuming, and he needs to stop, to beg for a reprieve, for some space to breathe and think and try to get hold of himself. Then Sam pulls his head closer so he can lick further into Dean's mouth, and it registers somewhere deep inside Dean that he wants Sam to take control of him in other ways, too.
The thought makes him groan out loud and tense up, suddenly aware of how desperately hard he is. "Sam," he manages, head bowed against Sam's shoulder. He's a wreck. Christ, all he wants is to lie down on the bed and pull Sam on top of him, kiss him and rub mindlessly against him until he comes apart at the seams.
Then he looks up, meets his brother's eyes, and it's worse. So stupid, Dean tells himself, feeling it in every bone, right down to his knees. So fucking stupid. All this time-
They're so close Dean feels like he's almost looking at a stranger, and it brings home the fact that it's been longer than he can remember since he really looked at Sam head on, really saw him. It's been years, he thinks.
"It's okay," Sam gets out, and his voice is high, his expression desperate. He's flushed all the way down to his V-neck. "Dean, it's okay. We can. We-" He leans forward, his face hot against Dean's neck and his breath hitching. His mouth opens wet against Dean's throat, the bare touch of his tongue making Dean shiver. Sam groans then and sucks at Dean's throat, pulling him closer. "God, I can't-" He sucks harder and then bites, like he can't get enough. "Please tell me you want this," he gets out, and Dean can feel him shaking. "Please."
There's a world in which Dean could say no right now. A world in which he could put a stop to this the way he should have before it ever started, but that world is not this one. "Be lying if I said I didn't," he gets out, his fingers threaded through Sam's hair and his pulse racing under his brother's mouth. His heart feels like it's beating a mile a minute, but he has to ask: "Sammy, you sure?"
"Long as you promise you won't punch me in the face tomorrow."
"I won't."
"Holding you to that."
Sam gets insistent, then, pushing Dean back on the bed and covering him with his body-all six foot a thousand of him, lean and hot and eager for every sound and every response Dean gives him-of which there are plenty, because apparently, spending half your life deeply in denial builds up a hell of a lot of repressed feeling. Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands. Women's bodies he knows, doesn't even have to think about it, but as hot as having Sam up against him is making him, he can barely deal with the rush of conflicted signals his body is sending out. He wants everything, wants all of it, but how the hell does this even work? His whole body's saying fuck yes, and more, but it's all tangled up with the thrill of blind terror that jolts through him at the gut-level realization that they're actually doing this, this is really happening.
"Sam, you gotta- you gotta give me a second here-"
"No, I really, really don't," Sam tells him, and his hands are on Dean's bare skin, now, Dean's shirt open and his nipples peaking from the chill in the room, from the scrape of Sam's fingernails under his T-shirt. "No more talking. Talking gets us in trouble."
Dean huffs a disbelieving laugh. "And this won't?"
At that, Sam looks him in the eye, and it's like a circuit closing; Dean feels his nerves steady in spite of himself. "No," Sam says. "It won't." His thighs spread over Dean's, straining the denim of his faded jeans, and Dean puts his hands on them for something solid to hold on to.
Sam's scared, too-Dean's seen him scared a thousand times, though never like this. But the way he's looking at Dean makes something deep and unexpected uncoil in Dean's chest like a knot releasing, flooding him with a weightless, warm feeling he can barely contain. He hasn't felt like this since...ever. All the fights and all the hurt and all the confused, irrational, world-destroying feelings he's had about his brother since they were kids make sense now, and he can see the same understanding on Sam's face, plain as day. To his eternal embarrassment, the urge to cry presses all at once against his sinuses, and his throat aches something fierce. Dean Winchester cries his way through sex, he thinks crazily. It doesn't help.
