FIC: That Stain Will Never Come Out
Title: That Stain Will Never Come Out
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,271
Notes: For spn_remix, based on Now Would Be the Time to Throw a Punch by lynne_mitchell
Summary: Sam may or may not be jealous of the Impala, but that's not really an excuse to throw Dean around in the mud.
Thanks: To stephanometra for the INCREDIBLE wunnerful last-minute beta (MANY HEARTS!) and lynne_mitchell for the original fic!
That Stain Will Never Come Out:
Dean opens his eyes.
Sam's beneath him, face tight and eyes squeezed shut. Strained muscles of his neck jutting out, strings of tendons sliding against sweat-slicked skin. The room lit by the dull glow of the motel sign.
He moans, and Dean thinks he's hurting him for a moment, and that's why Sam won't look at him. Can't face what Dean's doing, can't take the reality of it all. And Dean just freezes up, paranoid thoughts creeping into his head. Doubts and fears tugging at the corners of his mind. Guilt pressing against his chest, leaving burning, stinging pain. Bile building pressure in his throat, and he stops moving.
Sam quickly thrusts his hips up, all lithe and smooth, sending goosebumps along the pieces of Dean's flesh he touches. Large hands reach up to clamp down on Dean's shoulders and yank him close, blunt nails digging in and leaving red streaks against pale flesh.
Dean gets the idea and sucks his teeth at the pain, goes back to sliding in and out, and even deeper into Sam. Plunging motions of his own hips, and Dean thinks of torpedoes, pulsing weapons firing again and again. Sam lets out another indiscernible cry, when he comes, warm wetness ricocheting off of Dean's stomach and back to his own.
His hands leave Dean's shoulders and one just gets a firm grasp on his throat, pulling his neck up against Sam's mouth, eyes still sealed tight. Sam harshes, breath hot on Dean's skin. "Driving me crazy like that... Don't you ever fucking stop."
Dean comes, trembling body falling on top of Sam, and rolling off just as quickly. Dean heads to the bathroom for a shower, and then his own bed.
***
Dean takes it out on the car.
He mangles it with a crowbar when he can't do the same to his father's face.
He talks to it when Sam gets fed up and won't talk to him. When Sam sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed and headphones up to 11. Dean has to ramble aloud to the Impala, even though it won't talk back and Sam rolls his eyes. If he doesn't, then the long stretches of road just seem too lonely, he needs the company, even if it's just in his head.
He fixes it when every other thing in his life seems impossible. When he craves the simple pleasure of being able to see a problem, fix it, and get it all nice and tidied away. A job he can see through from start to finish.
And he cleans it, when he can't wash away the sticky black tar of guilt, glued to his own skin. Makes it shine in the sun, crowning jewel of his eye.
***
Sweat rolls down the lines and planes of Dean's face. He rubs it away with the back of his hand. Feels it trickling down his back, his temples, and circling his neck.
Dean moves his hands in circles against the Impala's hood, and catches sight of Sam in the side-mirror, watching him. Penetrating gaze against his body and he moves up and down the black chrome, waxing his car. Uncomfortable shuffle of feet betraying him, showing Dean what's really running through his mind. Getting hard just from watching Dean move, body making sinful, sliding curves and thrusts.
Dean sees black chrome and sheen, before he's thrust forward against the hood. Sam's voice is hot against his ear, chin sliding into the crook of his neck. Dirty words beat down against his neck like thick, fat drops of warm rain. And next thing Dean sees are Sam's eyes as he's flipped around, back against the car.
Sam straddles him now, bites hard on his lip, almost grinding it between his teeth. Dean just watches, heart pounding in his chest and Sam strips off his shirt, then Dean's tee is yanked up. Clothing piles up on the side of the car, Dean's worn jeans shucked off. Sam presses the heel of his hand down on their cocks, rubbing them simultaneously while Dean snatches his other hand. Brings it to his mouth and kisses the soft pads of skin, licks long trails of saliva along equally long digits.
