And I Shall Answer Heaven's Calling
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,402
Warnings: The night before 5.22, "Swan Song" I made the rest of the warnings so they had to be highlighted, for those who haven't seen it. There's a last time for everything. This is theirs.
Disclaimer: I own nothing in any way, shape, or form.
*Edit: I'm posting this to a community, and was originally just checking for grammar/spelling/general inconsistencies, but I ended up fluffing it up a bit and I moved the word count from 700 to 1,402! Oh yeah!
--
His muscles bunch and flex, quivering underneath his skin. His throat is bared to you, a silent peace offering, a plea for forgiveness. You take it, sink in your teeth. He whimpers and twists his fingers through your short hair.
Your hips are rocking against each other, the only part of you still clothed. It’s driving the both of you mad, but you can’t go any further just yet. You have to milk this for what it’s worth. You have to make it feel like days, years, centuries of just the two of you, together. Because…well.
You’re both trying not to think about how this will be the last time.
The last time you’ll be able to wrap that long leg of his around your back and hear him gasp as the friction gets that much sweeter. The last time you’ll be able to pepper his collar bone with kisses that say so much more than words ever could. The last time you can get both of your pants open, line yourselves up, and pump the both of you slowly, sweetly, at the same time.
You tell yourself there’s always tomorrow. You tell yourself you’re not sure tomorrow will come.
He kisses you, breathing out your name softly.
Please, he says, as if those two words-- your name and soft, broken pleas-- are the only ones he knows anymore. You think they could be.
You never were good at denying him what he wanted, so you get to work, prepping and stretching him slowly. He shivers, drops his jaw and tilts his head back as you rub over that spot inside of him repeatedly. You wish you could keep him like this, in this run down motel room, all spread out and yours for the taking.
No angels. No apocalypse. No war, or demon blood, or anything else in the world except for you, him, and a bed to lay him thereupon.
You’re sure that can’t ever happen, though. You’re never allowed the things you want as a general rule of your life-- so, you plan to enjoy it while you have it.
Sooner than you want and later than you need, you’re sliding inside of him. You’re coming home, and he’s clutching at your shoulders. You kiss the worry wrinkles from his forehead, murmuring, Relax, relax, I’m here, and you push in deeper; you slam in, lock the two of you together, forever and ever and ever, just ignore that nasty voice that says, wait until tomorrow then say sayonara. His eyes snap open then, feeling the two of you as you are finally, completely joined, and his massive paws cradle your face to bring you down for a kiss.
You begin to move your hips; you're dragging yourself out and in and out again in a slow, sinuous circle that you know he loves. The evidence is immediately obvious in the way he wraps his legs around your waist, clutches your shoulders, and tosses his head to the side, panting. Without you, he's lost at sea; you tell yourself every time that you've come to help him, to drag him to the shore, but you just can't resist dragging him further under. You don't want to deny yourself the beautiful sheen of salt upon his skin, the cacophony of his labored breaths. You're his anchor, whether he's in need of one or not.
His thumb ghosts your cheek bone, and you land a kiss to his palm, rearrange your thoughts. Tonight, it’s not about the sex. Tonight, it’s about dismemberment. It’s about losing a part of yourself you have never been without. Tonight is about feeling the body below you that has grown in and around you being torn away, leaving gaping wounds where his roots used to be inside of you. You feel your heart breaking as it speeds in your chest, and imagine you can feel his doing the same.
You weren’t even aware that you were crying until his broad thumbs wipe the tears away and he kisses you, slow and deep.
I love you, he says. Neither of you were ever big on saying it. With all that you’d done and sacrificed for each other, you never had to.
I'd run into a burning building to save you.
I'd rather lose the thing that has been hurting us all these years, than lose our father, then lose you.
I'd damn myself to an eternity in hell for you.
I'd turn into a monster, if only it meant saving you.
I'd believe in the god I've always denied, if only to keep you from becoming the devil.
I'd jump into the very pits of hell to save you.
It was always understood;
I love you, brother.
Yet at this very moment-- lying in that motel bed, thrusting into him like he’s all you have because he is and both of you know it-- they’re the most important words in the universe. They're written in the constellations, the story of the two of you evident for peoples all over the world, of all origins and religions; the very stars to which pyramids were erected, in an attempt to capture their mystery; the same dying balls of gas the Greeks and Romans used to tell their children stories of love, of war, and of death. No one ever knew they were talking about the two of you. No one ever knew it would end like this; they imagined sheets of gold spun into silk, beautiful women, and fine food; no one pictured the two of you alone, in a dirty room on a dirtier bed, empty Chinese take-out boxes lying forgotten on the table, and you buried so deeply inside of him you fear he might break.
