Fic: 'double feature (soft and heartland)' (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: double feature (soft and heartland)
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,240
Spoilers: General S2
Warnings: Explicit sexual situations and language
Summary: The movies are fun, sure, but going to them, now that’s the best part, ‘cause there’s popcorn and ice-cream, rickety old seats, and Sam laughing, loud and braying, at bad make-up and CGI monsters. And doing their jobs, the family business, killing the real monsters, so that only the make-believe ones, on film, live on.
Author’s Notes: For regala_electra, with love. A million thanks to netweight for the beta and valuable concrit. Title from The New Pornographers’ “Twin Cinema”.
-
There’s a six foot five blurry shadow shaped like one geeky kid brother playing over Bruce Campbell’s face, he of the one-liners, kick ass chainsaw, and one of the few men Dean Winchester would ever admit to having some kinda attraction, or - or crush on, or-fuck. This is his favorite part of the movie.
And it would be, “carve ourselves a witch” and look here, the reel’s playing and the projectionist has run for the hills - only there isn’t one, and the film’s deteriorated, all shitty, but it’s playing anyway, gaps, holes, chewed up, bubbles and lines and dirt streaky across the screen. Sam stands in front of the movie screen, eyes like slits, and says, when he opens ‘em suddenly, all wide and hazel, “I got it!” like some damn twelve year old, only a big twelve year old that lifts a shotgun - a real one, not a prop, not like the movies - and aims it at the shuffling thing twenty feet down the theater aisle.
He pauses though, draws the thing out, step by step as Dean waits. One second, two seconds, three - he better give him the damn signal or Dean’ll just shoot the fucking thing before he lets it get a hold of Sam-
A glance at the swirls of dulled gold and starry ceiling is just enough to fix that nagging feeling, that phantom touch of familiarity with his surroundings. Now is when Dean recognizes this place, and this film - this night, like one near ten years ago - but Sam’s kinda too busy to deal with nostalgia at the moment.
So Dean leans, right over the balcony railing, a sharp burst of shotgun that cracks, echoes after Sam shoots his own shotgun. The creature’s nailed, twice, a lumbering mass of slime and rags and pieces - Dean doesn’t even wanna know, but the thing’s fucking dead, now, dissolves right into the ground like it’s going around the toilet bowl.
“You okay?” It’s spoken low, hushed, like he’s waiting for some pimply snot nose of a theater attendant to shine a flashlight on him. It’s the movies, though, that’s why he’s talking low. Hallowed place. Dean’s sure they probably haven’t been to the theater as many times as he thinks, only when they do it’s something special, something that stretches out lazily in memories and spreads the love of movies like wildfire.
Sam calls out, “Yeah. Be there in a sec.”
Asking if he’s okay just pops out, automatic, and it’s the way Sam just nods, bites his lip as he heads over to check out the remains before heading up the stairs that Dean, who shoves the shotgun into his duffle, remembers when and why they were here, and that, if he’d gone a seat or two over, he would’ve picked the same exact spot to sit, just as he had when he turned-
-
-Eighteen years old, eight fuckin’ teen, thank you, “that means I won’t be hassled every time I go to the movies,” Dean says, lifts the bill of his baseball cap to scratch his head. He needs a haircut, or at least, Dad’ll make him get one soon - his hair’s past his ears and Sam doesn’t know why. Well, Sam here, Dad has given up on him already, but for Dean to do it, it’s like he’s just claiming his oncoming adulthood- and rebellion-by whatever means possible.
So, hair, and R rated movies, and that is definitely not the end of it, not for a long, long time. Maybe it’s reserved rebellion. He’s starting off slow with these, keeps the fast stuff all too himself. Maybe he’s treating Sam like a little kid again, gives him a peek every now and then of something bigger, something he doesn’t quite get yet. Sam’s already shooting up though, he thinks, feels a little scrawny and gangly but give or take a year (or two) and maybe he’ll be as tall as Dean. Maybe. That has to count for something.
Dean takes off his baseball cap and scrunches it down, hard, backwards on Sam’s head. Sam wipes at a lock of limp hair angrily, pushes it out of his eyes. “Here. We don’t want you to scare off the girls with your giant forehead.”
“Very funny,” Sam bites out, tries to - but it slips, his jaw sticks out a little as he grits his teeth and his hands clench, one on a bag of popcorn, the other on Milk Duds. He tries to kick Dean on the shin but misses; Dean cuffs the back of his head.
“Dude. Look. Evil Dead II,” Dean says, and if his eyes glitter, it’s not a trick of light because Sam knows, Sam’s seen his brother watch that movie too many times on small, rounded edge televisions with crappy rabbit antennae. The thing is, it’s horror movie night - meaning they’re playing this film, rare, a large screen the only way to properly show the “glory” of the movie (Dean’s words). The movie theater is old fashioned and musty, with statues of half-naked people and cherubs, all dull gold swirls with red, dusty velvet. “C’mon. We’re scoring the good seats or else.”
But it isn’t like there’s a rush for seats. In fact, there are only three other people besides Sam and Dean, and Sam wonders why he’s watching flying eyeballs and possessed trees on a Friday night with his brother while Dad’s out on a hunt. Dean’s eighteen now, isn’t he, which is like a stamp of coolness, that final nod of “I’m older than you” that’s the difference between a teenager and an adult. That he shouldn’t have his little brother tag along. Sam should be stuck at the motel, and Dean as well, sneaking glances at bad television or sneaking out with a girl. To this theater, where it’s empty and some jerk in the third row below - because Dean insists on the balcony for them to sit - is snoring.