Dean thinks that Sam really has no idea how he looks, face creased in concentration, lip curling under sharp white teeth. He's moaning and grinding, and Dean just slides Sam's fingers into his mouth, sucks them for all they're worth.
Look at me.
Sam comes first, and almost falls over, but instead he finally cracks open an eye.
"You didn't?"
Dean looks to the side, Sam's hand slides out of his grip, and then Sam is cupping his face, leaning in close, sweet voice against his ear telling him it's okay.
"You need my mouth, Dean?" Sam asks, eyes slipping shut, leaning down to his crotch. Dean just stares, watches the sweat-slicked hair move up and down as Sam teases the head of his half-hard cock with his tongue.
And it's weird, because he usually likes to watch. Dean loves porn, really. But it's just, it's not-
It's not enough.
"Don't-" he starts, but Sam just groans and picks his head up, slides it sharply into the space between chin and neck.
"Fucking hell, I'm gonna fuck you so hard if you say 'don't' because of this damn car."
"Sam?"
Sam pushes him down, hard against the hood, Dean thinks about how Sam's just going to squeeze his eyes shut again and fuck him, scuffing and scratching the hood. About getting semen and sweat on the Impala. Dents, even.
"You fucking give this hulk of metal more attention than me, Dean!"
That's when Dean pushes him back.
***
It's that first night; Sam tastes like warm beer, and Dean's mouth burns with whiskey and the secondhand from the bar.
Dizzied drunk fumbling hands against one another and kisses that burn and sting and yet they keeping going back for more. Until they're just making out on the bed, hands tugging at each other, pawing like animals. Jackets off, clothes on, it's almost chaste, it's almost sweet.
The morning is too quiet. Sam buries himself in newspapers until he stumbles upon a job, and Dean stares at his brother. But Sam doesn't look at him in the eye for the rest of the day. And Dean just watches Sam, because he doesn't see him the same. He sees something else.
It happens again, and again, and two more times after that. Until it's something more, though neither will say it. Every night they spend together, every morning they're miles away from each other. It's never enough, never enough kisses, never enough sex.
There are never any slow, lingering moments to hold on to, there's no tease. Sam fucks like he pulls off a band-aid and Dean almost wants to slap himself for making that allusion. But it's what it boils down to, hard and fast and Dean isn't allowed to let go. Isn't allowed to let his mind drift and just, fucking hold Sam, feel his heart beat.
Dean wants more.
***
Dean awakens from his reverie to find himself on the ground, in the mud. Cold and unwelcome squish and press against his body. Uncomfortable, unclean, eyes glued to Sam's face above him. Sam's asking him if it's okay, worried look betraying that he didn't mean to fight back so hard.
Dean scrunches his nose and grabs a cold, soft hunk off the ground and slaps the side of Sam's face. Sam blinks at Dean, smirking now, satisfied with the muddy handprint against his brother's cheek. Sam quickly recovers and lifts Dean's shirt, smears a swath of mud against his stomach.
They roll around in the mud, and it's so simple, so wonderful laughing and wrestling and turning each other in circles. But of course it leads to more, of course all that touching, and tugging, and pressing against each other brings them right back to where they started. Dean can feel Sam's hardness through the two layers of denim separating them, and he leans down for a kiss. Sam's got his back to the ground, Dean straddling his hips. Dean smells earth and dirt and rain and tastes Sam at the same time. His senses spinning in all directions, his dick finally catching up and blood rushing down to his groin. Light-headed swirl in his brain, desire and arousal mixing together. Body involuntarily shifting to accommodate him as he fills up his boxer-briefs, Sam sparing his crotch a glance, and snakes a hand out to free it from the cotton. Dean rolls his hips, once, nice and slow.
There's that familiar look on Sam's face, eyes clenching shut and pain washing over his expression. Dean keeps going, and Sam whispers, "Faster." Dean stares at him, Sam's arms splayed against the raw ground, nearly naked save for the jeans he managed to keep on, though unzipped.