No one knew that their heroes would be all the other had. And that's just it. He's all you have, and he'll be gone. So you say them back.
I love you, too.
He smiles, something bittersweet, and pushes to press his lips to yours. He tastes like the summer air outside, the same as he did almost nine years ago in a field you almost lit aflame the night of your first kiss. You feel the fireworks in his skin, and the ache of the heaven you will never see him in, and you break. You scoop him up, leaning back on your heels as you pick up your pace, and suddenly he's coming with a small cry that’s muffled against your shoulder.
You keep moving him, one hand fisted in his hair, the other wrapped around his waist, your face buried in his shoulder. You have the rest of your life to spend after tonight alone, then an eternity after that, and you don't know whether you'd rather be alive or dead. You aren't able to think clearly now, your physical pleasure climbing to its peak while your emotions swirl and plunge inside of you, and you think you're going to die right here, right now, and not live to see him leave, but--
Suddenly, there's a hand on your heart, and one on your face. There are lips ghosting your cheekbone and a forehead resting on yours. There's a low, pitiful noise, and a softly whispered, Please.
You see white; you're having a full-body spasm, and your hands clutch to his shoulders so tightly you know it's got to be killing him, but he whispers to you and talks you through it. Yeah, that's it, so good, fuck, so beautiful. Love you so much, so sorry, please forgive me, love you.
He moves your limp body for you, keeping the separation off for as long as possible. You're lying in the flow of neon lights pouring in from outside, drinking each other's features in as if you haven't already memorized ever scar, ever beauty mark or freckle, every pore. His eyes shine, and he kisses you. It's languid, soft, unhurried. It's someone who knows and area intimately relearning it in a new sense; seeing it in a new light, relearning it by touch. It's heartbreaking, and you want to stop it as much as you wish it would last into the new year. He pushes you away gently, hands on your shoulders, and places one more, chaste, close-mouthed kiss to your lips. He smiles.
It’s time to go.
Your stomach drops as you realize that was your last kiss.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,402
Warnings: The night before 5.22, "Swan Song" I made the rest of the warnings so they had to be highlighted, for those who haven't seen it. There's a last time for everything. This is theirs.
Disclaimer: I own nothing in any way, shape, or form.
*Edit: I'm posting this to a community, and was originally just checking for grammar/spelling/general inconsistencies, but I ended up fluffing it up a bit and I moved the word count from 700 to 1,402! Oh yeah!
--
His muscles bunch and flex, quivering underneath his skin. His throat is bared to you, a silent peace offering, a plea for forgiveness. You take it, sink in your teeth. He whimpers and twists his fingers through your short hair.
Your hips are rocking against each other, the only part of you still clothed. It’s driving the both of you mad, but you can’t go any further just yet. You have to milk this for what it’s worth. You have to make it feel like days, years, centuries of just the two of you, together. Because…well.
You’re both trying not to think about how this will be the last time.
The last time you’ll be able to wrap that long leg of his around your back and hear him gasp as the friction gets that much sweeter. The last time you’ll be able to pepper his collar bone with kisses that say so much more than words ever could. The last time you can get both of your pants open, line yourselves up, and pump the both of you slowly, sweetly, at the same time.
You tell yourself there’s always tomorrow. You tell yourself you’re not sure tomorrow will come.
He kisses you, breathing out your name softly.
Please, he says, as if those two words-- your name and soft, broken pleas-- are the only ones he knows anymore. You think they could be.
You never were good at denying him what he wanted, so you get to work, prepping and stretching him slowly. He shivers, drops his jaw and tilts his head back as you rub over that spot inside of him repeatedly. You wish you could keep him like this, in this run down motel room, all spread out and yours for the taking.
No angels. No apocalypse. No war, or demon blood, or anything else in the world except for you, him, and a bed to lay him thereupon.
You’re sure that can’t ever happen, though. You’re never allowed the things you want as a general rule of your life-- so, you plan to enjoy it while you have it.
