Ficlet: Melody of a Fallen Tree
Because talking to rejeneration makes me philosophical, and I slacked on mini_nanowrimo last night, here is a spur-of-the-moment ficlet:
Title: Melody of a Fallen Tree
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R-ish
Wordcount: 419 words
Summary: Wherein it keeps going like a river that never stops; Sam and Dean just love each other, and are very zen about it.
Melody of a Fallen Tree
"Sometimes I think in another life, you'd be a monk," Dean says, words curling into the air as the vapor trails from his lips. "Hell Sammy, you'd be the freakin' Dalai Lama."
Sam is letting the stars touch the tips of his fingers, hand outstretched as he lies on his back against the grass, curve of the hill fitting his body so nicely. "I don't think I'd do to well in a Buddhist temple," he answers.
"No more getting laid?"
"Bull in a China-shop Dean, I don't think those places are built for Lamas like me."
"So you wouldn't miss me?"
Sam smiles.
**
The grass is cold and crunches beneath them when they move, Sam pinning Dean down and watching the white air rise from his mouth. Dean's lips are cracked and his fingers calloused where they touch his face. But when they kiss it's like Sam is tasting the softest of the soft-and flesh-caresses like silk, like rose hips and like any other romanticized bullshit his endorphin-soaked brain can come up with.
Because when the rush hits, it's all he needs. Push closer to Dean, kiss deeper, rut harder and faster and feel him up through his thick denim.
Winter is coming.
**
"You're the zen-master of the fully-clothed orgasm. By the way, I'm sending you my dry cleaning bills, Sammy Lama."
Dean curls his fingers in Sam's hair, idly twirling the locks. Sam makes a sound in his throat somewhere between a growl and a derisive snort. Or maybe it's a snore. Dean gives as good as he gets, jacking him with frozen-amazing fingertips minutes after Sam's made him come.
Sam lifts his hand up again to the night sky, fingertips stretching and touching the stars like before. Dean's lips on Sam's temple and then his cheek; Dean's mouth gentle as it touches to Sam's lips. Over and over again, imprint of a smile being kissed into him until Sam follows suit.
Dean's lips are chapped and his hands are dry and calloused and Sam can see the tremble in him as he shivers and shakes against his body and yet they're the softest lips, and the warmest hands he's ever felt in his life.
"I'll take you to Tibet with me, we'll go live on a mountaintop. Have our own temple, maybe start a rock garden. Have lots and lots of sex like the Dalai Lama would want us to."
Dean laughs at Sam. "You serious?"
Sam nods. "Ever wonder why Buddha always looks so happy?"
Title: Melody of a Fallen Tree
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R-ish
Wordcount: 419 words
Summary: Wherein it keeps going like a river that never stops; Sam and Dean just love each other, and are very zen about it.
Melody of a Fallen Tree
"Sometimes I think in another life, you'd be a monk," Dean says, words curling into the air as the vapor trails from his lips. "Hell Sammy, you'd be the freakin' Dalai Lama."
Sam is letting the stars touch the tips of his fingers, hand outstretched as he lies on his back against the grass, curve of the hill fitting his body so nicely. "I don't think I'd do to well in a Buddhist temple," he answers.
"No more getting laid?"
"Bull in a China-shop Dean, I don't think those places are built for Lamas like me."
"So you wouldn't miss me?"
Sam smiles.
**
The grass is cold and crunches beneath them when they move, Sam pinning Dean down and watching the white air rise from his mouth. Dean's lips are cracked and his fingers calloused where they touch his face. But when they kiss it's like Sam is tasting the softest of the soft-and flesh-caresses like silk, like rose hips and like any other romanticized bullshit his endorphin-soaked brain can come up with.
Because when the rush hits, it's all he needs. Push closer to Dean, kiss deeper, rut harder and faster and feel him up through his thick denim.
Winter is coming.
**
"You're the zen-master of the fully-clothed orgasm. By the way, I'm sending you my dry cleaning bills, Sammy Lama."
Dean curls his fingers in Sam's hair, idly twirling the locks. Sam makes a sound in his throat somewhere between a growl and a derisive snort. Or maybe it's a snore. Dean gives as good as he gets, jacking him with frozen-amazing fingertips minutes after Sam's made him come.
Sam lifts his hand up again to the night sky, fingertips stretching and touching the stars like before. Dean's lips on Sam's temple and then his cheek; Dean's mouth gentle as it touches to Sam's lips. Over and over again, imprint of a smile being kissed into him until Sam follows suit.
Dean's lips are chapped and his hands are dry and calloused and Sam can see the tremble in him as he shivers and shakes against his body and yet they're the softest lips, and the warmest hands he's ever felt in his life.
"I'll take you to Tibet with me, we'll go live on a mountaintop. Have our own temple, maybe start a rock garden. Have lots and lots of sex like the Dalai Lama would want us to."
Dean laughs at Sam. "You serious?"
Sam nods. "Ever wonder why Buddha always looks so happy?"