"Be gentle with me, Sammy," he cracks, only half joking. The sound of his voice shuts him up in a hurry, though, and Sam huffs and rolls his eyes.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" Sam looks pissed, but not really, because his eyes shine bright with intent and his mouth is swollen from their kissing. Most of his attention is focused on getting Dean's jeans open and off-a goal Dean most wholeheartedly approves.
"Starting to get that," Dean gets out.
"Good. Keep working on it."
Dean barely knows what they're saying any more. Sam has him bared to his underwear now, and the sudden cool of the air makes him aware of just how wet he is. Jesus. His face heats, but he's lost the ability to do much more than go where Sam wants him, and all he can think about is what it's going to feel like when Sam touches him. He's fucking aching for it, and if he didn't have some sense of pride left, he'd beg-he's that bad off.
"Sam," he says roughly, and he might as well beg. It hits him then that he really can't-he can't lie here and take it, or he's gonna come apart, and he'll never be able to look Sam in the face again. He surges up, grabs hold of the back of Sam's neck and pulls him down, flipping them so he's on top. Sam doesn't fight it, just goes, with the instinct born from a lifetime of following Dean's lead in the clutch. It's almost like he was waiting for it, Dean thinks, but Sam's hands are still all over him, and his upstairs brain is losing the plot fast.
And Dean might be on top, but, "I got you," Sam says. His hands slide inside Dean's underwear at last, and Dean shivers and groans, his head dropping to Sam's shoulder in defeat. "I got you," Sam says again, a rough whisper against Dean's neck.
Then his hand closes tight and sure around Dean's length and, easy as that, he does.
I've been trying to write a real story for you, and it still might get finished one of these days, but this week/month/year, it is not in the cards. So I hope you will accept this snippet of emo-porn in lieu of an actual story, and know that it isn't lack of desire or affection, but only time and life-sanity. Assume this takes place some time after current canon, when these two idiots have realized how ridiculous it is that they're deeply, hopelessly married in every way except one.
* * *
They kiss for a long time. The world might go on turning, but Dean can't be sure; the heat lightning of Sam's mouth on his jolts through him again and again, and it's all he can think about. Any minute now, they'll stop and figure out how badly they've fucked things up. Soon. Just as soon as they can break apart, as soon as he figures out how to deal with the way feeling sings crazily through his whole body every time Sam's tongue touches his. He's vaguely aware that he's got both hands in Sam's hair and that Sam's holding on to him the same way, and that this is really, most definitely not only gay, but a disastrously bad idea on every possible level.
Every touch and taste pulls him deeper, until at last Dean can't take it any more. The ache in his body is intense, all-consuming, and he needs to stop, to beg for a reprieve, for some space to breathe and think and try to get hold of himself. Then Sam pulls his head closer so he can lick further into Dean's mouth, and it registers somewhere deep inside Dean that he wants Sam to take control of him in other ways, too.
The thought makes him groan out loud and tense up, suddenly aware of how desperately hard he is. "Sam," he manages, head bowed against Sam's shoulder. He's a wreck. Christ, all he wants is to lie down on the bed and pull Sam on top of him, kiss him and rub mindlessly against him until he comes apart at the seams.
Then he looks up, meets his brother's eyes, and it's worse. So stupid, Dean tells himself, feeling it in every bone, right down to his knees. So fucking stupid. All this time-
They're so close Dean feels like he's almost looking at a stranger, and it brings home the fact that it's been longer than he can remember since he really looked at Sam head on, really saw him. It's been years, he thinks.
"It's okay," Sam gets out, and his voice is high, his expression desperate. He's flushed all the way down to his V-neck. "Dean, it's okay. We can. We-" He leans forward, his face hot against Dean's neck and his breath hitching. His mouth opens wet against Dean's throat, the bare touch of his tongue making Dean shiver. Sam groans then and sucks at Dean's throat, pulling him closer. "God, I can't-" He sucks harder and then bites, like he can't get enough. "Please tell me you want this," he gets out, and Dean can feel him shaking. "Please."