Dean laughs, a lot, and hushes up quiet too, and it’s a mix of disbelief and understanding that colors his comments, popcorn falling out his mouth and a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his lips. He talks at the screen like it’s a secret bond, budding knowledge of things he hasn’t gotten around to killing yet - at least, it’s a few years since he’s started, and Dad’s letting Sam too, little stuff - but he speaks like he’s an expert. Dean thwacks Sam’s shoulder, or chest, and Sam can’t help but give a little smile even if Dean’s being disgusting. Actually, it’s kind of good he dragged his little brother along. ‘Cause if he had a date she would’ve gone already; he’s chewing with his mouth open and laughing like an idiot.
Sam avoids staring at him because besides the fact that Dean’s mouth doesn’t exactly work in conjunction with his brain, the fact he feels awkward being here isn’t just a brotherly thing; it’s a thing that’s gnawing at him, at his gut, a twinge of confusion, pain, and god knows what else, he doesn’t - it happens when he looks at Dean sometimes, and Sam doesn’t like it.
Doesn’t like that push/pull of ill at ease posture, how he slouches in his seat and away from Dean, so he doesn’t have to see him. But it’s his laugh, and his curses, sharp and cutting, that do Sam in anyway, that he can’t shake and doesn’t want to, the way Dean acts and is that Sam just - yearns for, wants, he guesses, what the hell else is there to say when you’re freaking jerking off in a crappy motel bathroom shower and the only word is Dean, over and over, cracked lips and his voice just a shave off from young to fully changed. It’d only been three hours ago that he was doing that when Dean declared they were going to the movies, the two of them, like it’s a date.
A date, oh my god this is like a date.
It’s a thought that weaves and bobs in the sea of Sam’s thoughts and it’s come up, at the concession stand, half a bar of Nestle Crunch stuck in Dean’s mouth. “They don’t get true art,” he’d said to explain why they were there, by themselves, and the fact that a girl wasn’t out with Dean. “Horror films aren’t trash. They’re a well-crafted slice of good ‘ol filmmaking that’s needed in a hick town like this one.”
“So you brought me instead,” Sam said after a few seconds trying to decode the chocolate coated mumble/slur of Dean’s words as he chewed.
“Not like I gotta treat you any special. You’re a cheap date, Sam,” Dean explained, threw down a few crumpled dollars on the counter for the cashier before he picked up a bag of popcorn. He looked down at Sam, shoved the food at his arms. “Short, too.”
“Young, too, don’t forget that, old man,” Sam had pointed out, and Dean bit his lip as he shoved Sam in the shoulder with two fingers, and he bites his lip now, too, when Sam angles away in his seat and tries to think of anything other than his fucking brother, than fucking his brother, and-and that ‘fucking’ and ‘brother’ shouldn’t go in the same sentence.
But the third time Dean goes, “ain’t that right, Sammy?” and thwacks Sam’s shoulder, Sam just laughs, pulls off the baseball cap and runs his fingers through his hair. So he guesses - no, he damn well convinces himself - it’s just them, hanging out. It’s a nice theater if he looks up, looks around, which is good, something else to do - but it is real nice, old fashioned and beautiful, like those opera houses Sam reads about in English class, or like a big old movie set. And it’s the both of ‘em here, having fun, no monsters or spirits or girls and Sam’s fine with that. Oh sure, he’ll bitch and moan when Dean asks him to get more popcorn but he shoots up and towers over his brother for just a few seconds, makes clawing fingers before he nudges Dean’s legs to let him pass through the aisle to the exit.
“Don’t get any ice cream!” Dean calls out after. Sam glares, but Dean, when he pushes back stubborn sandy brown strands, head cants, he says, “‘Cause I thought we could pick some up after the movie. You want ice cream later, right? Hurry up. He’s gonna get the chainsaw in a minute.”
If Sam lets himself smile, all grinning, like an idiot - split second realization - it’s because he’s really happy Dean’s not looking. His brother’s already back to poking around at the near empty popcorn bag and tipping the remains, hard and split kernels, into his mouth.
-
Sam’s there, out of nowhere, towers over Dean, who’s sitting with his feet on the balcony railing. He nudges Dean’s crossed legs with his knee, bends down briefly to shove the shotgun into the duffel bag placed in the spot where a chair used to be, rust stains and traces of metal.
“Thanks for taking a load off while I made sure that thing doesn’t, oh, I don’t know, pop back up and try to claw out someone’s eyeballs,” Sam says, punches Dean lightly on the shoulder. “You done?”
“The movie’s almost over,” Dean answers, raises his eyebrows and gestures to the intact seat on the other side. He looks up hopefully at Sam who just - who’s being an ass, raises his eyebrows and double takes.
“Dude, you do realize that we just took out an angry spirit who’s got a love of bad horror movies as a backdrop and you want to sit and watch the rest of this used up old print in an old abandoned movie theater?”
“Don’t you fucking knock it,” Dean growls, pulls his legs back so he sits with them spread wide open, scuffing boots on the ground. Sam huffs, lets his foot slip and kicks Dean in the shin, all innocent. Sam plops down in the seat next to him, long legs shoved uncomfortably up against the tattered seat in front of him. “Ashley J. Williams could kick your ass with his good hand and his stump tied behind his back.”
They watch, all silent, scratchy soundtrack and ruined film play like an acid trip, Ash and whatever that hot research chick’s name is and - and Dean? Would totally do the research student chick. It’s the knee high socks. Gotta be those.