Dean runs his hand down and opens them further, pulling them down and grabbing Sam's cock. Squeezing and stroking him, Sam groans and rolls his head on the ground, thrusts into Dean's hand. Faster and faster, breaking up Dean's rhythm, wanting it done and Dean just can't take it. Not another time. So he stops, hooks his hands underneath Sam's arms and yanks him up to his face.
"Look at me, damn it!" Dean yells.
Sam finally opens his eyes.
***
Dean is caked in mud, big sloppy circle still painted on his belly, now drying to a light beige. He's sitting against the hood of the car, a button-up shirt and jeans thrown on, but neither buttoned nor zipped.
Sam sits on the ground, stacking pebbles aimlessly. Busywork to keep his hands busy, pass the time.
"You could have said," Dean begins.
"Said what?" Sam interrupts. "That I wanted more? That you and me and this," Sam motions to the air between them, "actually means something?!" Sam gets quiet, tapers off and lets his mind wander back to the tiny hills of pebbles he's been constructing.
Dean snorts. "Well, yeah? What did you think I'd have said?"
Sam shrugs. "I don't know. I just assumed fists would've been involved."
Dean chuckles darkly.
Sam stands up, faces Dean. "I want more, Dean. I want this to be more, I want this to mean something to you."
It already does. It means everything. Dean won't say. What he will say is: "I can't promise you too much, Sammy. I can try real hard not to fuck us up any worse than we already are."
Dean slides off the hood of the car and walks to stand near Sam, to face him and breathe in his mud-caked air again. His scent of sex and sweat and testosterone and Dean starts to go wobbly in his head again. He looks down, shoves his hands in his pockets, scratches his ear.
"Dean?" Sam asks.
"I just want to see you actually enjoying yourself like that, Sam. I know it doesn't--can't ever make it right. But, fuck! That doesn't mean you can't just, you shouldn't make like I'm hurting you, it scares me, Sammy. Just look at me. Let me know you're okay. Let me know how I can make you feel good." And by the time Dean's finished talking, he's got his hands splayed against Sam's face, fingers against his hairline and Sam's in his space too. Sam's giant, warm hands on Dean's hips, tugging the already loose-fitting unzipped jeans down a little more.
Sam eyes him, all over, from Dean's dirtied chest down to hipbones that drive Sam mad, and finally coming back to Dean's face. A warm, satisfied look washes over him. He mumbles, "I'm just concentrating on you, on trying to keep my face from showing. Not let you see how crazy you make me, how much I lo-"
The screen door bangs and suddenly they're apart, hands at their sides.
"You boys been fightin' in the mud?" Bobby asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Dean rubs his arm. "Kinda, yeah."
"Well, who won this round?"
"... We called it a draw," Sam answers.
***
Sam opens his eyes and looks at Dean. And it's not guilt, or fear, or anger. It's not hate, it's not disgust, and there is no pain.
It's love.
It's love and, it's lust; it's wanting and intimacy. Shaking hand reaching out to cup Dean's face--it's still flecked with mud--and he rubs his thumb against Dean's cheekbone. It's Sam tilting his head back, looking away, face flushed, coming at the sight of him and Dean just can't deal with that, not right now.
Sam fucks him, slowly, kissing and touching every part of skin that he can. He takes Dean into his lap so he can see his face, so Dean can see Sam watch him finally, passion in his eyes. Wanting, and encouraging, and simply needing Dean so very, very badly. Sam can just, fuck him and love every little thing his eyes behold. Love the freckles on Dean's nose, love the water in his eyes, staining them bright green, the color of his skin. Loves the feel of him against his chest, loves him in the movements of his body.
And Dean can take care of him too. Can nuzzle and press soft kisses against his face and neck. Can smell his hair, tangle it in his fingers and massage his scalp. Listen to the moans and the groans and know they're okay, everything he's doing is good, and Sam wants it too.
Dean smiles against Sam's mouth when it comes to taste his own.
***
end
In other news, I'm writing like WHOA and sanyin needs to keep and eye out for pain-de-chocolat-eating-SASQUATCH soon, and I blame notthequiettype for Assbaby Tuesday.