Sooner than you want and later than you need, you’re sliding inside of him. You’re coming home, and he’s clutching at your shoulders. You kiss the worry wrinkles from his forehead, murmuring, Relax, relax, I’m here, and you push in deeper; you slam in, lock the two of you together, forever and ever and ever, just ignore that nasty voice that says, wait until tomorrow then say sayonara. His eyes snap open then, feeling the two of you as you are finally, completely joined, and his massive paws cradle your face to bring you down for a kiss.
You begin to move your hips; you're dragging yourself out and in and out again in a slow, sinuous circle that you know he loves. The evidence is immediately obvious in the way he wraps his legs around your waist, clutches your shoulders, and tosses his head to the side, panting. Without you, he's lost at sea; you tell yourself every time that you've come to help him, to drag him to the shore, but you just can't resist dragging him further under. You don't want to deny yourself the beautiful sheen of salt upon his skin, the cacophony of his labored breaths. You're his anchor, whether he's in need of one or not.
His thumb ghosts your cheek bone, and you land a kiss to his palm, rearrange your thoughts. Tonight, it’s not about the sex. Tonight, it’s about dismemberment. It’s about losing a part of yourself you have never been without. Tonight is about feeling the body below you that has grown in and around you being torn away, leaving gaping wounds where his roots used to be inside of you. You feel your heart breaking as it speeds in your chest, and imagine you can feel his doing the same.
You weren’t even aware that you were crying until his broad thumbs wipe the tears away and he kisses you, slow and deep.
I love you, he says. Neither of you were ever big on saying it. With all that you’d done and sacrificed for each other, you never had to.
I'd run into a burning building to save you.
I'd rather lose the thing that has been hurting us all these years, than lose our father, then lose you.
I'd damn myself to an eternity in hell for you.
I'd turn into a monster, if only it meant saving you.
I'd believe in the god I've always denied, if only to keep you from becoming the devil.
I'd jump into the very pits of hell to save you.
It was always understood;
I love you, brother.
Yet at this very moment-- lying in that motel bed, thrusting into him like he’s all you have because he is and both of you know it-- they’re the most important words in the universe. They're written in the constellations, the story of the two of you evident for peoples all over the world, of all origins and religions; the very stars to which pyramids were erected, in an attempt to capture their mystery; the same dying balls of gas the Greeks and Romans used to tell their children stories of love, of war, and of death. No one ever knew they were talking about the two of you. No one ever knew it would end like this; they imagined sheets of gold spun into silk, beautiful women, and fine food; no one pictured the two of you alone, in a dirty room on a dirtier bed, empty Chinese take-out boxes lying forgotten on the table, and you buried so deeply inside of him you fear he might break.
No one knew that their heroes would be all the other had. And that's just it. He's all you have, and he'll be gone. So you say them back.
I love you, too.
He smiles, something bittersweet, and pushes to press his lips to yours. He tastes like the summer air outside, the same as he did almost nine years ago in a field you almost lit aflame the night of your first kiss. You feel the fireworks in his skin, and the ache of the heaven you will never see him in, and you break. You scoop him up, leaning back on your heels as you pick up your pace, and suddenly he's coming with a small cry that’s muffled against your shoulder.
You keep moving him, one hand fisted in his hair, the other wrapped around his waist, your face buried in his shoulder. You have the rest of your life to spend after tonight alone, then an eternity after that, and you don't know whether you'd rather be alive or dead. You aren't able to think clearly now, your physical pleasure climbing to its peak while your emotions swirl and plunge inside of you, and you think you're going to die right here, right now, and not live to see him leave, but--
Suddenly, there's a hand on your heart, and one on your face. There are lips ghosting your cheekbone and a forehead resting on yours. There's a low, pitiful noise, and a softly whispered, Please.
You see white; you're having a full-body spasm, and your hands clutch to his shoulders so tightly you know it's got to be killing him, but he whispers to you and talks you through it. Yeah, that's it, so good, fuck, so beautiful. Love you so much, so sorry, please forgive me, love you.
He moves your limp body for you, keeping the separation off for as long as possible. You're lying in the flow of neon lights pouring in from outside, drinking each other's features in as if you haven't already memorized ever scar, ever beauty mark or freckle, every pore. His eyes shine, and he kisses you. It's languid, soft, unhurried. It's someone who knows and area intimately relearning it in a new sense; seeing it in a new light, relearning it by touch. It's heartbreaking, and you want to stop it as much as you wish it would last into the new year. He pushes you away gently, hands on your shoulders, and places one more, chaste, close-mouthed kiss to your lips. He smiles.
It’s time to go.
Your stomach drops as you realize that was your last kiss.