When he stretches an arm around the back of Sam’s seat, behind his shoulders, his brother’s posture goes a little rigid, seconds before he says, all slow, “Are we on a date?”
“What? No!” Dean says, brow knit, shakes his head. “Just need to stretch.”
“You’re trying to make a move on me, asshole,” Sam points out, eyebrows up beneath bangs that are falling back on his forehead for the time being. “And we’re alone in a movie theater. Dean, we’re on a date.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” Dean warns, knocks Sam’s shoulder with his own, nods at the screen. “Remember this?”
“Like you’ll ever let me forget this movie,” Sam answers, a trace of a sulk and cobwebs in his hair that he picks at the tips, mouth scrunches like he’s tasting sourness. “Rule number one, you don’t read mystical incantations out of a book ‘bound in human skin and inked in blood’.”
“No, idiot.” Dean shakes his head. “Not that. So you remember the narration but not this place?”
Sam looks, left, right, up, all around, long column of his throat bare and white against the darkness of the surrounding dull browns and rust gold of the theater seats, walls.
“Oh.”
-
He says, ‘oh’, innocent, and low, like he doesn’t know but he does - nearly ten years ago, when this place was set to rot and it is now, abandoned, empty. It’s a ruin of movie palaces ages ago, all decorated like they’d expect dignitaries and movie stars to swing by to this small town in the heartland, U.S.A. But they came here years ago, when Sam told himself for different reasons why he liked his brother taking him along-that he liked him taking him out, that’s all, ignored his face and mouth and the physicality, teenage… god, freaking teenage lust, that’s what it was-only now Sam’s older, so’s Dean, but he isn’t- shit.
“Dean,” Sam says, or tries; Dean slips a hand on top of Sam’s own hand, then thigh, drags fingers up the length of his jeans towards his waistline. The edge of his jeans. He shifts his weight and slips a hand underneath, starts to unbuckle Sam’s belt while the other hand presses fingertips, lightly, against the base of Sam’s neck. “Dude - the fuck. Here?”
“Yeah. Here,” Dean says, and Sam groans, breath caught against, in Dean’s mouth. Dean bites his lower lip after a kiss, all light, fingers threading through Sam’s hair. “I’d make a crack about date movies but this is as good as any.”
Sam, if he wasn’t thinking straight, might make his own crack about dates, and better places, but fuck that, because Dean wraps fingers, one at a time, around Sam’s dick, hell, it’s hard, there’s pre-come at the tip that he can see out the corner of his eye once Dean’s managed to free Sam of his belt, and lowers the boxers and wait, just - shit, right there, god.
When he collects his thoughts, fast, Dean’s fisting his dick, and Sam tries to angle his head and kiss that smirk, lips that’re wet and pink, that shine, like the small lights that flicker above are catching on and Sam’s avoiding the use of bad movie puns to describe this, so instead he settles on grabbing Dean’s face, his jaw when he comes, exhales a curse and bares his teeth. Their noses, foreheads knock, come stains on Sam’s belly, on the cuff of Dean’s jacket.
Thing is, Sam’s idea to lurch sideways and grab Dean - face, mind you - has ‘em falling forward and crashing through the already rickety ass theater seat, their bodies fumble and long legs splay, kick out, try to gain balance on a carpet that sends up clouds of dust. Sam’s back cracks painfully against the wall of the balcony edge, and Dean comes to rest one elbow on an upturned knee. The light catches, right on the curves, angles of Dean’s face, dust glitters too like the spray of freckles across Dean’s nose, cheekbones, and Sam’d call him on it only he waggles a finger, gestures towards himself.
Fuck you, you come over, reads Dean’s face, only he dips his head and half crawls, half drags himself across the floor. Sam’s hand jerks Dean’s zipper open when he gets his ass over, both of them on their knees. Unbuckles Dean’s belt and lowers his boxers, jeans; they slip down and hang off the strong angles of his hipbones.
They kiss, too, come to think of it, Sam jerks Dean off all the while, grunts, groans, and curses - sounds against the backdrop of screaming and chainsaws, one-liners, and it’s funny that Sam notices these things, those brief glimpses of ragged color and dull, faded wallpaper when he breathes, air, then his eyes close, mouths lock and bite and damn it, now it’s just getting messy.
Dean comes, low groan, guttural, just as he pulls his head back, sweat slicked hair - hardly any ventilation here, soft and heavy, air hangs and clings to the skin - sticks up, and his face brushes against Sam’s cheek, stubble scratches diagonal, away, chin on Sam’s shoulder. His body goes slack a long, long moment, catching their breaths. The soundtrack’s playing, all fuzzy and loud through wasted speakers, a moment where Sam feels a surge of warmth, deep in his bones, just being here, with Dean.
That kind of pleasure that burns deep, that fueled his motions years ago when Dean took his kid brother out, that he wanted to hang out and just be together, if nothing more, a sense of closeness if it couldn’t be sex, and now, in a different context, in a context that has Dean breathing, slow and steady against Sam’s neck, collarbone.
And then, a good few minutes when they’re watching the movie with their pants down, that Dean says, his mouth against Sam’s ear, soft strands against his lips, he says, “Turn around.”
Catches his breath, two slow heartbeats as the research girl yowls her head off.