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,271
Notes: For spn_remix, based on Now Would Be the Time to Throw a Punch by lynne_mitchell
Summary: Sam may or may not be jealous of the Impala, but that's not really an excuse to throw Dean around in the mud.
Thanks: To stephanometra for the INCREDIBLE wunnerful last-minute beta (MANY HEARTS!) and lynne_mitchell for the original fic!
That Stain Will Never Come Out:
Dean opens his eyes.
Sam's beneath him, face tight and eyes squeezed shut. Strained muscles of his neck jutting out, strings of tendons sliding against sweat-slicked skin. The room lit by the dull glow of the motel sign.
He moans, and Dean thinks he's hurting him for a moment, and that's why Sam won't look at him. Can't face what Dean's doing, can't take the reality of it all. And Dean just freezes up, paranoid thoughts creeping into his head. Doubts and fears tugging at the corners of his mind. Guilt pressing against his chest, leaving burning, stinging pain. Bile building pressure in his throat, and he stops moving.
Sam quickly thrusts his hips up, all lithe and smooth, sending goosebumps along the pieces of Dean's flesh he touches. Large hands reach up to clamp down on Dean's shoulders and yank him close, blunt nails digging in and leaving red streaks against pale flesh.
Dean gets the idea and sucks his teeth at the pain, goes back to sliding in and out, and even deeper into Sam. Plunging motions of his own hips, and Dean thinks of torpedoes, pulsing weapons firing again and again. Sam lets out another indiscernible cry, when he comes, warm wetness ricocheting off of Dean's stomach and back to his own.
His hands leave Dean's shoulders and one just gets a firm grasp on his throat, pulling his neck up against Sam's mouth, eyes still sealed tight. Sam harshes, breath hot on Dean's skin. "Driving me crazy like that... Don't you ever fucking stop."
Dean comes, trembling body falling on top of Sam, and rolling off just as quickly. Dean heads to the bathroom for a shower, and then his own bed.
***
Dean takes it out on the car.
He mangles it with a crowbar when he can't do the same to his father's face.
He talks to it when Sam gets fed up and won't talk to him. When Sam sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed and headphones up to 11. Dean has to ramble aloud to the Impala, even though it won't talk back and Sam rolls his eyes. If he doesn't, then the long stretches of road just seem too lonely, he needs the company, even if it's just in his head.
He fixes it when every other thing in his life seems impossible. When he craves the simple pleasure of being able to see a problem, fix it, and get it all nice and tidied away. A job he can see through from start to finish.
And he cleans it, when he can't wash away the sticky black tar of guilt, glued to his own skin. Makes it shine in the sun, crowning jewel of his eye.
***
Sweat rolls down the lines and planes of Dean's face. He rubs it away with the back of his hand. Feels it trickling down his back, his temples, and circling his neck.
Dean moves his hands in circles against the Impala's hood, and catches sight of Sam in the side-mirror, watching him. Penetrating gaze against his body and he moves up and down the black chrome, waxing his car. Uncomfortable shuffle of feet betraying him, showing Dean what's really running through his mind. Getting hard just from watching Dean move, body making sinful, sliding curves and thrusts.
Dean sees black chrome and sheen, before he's thrust forward against the hood. Sam's voice is hot against his ear, chin sliding into the crook of his neck. Dirty words beat down against his neck like thick, fat drops of warm rain. And next thing Dean sees are Sam's eyes as he's flipped around, back against the car.
Sam straddles him now, bites hard on his lip, almost grinding it between his teeth. Dean just watches, heart pounding in his chest and Sam strips off his shirt, then Dean's tee is yanked up. Clothing piles up on the side of the car, Dean's worn jeans shucked off. Sam presses the heel of his hand down on their cocks, rubbing them simultaneously while Dean snatches his other hand. Brings it to his mouth and kisses the soft pads of skin, licks long trails of saliva along equally long digits.