There's a world in which Dean could say no right now. A world in which he could put a stop to this the way he should have before it ever started, but that world is not this one. "Be lying if I said I didn't," he gets out, his fingers threaded through Sam's hair and his pulse racing under his brother's mouth. His heart feels like it's beating a mile a minute, but he has to ask: "Sammy, you sure?"
"Long as you promise you won't punch me in the face tomorrow."
"I won't."
"Holding you to that."
Sam gets insistent, then, pushing Dean back on the bed and covering him with his body-all six foot a thousand of him, lean and hot and eager for every sound and every response Dean gives him-of which there are plenty, because apparently, spending half your life deeply in denial builds up a hell of a lot of repressed feeling. Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands. Women's bodies he knows, doesn't even have to think about it, but as hot as having Sam up against him is making him, he can barely deal with the rush of conflicted signals his body is sending out. He wants everything, wants all of it, but how the hell does this even work? His whole body's saying fuck yes, and more, but it's all tangled up with the thrill of blind terror that jolts through him at the gut-level realization that they're actually doing this, this is really happening.
"Sam, you gotta- you gotta give me a second here-"
"No, I really, really don't," Sam tells him, and his hands are on Dean's bare skin, now, Dean's shirt open and his nipples peaking from the chill in the room, from the scrape of Sam's fingernails under his T-shirt. "No more talking. Talking gets us in trouble."
Dean huffs a disbelieving laugh. "And this won't?"
At that, Sam looks him in the eye, and it's like a circuit closing; Dean feels his nerves steady in spite of himself. "No," Sam says. "It won't." His thighs spread over Dean's, straining the denim of his faded jeans, and Dean puts his hands on them for something solid to hold on to.
Sam's scared, too-Dean's seen him scared a thousand times, though never like this. But the way he's looking at Dean makes something deep and unexpected uncoil in Dean's chest like a knot releasing, flooding him with a weightless, warm feeling he can barely contain. He hasn't felt like this since...ever. All the fights and all the hurt and all the confused, irrational, world-destroying feelings he's had about his brother since they were kids make sense now, and he can see the same understanding on Sam's face, plain as day. To his eternal embarrassment, the urge to cry presses all at once against his sinuses, and his throat aches something fierce. Dean Winchester cries his way through sex, he thinks crazily. It doesn't help.
"Be gentle with me, Sammy," he cracks, only half joking. The sound of his voice shuts him up in a hurry, though, and Sam huffs and rolls his eyes.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" Sam looks pissed, but not really, because his eyes shine bright with intent and his mouth is swollen from their kissing. Most of his attention is focused on getting Dean's jeans open and off-a goal Dean most wholeheartedly approves.
"Starting to get that," Dean gets out.
"Good. Keep working on it."
Dean barely knows what they're saying any more. Sam has him bared to his underwear now, and the sudden cool of the air makes him aware of just how wet he is. Jesus. His face heats, but he's lost the ability to do much more than go where Sam wants him, and all he can think about is what it's going to feel like when Sam touches him. He's fucking aching for it, and if he didn't have some sense of pride left, he'd beg-he's that bad off.
"Sam," he says roughly, and he might as well beg. It hits him then that he really can't-he can't lie here and take it, or he's gonna come apart, and he'll never be able to look Sam in the face again. He surges up, grabs hold of the back of Sam's neck and pulls him down, flipping them so he's on top. Sam doesn't fight it, just goes, with the instinct born from a lifetime of following Dean's lead in the clutch. It's almost like he was waiting for it, Dean thinks, but Sam's hands are still all over him, and his upstairs brain is losing the plot fast.
And Dean might be on top, but, "I got you," Sam says. His hands slide inside Dean's underwear at last, and Dean shivers and groans, his head dropping to Sam's shoulder in defeat. "I got you," Sam says again, a rough whisper against Dean's neck.
Then his hand closes tight and sure around Dean's length and, easy as that, he does.