“Yeah,” Sam says, “Yeah,” because that’s all he can say, that’s all he knows right now, besides Dean’s lips (soft, slow kiss, another, miniscule, closes the gap, then breaks off, pulls away). The floor creaks when Dean shifts his weight and crawls, just a little, arm stretches out for the duffel like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, and if it takes this fucking long then he knows Sam’ll complain because - because god, this is like the worst movie ever to fuck to, what in the holy hell is that horrible excuse for a demon thing?-
-
And Dean’s ready, has been, for fucking ages, movie or not, movie or-there’s that shadow again on the screen, Sam standing up with his hands gripping the edge of the balcony, long hair sticks to the nape of his neck, jeans slung low ‘round his hips, halfway. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and the way his forearms flex, muscle and tendons, sends a thrill, sort of shiver right down to Dean’s cock.
It’s a slow process, and he ain’t rushing, just a slow, one, two, fingers that are slick with lube, fingers that push up, inside of Sam. The sudden touch sends Sam bending back, neck and jaw against Dean’s cheek.
“You ready?” he asks, and grins, because Sam, Sam, turns his head a little, jaw juts out, teeth are clenching.
“Come on and fuck me already,” Sam snarls, voice a low rumble that’s punctuated by shotgun blasts, high bursts of static and flickering projector lights that play along his jaw. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”
“Shut up, dickhead,” Dean responds, gets a laugh choked out from Sam as he enters.
And he asks, again, you ready? but it’s not like Sam won’t close his eyes all tight and bare his teeth, exhale, a puff of air that sends away the dust floating up in the air in front of them. They’re angling just so, Dean’s thrusts slow, building, and they’re up at the edge of the balcony, the projector light right on their backs, a blurry outline of two bodies, two heads, plays on the faded, raggedy screen below.
His hair’s really light, Sam, this brown color, soft little strands in a bright halo, sweat slick stubble and sideburns that need a shave and fuck if Dean notices these things, this sense of warmth as his cock goes in and out, as his hands fumble and one goes on the sharp curve of Sam’s hipbone, the other pulls down the jeans, further, starts to fist his dick.
Sam lets out these noises, soft, moaning sounds, that Dean would rib him for but he won’t, he fucking-god, damn-he fucking won’t, he won’t, he can’t see straight and the reel’s playing like, forever, like it won’t end. Static, crack, a pop and hiss of noise as the film breaks, harsh white backdrop in vision around and up and over Sam’s shoulders. There’s tension to his shoulders, shirt pulled across too tight, and Dean goes deeper, finally manages to say, voice rough, “That good, Sammy?”
Christ, he can’t hold his shit together to say something that-
“Fuck, Dean-” he groans out, all ragged, eyes shut, mouth open and teeth, and tongue, panting-“Yeah. Oh-fuck!”
Dean comes just after that, and Sam shortly after, his hips buck against the railing. A fast grab, hands locking on hips, on the front of his jeans, saves Sam from teetering too close to the edge, like he’ll fall right over and down below, and he could, come to think of it, he’s too tall and the railing’s made for, you know, normal sized people.
They don’t talk because they can’t, just shuddering breaths, like they’re able to breathe, for one thing, finally, the first time in who knows how many minutes. His forehead’s resting on Sam’s shoulder, cotton shirt sweated right through. Dean won’t say a word about the fact that his arms go up, one hand right around his other wrist, to keep Sam close, so he won’t fall over, so he’ll be an ungrateful bastard that begins to stir, to squirm, like a five year old being hugged by a pushy aunt.
“You mind…” Sam takes a deep breath, his head lolls back against Dean’s shoulder, again, follows with, “Quit holdin’ on to me, Dean, I’m not gonna fall over.”
Dean’s forearms, elbows brush against the tanned skin of Sam’s sides, his ass as he pulls out of him. He stretches up-because once again, friggin’ height-and breathes against Sam’s ear, “Not yet.”
He’ll crane his head up, and he’ll see the walls that rise up high into curving, cracked plaster, dull shine of a place that’s seen better days, that should see better days - place like this shouldn’t go to waste, should live on. The reality of it, of the tense line of Sam’s back, of them being here, not shadows on a torn up screen, being real and all. And that’s a feeling Dean won’t give up for anything, years, near a decade or not, rumble of a film rolling, playing.
It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage, that’s Indiana Jones, same kinda dude Dean would watch on a Friday night, and the saying goes true here - the movies are fun, sure, but going to them, now that’s the best part, ‘cause there’s popcorn and ice-cream, rickety old seats, and Sam laughing, loud and braying, at bad make-up and CGI monsters.
And doing their jobs, the family business, killing the real monsters, so that only the make-believe ones, on film, live on.
By now, Sam’s brow furrows as he pulls back, turns around. But he doesn’t say a word while they clean up, and it isn’t ‘til he tugs at his flannel shirt that he asks, “Where are we heading now? Back to the motel?”
His eyebrows shoot up, like he’s eager, licks his lip as he palms his hair, wipes away sweat and dust on his brow.
“Nah,” says Dean, who groans, all pleased, when his neck cracks as he bends to pick up his duffel. Sam though, looks downright hilarious, hopeful one minute and sulks the next, denied.
“I thought we could pick up some ice cream,” Dean continues, claps a hand hard on Sam’s shoulder, waves away the dust that rises off his jacket. He adds, eyes innocent, his voice all dripping thick with as much sarcasm as he can lay on without laughing, “And then we could go watch some kinda weepy movie, you big girl.”
“You fucker,” Sam snaps, whaps Dean’s hand away as he backpedals up the short aisle towards the balcony entrance. He points at Dean and says, “Come on. You’re buying.”
Dean follows, streak of a grin, ‘cause it’s not like he had anything else planned.