Dean thinks that Sam really has no idea how he looks, face creased in concentration, lip curling under sharp white teeth. He's moaning and grinding, and Dean just slides Sam's fingers into his mouth, sucks them for all they're worth.
Look at me.
Sam comes first, and almost falls over, but instead he finally cracks open an eye.
"You didn't?"
Dean looks to the side, Sam's hand slides out of his grip, and then Sam is cupping his face, leaning in close, sweet voice against his ear telling him it's okay.
"You need my mouth, Dean?" Sam asks, eyes slipping shut, leaning down to his crotch. Dean just stares, watches the sweat-slicked hair move up and down as Sam teases the head of his half-hard cock with his tongue.
And it's weird, because he usually likes to watch. Dean loves porn, really. But it's just, it's not-
It's not enough.
"Don't-" he starts, but Sam just groans and picks his head up, slides it sharply into the space between chin and neck.
"Fucking hell, I'm gonna fuck you so hard if you say 'don't' because of this damn car."
"Sam?"
Sam pushes him down, hard against the hood, Dean thinks about how Sam's just going to squeeze his eyes shut again and fuck him, scuffing and scratching the hood. About getting semen and sweat on the Impala. Dents, even.
"You fucking give this hulk of metal more attention than me, Dean!"
That's when Dean pushes him back.
***
It's that first night; Sam tastes like warm beer, and Dean's mouth burns with whiskey and the secondhand from the bar.
Dizzied drunk fumbling hands against one another and kisses that burn and sting and yet they keeping going back for more. Until they're just making out on the bed, hands tugging at each other, pawing like animals. Jackets off, clothes on, it's almost chaste, it's almost sweet.
The morning is too quiet. Sam buries himself in newspapers until he stumbles upon a job, and Dean stares at his brother. But Sam doesn't look at him in the eye for the rest of the day. And Dean just watches Sam, because he doesn't see him the same. He sees something else.
It happens again, and again, and two more times after that. Until it's something more, though neither will say it. Every night they spend together, every morning they're miles away from each other. It's never enough, never enough kisses, never enough sex.
There are never any slow, lingering moments to hold on to, there's no tease. Sam fucks like he pulls off a band-aid and Dean almost wants to slap himself for making that allusion. But it's what it boils down to, hard and fast and Dean isn't allowed to let go. Isn't allowed to let his mind drift and just, fucking hold Sam, feel his heart beat.
Dean wants more.
***
Dean awakens from his reverie to find himself on the ground, in the mud. Cold and unwelcome squish and press against his body. Uncomfortable, unclean, eyes glued to Sam's face above him. Sam's asking him if it's okay, worried look betraying that he didn't mean to fight back so hard.
Dean scrunches his nose and grabs a cold, soft hunk off the ground and slaps the side of Sam's face. Sam blinks at Dean, smirking now, satisfied with the muddy handprint against his brother's cheek. Sam quickly recovers and lifts Dean's shirt, smears a swath of mud against his stomach.
They roll around in the mud, and it's so simple, so wonderful laughing and wrestling and turning each other in circles. But of course it leads to more, of course all that touching, and tugging, and pressing against each other brings them right back to where they started. Dean can feel Sam's hardness through the two layers of denim separating them, and he leans down for a kiss. Sam's got his back to the ground, Dean straddling his hips. Dean smells earth and dirt and rain and tastes Sam at the same time. His senses spinning in all directions, his dick finally catching up and blood rushing down to his groin. Light-headed swirl in his brain, desire and arousal mixing together. Body involuntarily shifting to accommodate him as he fills up his boxer-briefs, Sam sparing his crotch a glance, and snakes a hand out to free it from the cotton. Dean rolls his hips, once, nice and slow.
There's that familiar look on Sam's face, eyes clenching shut and pain washing over his expression. Dean keeps going, and Sam whispers, "Faster." Dean stares at him, Sam's arms splayed against the raw ground, nearly naked save for the jeans he managed to keep on, though unzipped.