END
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,240
Spoilers: General S2
Warnings: Explicit sexual situations and language
Summary: The movies are fun, sure, but going to them, now that’s the best part, ‘cause there’s popcorn and ice-cream, rickety old seats, and Sam laughing, loud and braying, at bad make-up and CGI monsters. And doing their jobs, the family business, killing the real monsters, so that only the make-believe ones, on film, live on.
Author’s Notes: For regala_electra, with love. A million thanks to netweight for the beta and valuable concrit. Title from The New Pornographers’ “Twin Cinema”.
-
There’s a six foot five blurry shadow shaped like one geeky kid brother playing over Bruce Campbell’s face, he of the one-liners, kick ass chainsaw, and one of the few men Dean Winchester would ever admit to having some kinda attraction, or - or crush on, or-fuck. This is his favorite part of the movie.
And it would be, “carve ourselves a witch” and look here, the reel’s playing and the projectionist has run for the hills - only there isn’t one, and the film’s deteriorated, all shitty, but it’s playing anyway, gaps, holes, chewed up, bubbles and lines and dirt streaky across the screen. Sam stands in front of the movie screen, eyes like slits, and says, when he opens ‘em suddenly, all wide and hazel, “I got it!” like some damn twelve year old, only a big twelve year old that lifts a shotgun - a real one, not a prop, not like the movies - and aims it at the shuffling thing twenty feet down the theater aisle.
He pauses though, draws the thing out, step by step as Dean waits. One second, two seconds, three - he better give him the damn signal or Dean’ll just shoot the fucking thing before he lets it get a hold of Sam-
A glance at the swirls of dulled gold and starry ceiling is just enough to fix that nagging feeling, that phantom touch of familiarity with his surroundings. Now is when Dean recognizes this place, and this film - this night, like one near ten years ago - but Sam’s kinda too busy to deal with nostalgia at the moment.
So Dean leans, right over the balcony railing, a sharp burst of shotgun that cracks, echoes after Sam shoots his own shotgun. The creature’s nailed, twice, a lumbering mass of slime and rags and pieces - Dean doesn’t even wanna know, but the thing’s fucking dead, now, dissolves right into the ground like it’s going around the toilet bowl.
“You okay?” It’s spoken low, hushed, like he’s waiting for some pimply snot nose of a theater attendant to shine a flashlight on him. It’s the movies, though, that’s why he’s talking low. Hallowed place. Dean’s sure they probably haven’t been to the theater as many times as he thinks, only when they do it’s something special, something that stretches out lazily in memories and spreads the love of movies like wildfire.
Sam calls out, “Yeah. Be there in a sec.”
Asking if he’s okay just pops out, automatic, and it’s the way Sam just nods, bites his lip as he heads over to check out the remains before heading up the stairs that Dean, who shoves the shotgun into his duffle, remembers when and why they were here, and that, if he’d gone a seat or two over, he would’ve picked the same exact spot to sit, just as he had when he turned-
-
-Eighteen years old, eight fuckin’ teen, thank you, “that means I won’t be hassled every time I go to the movies,” Dean says, lifts the bill of his baseball cap to scratch his head. He needs a haircut, or at least, Dad’ll make him get one soon - his hair’s past his ears and Sam doesn’t know why. Well, Sam here, Dad has given up on him already, but for Dean to do it, it’s like he’s just claiming his oncoming adulthood- and rebellion-by whatever means possible.
So, hair, and R rated movies, and that is definitely not the end of it, not for a long, long time. Maybe it’s reserved rebellion. He’s starting off slow with these, keeps the fast stuff all too himself. Maybe he’s treating Sam like a little kid again, gives him a peek every now and then of something bigger, something he doesn’t quite get yet. Sam’s already shooting up though, he thinks, feels a little scrawny and gangly but give or take a year (or two) and maybe he’ll be as tall as Dean. Maybe. That has to count for something.
Dean takes off his baseball cap and scrunches it down, hard, backwards on Sam’s head. Sam wipes at a lock of limp hair angrily, pushes it out of his eyes. “Here. We don’t want you to scare off the girls with your giant forehead.”
“Very funny,” Sam bites out, tries to - but it slips, his jaw sticks out a little as he grits his teeth and his hands clench, one on a bag of popcorn, the other on Milk Duds. He tries to kick Dean on the shin but misses; Dean cuffs the back of his head.
“Dude. Look. Evil Dead II,” Dean says, and if his eyes glitter, it’s not a trick of light because Sam knows, Sam’s seen his brother watch that movie too many times on small, rounded edge televisions with crappy rabbit antennae. The thing is, it’s horror movie night - meaning they’re playing this film, rare, a large screen the only way to properly show the “glory” of the movie (Dean’s words). The movie theater is old fashioned and musty, with statues of half-naked people and cherubs, all dull gold swirls with red, dusty velvet. “C’mon. We’re scoring the good seats or else.”
But it isn’t like there’s a rush for seats. In fact, there are only three other people besides Sam and Dean, and Sam wonders why he’s watching flying eyeballs and possessed trees on a Friday night with his brother while Dad’s out on a hunt. Dean’s eighteen now, isn’t he, which is like a stamp of coolness, that final nod of “I’m older than you” that’s the difference between a teenager and an adult. That he shouldn’t have his little brother tag along. Sam should be stuck at the motel, and Dean as well, sneaking glances at bad television or sneaking out with a girl. To this theater, where it’s empty and some jerk in the third row below - because Dean insists on the balcony for them to sit - is snoring.
Dean laughs, a lot, and hushes up quiet too, and it’s a mix of disbelief and understanding that colors his comments, popcorn falling out his mouth and a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his lips. He talks at the screen like it’s a secret bond, budding knowledge of things he hasn’t gotten around to killing yet - at least, it’s a few years since he’s started, and Dad’s letting Sam too, little stuff - but he speaks like he’s an expert. Dean thwacks Sam’s shoulder, or chest, and Sam can’t help but give a little smile even if Dean’s being disgusting. Actually, it’s kind of good he dragged his little brother along. ‘Cause if he had a date she would’ve gone already; he’s chewing with his mouth open and laughing like an idiot.
Sam avoids staring at him because besides the fact that Dean’s mouth doesn’t exactly work in conjunction with his brain, the fact he feels awkward being here isn’t just a brotherly thing; it’s a thing that’s gnawing at him, at his gut, a twinge of confusion, pain, and god knows what else, he doesn’t - it happens when he looks at Dean sometimes, and Sam doesn’t like it.
Doesn’t like that push/pull of ill at ease posture, how he slouches in his seat and away from Dean, so he doesn’t have to see him. But it’s his laugh, and his curses, sharp and cutting, that do Sam in anyway, that he can’t shake and doesn’t want to, the way Dean acts and is that Sam just - yearns for, wants, he guesses, what the hell else is there to say when you’re freaking jerking off in a crappy motel bathroom shower and the only word is Dean, over and over, cracked lips and his voice just a shave off from young to fully changed. It’d only been three hours ago that he was doing that when Dean declared they were going to the movies, the two of them, like it’s a date.
A date, oh my god this is like a date.
It’s a thought that weaves and bobs in the sea of Sam’s thoughts and it’s come up, at the concession stand, half a bar of Nestle Crunch stuck in Dean’s mouth. “They don’t get true art,” he’d said to explain why they were there, by themselves, and the fact that a girl wasn’t out with Dean. “Horror films aren’t trash. They’re a well-crafted slice of good ‘ol filmmaking that’s needed in a hick town like this one.”
“So you brought me instead,” Sam said after a few seconds trying to decode the chocolate coated mumble/slur of Dean’s words as he chewed.
“Not like I gotta treat you any special. You’re a cheap date, Sam,” Dean explained, threw down a few crumpled dollars on the counter for the cashier before he picked up a bag of popcorn. He looked down at Sam, shoved the food at his arms. “Short, too.”
“Young, too, don’t forget that, old man,” Sam had pointed out, and Dean bit his lip as he shoved Sam in the shoulder with two fingers, and he bites his lip now, too, when Sam angles away in his seat and tries to think of anything other than his fucking brother, than fucking his brother, and-and that ‘fucking’ and ‘brother’ shouldn’t go in the same sentence.
But the third time Dean goes, “ain’t that right, Sammy?” and thwacks Sam’s shoulder, Sam just laughs, pulls off the baseball cap and runs his fingers through his hair. So he guesses - no, he damn well convinces himself - it’s just them, hanging out. It’s a nice theater if he looks up, looks around, which is good, something else to do - but it is real nice, old fashioned and beautiful, like those opera houses Sam reads about in English class, or like a big old movie set. And it’s the both of ‘em here, having fun, no monsters or spirits or girls and Sam’s fine with that. Oh sure, he’ll bitch and moan when Dean asks him to get more popcorn but he shoots up and towers over his brother for just a few seconds, makes clawing fingers before he nudges Dean’s legs to let him pass through the aisle to the exit.
“Don’t get any ice cream!” Dean calls out after. Sam glares, but Dean, when he pushes back stubborn sandy brown strands, head cants, he says, “‘Cause I thought we could pick some up after the movie. You want ice cream later, right? Hurry up. He’s gonna get the chainsaw in a minute.”
If Sam lets himself smile, all grinning, like an idiot - split second realization - it’s because he’s really happy Dean’s not looking. His brother’s already back to poking around at the near empty popcorn bag and tipping the remains, hard and split kernels, into his mouth.
-
Sam’s there, out of nowhere, towers over Dean, who’s sitting with his feet on the balcony railing. He nudges Dean’s crossed legs with his knee, bends down briefly to shove the shotgun into the duffel bag placed in the spot where a chair used to be, rust stains and traces of metal.
“Thanks for taking a load off while I made sure that thing doesn’t, oh, I don’t know, pop back up and try to claw out someone’s eyeballs,” Sam says, punches Dean lightly on the shoulder. “You done?”
“The movie’s almost over,” Dean answers, raises his eyebrows and gestures to the intact seat on the other side. He looks up hopefully at Sam who just - who’s being an ass, raises his eyebrows and double takes.
“Dude, you do realize that we just took out an angry spirit who’s got a love of bad horror movies as a backdrop and you want to sit and watch the rest of this used up old print in an old abandoned movie theater?”
“Don’t you fucking knock it,” Dean growls, pulls his legs back so he sits with them spread wide open, scuffing boots on the ground. Sam huffs, lets his foot slip and kicks Dean in the shin, all innocent. Sam plops down in the seat next to him, long legs shoved uncomfortably up against the tattered seat in front of him. “Ashley J. Williams could kick your ass with his good hand and his stump tied behind his back.”
They watch, all silent, scratchy soundtrack and ruined film play like an acid trip, Ash and whatever that hot research chick’s name is and - and Dean? Would totally do the research student chick. It’s the knee high socks. Gotta be those.