Dean runs his hand down and opens them further, pulling them down and grabbing Sam's cock. Squeezing and stroking him, Sam groans and rolls his head on the ground, thrusts into Dean's hand. Faster and faster, breaking up Dean's rhythm, wanting it done and Dean just can't take it. Not another time. So he stops, hooks his hands underneath Sam's arms and yanks him up to his face.
"Look at me, damn it!" Dean yells.
Sam finally opens his eyes.
***
Dean is caked in mud, big sloppy circle still painted on his belly, now drying to a light beige. He's sitting against the hood of the car, a button-up shirt and jeans thrown on, but neither buttoned nor zipped.
Sam sits on the ground, stacking pebbles aimlessly. Busywork to keep his hands busy, pass the time.
"You could have said," Dean begins.
"Said what?" Sam interrupts. "That I wanted more? That you and me and this," Sam motions to the air between them, "actually means something?!" Sam gets quiet, tapers off and lets his mind wander back to the tiny hills of pebbles he's been constructing.
Dean snorts. "Well, yeah? What did you think I'd have said?"
Sam shrugs. "I don't know. I just assumed fists would've been involved."
Dean chuckles darkly.
Sam stands up, faces Dean. "I want more, Dean. I want this to be more, I want this to mean something to you."
It already does. It means everything. Dean won't say. What he will say is: "I can't promise you too much, Sammy. I can try real hard not to fuck us up any worse than we already are."
Dean slides off the hood of the car and walks to stand near Sam, to face him and breathe in his mud-caked air again. His scent of sex and sweat and testosterone and Dean starts to go wobbly in his head again. He looks down, shoves his hands in his pockets, scratches his ear.
"Dean?" Sam asks.
"I just want to see you actually enjoying yourself like that, Sam. I know it doesn't--can't ever make it right. But, fuck! That doesn't mean you can't just, you shouldn't make like I'm hurting you, it scares me, Sammy. Just look at me. Let me know you're okay. Let me know how I can make you feel good." And by the time Dean's finished talking, he's got his hands splayed against Sam's face, fingers against his hairline and Sam's in his space too. Sam's giant, warm hands on Dean's hips, tugging the already loose-fitting unzipped jeans down a little more.
Sam eyes him, all over, from Dean's dirtied chest down to hipbones that drive Sam mad, and finally coming back to Dean's face. A warm, satisfied look washes over him. He mumbles, "I'm just concentrating on you, on trying to keep my face from showing. Not let you see how crazy you make me, how much I lo-"
The screen door bangs and suddenly they're apart, hands at their sides.
"You boys been fightin' in the mud?" Bobby asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Dean rubs his arm. "Kinda, yeah."
"Well, who won this round?"
"... We called it a draw," Sam answers.
***
Sam opens his eyes and looks at Dean. And it's not guilt, or fear, or anger. It's not hate, it's not disgust, and there is no pain.
It's love.
It's love and, it's lust; it's wanting and intimacy. Shaking hand reaching out to cup Dean's face--it's still flecked with mud--and he rubs his thumb against Dean's cheekbone. It's Sam tilting his head back, looking away, face flushed, coming at the sight of him and Dean just can't deal with that, not right now.
Sam fucks him, slowly, kissing and touching every part of skin that he can. He takes Dean into his lap so he can see his face, so Dean can see Sam watch him finally, passion in his eyes. Wanting, and encouraging, and simply needing Dean so very, very badly. Sam can just, fuck him and love every little thing his eyes behold. Love the freckles on Dean's nose, love the water in his eyes, staining them bright green, the color of his skin. Loves the feel of him against his chest, loves him in the movements of his body.
And Dean can take care of him too. Can nuzzle and press soft kisses against his face and neck. Can smell his hair, tangle it in his fingers and massage his scalp. Listen to the moans and the groans and know they're okay, everything he's doing is good, and Sam wants it too.
Dean smiles against Sam's mouth when it comes to taste his own.
***
end
In other news, I'm writing like WHOA and sanyin needs to keep and eye out for pain-de-chocolat-eating-SASQUATCH soon, and I blame notthequiettype for Assbaby Tuesday.