When he stretches an arm around the back of Sam’s seat, behind his shoulders, his brother’s posture goes a little rigid, seconds before he says, all slow, “Are we on a date?”
“What? No!” Dean says, brow knit, shakes his head. “Just need to stretch.”
“You’re trying to make a move on me, asshole,” Sam points out, eyebrows up beneath bangs that are falling back on his forehead for the time being. “And we’re alone in a movie theater. Dean, we’re on a date.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” Dean warns, knocks Sam’s shoulder with his own, nods at the screen. “Remember this?”
“Like you’ll ever let me forget this movie,” Sam answers, a trace of a sulk and cobwebs in his hair that he picks at the tips, mouth scrunches like he’s tasting sourness. “Rule number one, you don’t read mystical incantations out of a book ‘bound in human skin and inked in blood’.”
“No, idiot.” Dean shakes his head. “Not that. So you remember the narration but not this place?”
Sam looks, left, right, up, all around, long column of his throat bare and white against the darkness of the surrounding dull browns and rust gold of the theater seats, walls.
“Oh.”
-
He says, ‘oh’, innocent, and low, like he doesn’t know but he does - nearly ten years ago, when this place was set to rot and it is now, abandoned, empty. It’s a ruin of movie palaces ages ago, all decorated like they’d expect dignitaries and movie stars to swing by to this small town in the heartland, U.S.A. But they came here years ago, when Sam told himself for different reasons why he liked his brother taking him along-that he liked him taking him out, that’s all, ignored his face and mouth and the physicality, teenage… god, freaking teenage lust, that’s what it was-only now Sam’s older, so’s Dean, but he isn’t- shit.
“Dean,” Sam says, or tries; Dean slips a hand on top of Sam’s own hand, then thigh, drags fingers up the length of his jeans towards his waistline. The edge of his jeans. He shifts his weight and slips a hand underneath, starts to unbuckle Sam’s belt while the other hand presses fingertips, lightly, against the base of Sam’s neck. “Dude - the fuck. Here?”
“Yeah. Here,” Dean says, and Sam groans, breath caught against, in Dean’s mouth. Dean bites his lower lip after a kiss, all light, fingers threading through Sam’s hair. “I’d make a crack about date movies but this is as good as any.”
Sam, if he wasn’t thinking straight, might make his own crack about dates, and better places, but fuck that, because Dean wraps fingers, one at a time, around Sam’s dick, hell, it’s hard, there’s pre-come at the tip that he can see out the corner of his eye once Dean’s managed to free Sam of his belt, and lowers the boxers and wait, just - shit, right there, god.
When he collects his thoughts, fast, Dean’s fisting his dick, and Sam tries to angle his head and kiss that smirk, lips that’re wet and pink, that shine, like the small lights that flicker above are catching on and Sam’s avoiding the use of bad movie puns to describe this, so instead he settles on grabbing Dean’s face, his jaw when he comes, exhales a curse and bares his teeth. Their noses, foreheads knock, come stains on Sam’s belly, on the cuff of Dean’s jacket.
Thing is, Sam’s idea to lurch sideways and grab Dean - face, mind you - has ‘em falling forward and crashing through the already rickety ass theater seat, their bodies fumble and long legs splay, kick out, try to gain balance on a carpet that sends up clouds of dust. Sam’s back cracks painfully against the wall of the balcony edge, and Dean comes to rest one elbow on an upturned knee. The light catches, right on the curves, angles of Dean’s face, dust glitters too like the spray of freckles across Dean’s nose, cheekbones, and Sam’d call him on it only he waggles a finger, gestures towards himself.
Fuck you, you come over, reads Dean’s face, only he dips his head and half crawls, half drags himself across the floor. Sam’s hand jerks Dean’s zipper open when he gets his ass over, both of them on their knees. Unbuckles Dean’s belt and lowers his boxers, jeans; they slip down and hang off the strong angles of his hipbones.
They kiss, too, come to think of it, Sam jerks Dean off all the while, grunts, groans, and curses - sounds against the backdrop of screaming and chainsaws, one-liners, and it’s funny that Sam notices these things, those brief glimpses of ragged color and dull, faded wallpaper when he breathes, air, then his eyes close, mouths lock and bite and damn it, now it’s just getting messy.
Dean comes, low groan, guttural, just as he pulls his head back, sweat slicked hair - hardly any ventilation here, soft and heavy, air hangs and clings to the skin - sticks up, and his face brushes against Sam’s cheek, stubble scratches diagonal, away, chin on Sam’s shoulder. His body goes slack a long, long moment, catching their breaths. The soundtrack’s playing, all fuzzy and loud through wasted speakers, a moment where Sam feels a surge of warmth, deep in his bones, just being here, with Dean.
That kind of pleasure that burns deep, that fueled his motions years ago when Dean took his kid brother out, that he wanted to hang out and just be together, if nothing more, a sense of closeness if it couldn’t be sex, and now, in a different context, in a context that has Dean breathing, slow and steady against Sam’s neck, collarbone.
And then, a good few minutes when they’re watching the movie with their pants down, that Dean says, his mouth against Sam’s ear, soft strands against his lips, he says, “Turn around.”
Catches his breath, two slow heartbeats as the research girl yowls her head off.
“Yeah,” Sam says, “Yeah,” because that’s all he can say, that’s all he knows right now, besides Dean’s lips (soft, slow kiss, another, miniscule, closes the gap, then breaks off, pulls away). The floor creaks when Dean shifts his weight and crawls, just a little, arm stretches out for the duffel like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, and if it takes this fucking long then he knows Sam’ll complain because - because god, this is like the worst movie ever to fuck to, what in the holy hell is that horrible excuse for a demon thing?-
-
And Dean’s ready, has been, for fucking ages, movie or not, movie or-there’s that shadow again on the screen, Sam standing up with his hands gripping the edge of the balcony, long hair sticks to the nape of his neck, jeans slung low ‘round his hips, halfway. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and the way his forearms flex, muscle and tendons, sends a thrill, sort of shiver right down to Dean’s cock.
It’s a slow process, and he ain’t rushing, just a slow, one, two, fingers that are slick with lube, fingers that push up, inside of Sam. The sudden touch sends Sam bending back, neck and jaw against Dean’s cheek.
“You ready?” he asks, and grins, because Sam, Sam, turns his head a little, jaw juts out, teeth are clenching.
“Come on and fuck me already,” Sam snarls, voice a low rumble that’s punctuated by shotgun blasts, high bursts of static and flickering projector lights that play along his jaw. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”
“Shut up, dickhead,” Dean responds, gets a laugh choked out from Sam as he enters.
And he asks, again, you ready? but it’s not like Sam won’t close his eyes all tight and bare his teeth, exhale, a puff of air that sends away the dust floating up in the air in front of them. They’re angling just so, Dean’s thrusts slow, building, and they’re up at the edge of the balcony, the projector light right on their backs, a blurry outline of two bodies, two heads, plays on the faded, raggedy screen below.
His hair’s really light, Sam, this brown color, soft little strands in a bright halo, sweat slick stubble and sideburns that need a shave and fuck if Dean notices these things, this sense of warmth as his cock goes in and out, as his hands fumble and one goes on the sharp curve of Sam’s hipbone, the other pulls down the jeans, further, starts to fist his dick.
Sam lets out these noises, soft, moaning sounds, that Dean would rib him for but he won’t, he fucking-god, damn-he fucking won’t, he won’t, he can’t see straight and the reel’s playing like, forever, like it won’t end. Static, crack, a pop and hiss of noise as the film breaks, harsh white backdrop in vision around and up and over Sam’s shoulders. There’s tension to his shoulders, shirt pulled across too tight, and Dean goes deeper, finally manages to say, voice rough, “That good, Sammy?”
Christ, he can’t hold his shit together to say something that-
“Fuck, Dean-” he groans out, all ragged, eyes shut, mouth open and teeth, and tongue, panting-“Yeah. Oh-fuck!”
Dean comes just after that, and Sam shortly after, his hips buck against the railing. A fast grab, hands locking on hips, on the front of his jeans, saves Sam from teetering too close to the edge, like he’ll fall right over and down below, and he could, come to think of it, he’s too tall and the railing’s made for, you know, normal sized people.
They don’t talk because they can’t, just shuddering breaths, like they’re able to breathe, for one thing, finally, the first time in who knows how many minutes. His forehead’s resting on Sam’s shoulder, cotton shirt sweated right through. Dean won’t say a word about the fact that his arms go up, one hand right around his other wrist, to keep Sam close, so he won’t fall over, so he’ll be an ungrateful bastard that begins to stir, to squirm, like a five year old being hugged by a pushy aunt.
“You mind…” Sam takes a deep breath, his head lolls back against Dean’s shoulder, again, follows with, “Quit holdin’ on to me, Dean, I’m not gonna fall over.”
Dean’s forearms, elbows brush against the tanned skin of Sam’s sides, his ass as he pulls out of him. He stretches up-because once again, friggin’ height-and breathes against Sam’s ear, “Not yet.”
He’ll crane his head up, and he’ll see the walls that rise up high into curving, cracked plaster, dull shine of a place that’s seen better days, that should see better days - place like this shouldn’t go to waste, should live on. The reality of it, of the tense line of Sam’s back, of them being here, not shadows on a torn up screen, being real and all. And that’s a feeling Dean won’t give up for anything, years, near a decade or not, rumble of a film rolling, playing.
It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage, that’s Indiana Jones, same kinda dude Dean would watch on a Friday night, and the saying goes true here - the movies are fun, sure, but going to them, now that’s the best part, ‘cause there’s popcorn and ice-cream, rickety old seats, and Sam laughing, loud and braying, at bad make-up and CGI monsters.
And doing their jobs, the family business, killing the real monsters, so that only the make-believe ones, on film, live on.
By now, Sam’s brow furrows as he pulls back, turns around. But he doesn’t say a word while they clean up, and it isn’t ‘til he tugs at his flannel shirt that he asks, “Where are we heading now? Back to the motel?”
His eyebrows shoot up, like he’s eager, licks his lip as he palms his hair, wipes away sweat and dust on his brow.
“Nah,” says Dean, who groans, all pleased, when his neck cracks as he bends to pick up his duffel. Sam though, looks downright hilarious, hopeful one minute and sulks the next, denied.
“I thought we could pick up some ice cream,” Dean continues, claps a hand hard on Sam’s shoulder, waves away the dust that rises off his jacket. He adds, eyes innocent, his voice all dripping thick with as much sarcasm as he can lay on without laughing, “And then we could go watch some kinda weepy movie, you big girl.”
“You fucker,” Sam snaps, whaps Dean’s hand away as he backpedals up the short aisle towards the balcony entrance. He points at Dean and says, “Come on. You’re buying.”
Dean follows, streak of a grin, ‘cause it’s not like he had anything else planned.
END