spn story spam!
I posted the link to this story on spnflashfic yesterday, but I also wanted a copy of it in my own LJ now that the challenge is over. So. Story spam! Sorry! I guess this time I better write earlier in the challenge. :)
Title: Surrender Dorothy
Author: Merry
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Word count: 2,570
Off-LJ story link: Here.
Summary: They've been on these roads all their lives; they know what to do.
Notes: Thanks to flambeau for the readthrough, and to luzdeestrellas for having a birthday to write for. And a thank you also to gwyn_r, a dear friend from whom I belatedly realized I swiped the title!
Iowa is a corn state, all steel-grey sky and silver-tipped stalks, and driving through its back roads is like navigating a maze. Dean's not the world's biggest farming fan, and he doesn't like what the dust and road scrabble do to the paint job, but he isn't ready to risk a lot of traffic when he doesn't have to. Maybe their lives of crime ended in a ball of fire a few weeks ago as far as the FBI is concerned, but the Information Superhighway can get a little clogged up in rural America. Dean is alive, which he didn't really expect, and he's still got Sam, for which he's grateful; he's not about to screw that up on a bet that Sheriff JoeBob from Nowheresville is all caught up on his email.
Dean's window is open, a roar of wind in his ear because there's no such thing as a speed limit where there's no such thing as cops. He's got his arm hooked over the door, fingers tapping out the muddled bass line of whatever crap Sam's got in the player. Sam's window is closed, and he's staring through it with all the attention and animation of a zombie; the book in his hand has been open to the same page for an hour or more, and Dean doubts Sam even remembers the title.
It's the new normal: Dean watching Sam, Sam watching nothing. He's either gone inside, or about to become the world's foremost corn historian. Dean doesn't know what Sam thinks about when he's not thinking about wasting whatever good or bad guy's right in front of him, but the blank, lost look on his face is informative. Whatever it is, it's not something Dean wants to hear about. And whatever it is, eventually, Dean needs to hear it.
So Dean drives, and thinks about killing Ruby, at whose feet he lays the blame for oh, pretty much everything, these past few months. It's his new favorite way to pass the time. He's a creative guy, good at his job, always willing to innovate but still fond of the old, solid standards. Bela still has the Colt, if she hasn't sold it yet, so his end-game options are pretty limited, but Dean's philosophical. Life, he's been told, is about the journey.
He thinks about Lilith, too, another winner on his list of evil things that should seriously not fuck with his brother. He hadn't much liked the thought of Sam being the heir apparent for an army of hellspawn to start with, but he liked the idea of a challenger for the job even less. Ruby's scared of her, which in Dean's book means she's pretty fucking scary; but then again, he kind of likes seeing Ruby scared. Next to dead, it's Dean's favorite look for her.
"You're brooding," Sam says quietly, barely audible over the wind, but Dean snaps his head around and glares.
"What? I am not!" He turns back to the road, shoulders hunched against Sam's sudden interest. "I'm at peace with the world and my place in it, thank you very much. You're the one who's brooding."
"I'm thinking, not brooding," Sam says in his most annoyingly reasonable voice.
"Who even says 'brooding', anyway?"
Sam says, "People who know it when they see it," and that's the end of that conversation because Sam's had a hard few months and Dean really doesn't want to have to hit him.
The sky got darker while he wasn't paying attention, and drops of rain have scattered over the windshield. He flicks on the wipers, which just makes things worse, then shuts them off to let the wind do its work. There's a greenish tinge to the clouds ahead that Dean doesn't really like, and an angry, jagged spin. When he looks over at Sam to see if Sam's seeing it, he can tell Sam doesn't like it, either.
"Perfect," Dean says, because it's bad enough having hell after them without the heavens getting into the act. He takes his foot off the gas while Sam rolls down his window and sticks his head out to see the sky directly overhead. When Sam pulls back in and Dean sees his face, he hits the brakes.
"Bad?" Dean says, and Sam says "Bad," and Dean says, "Fuck. Okay. Time to go."
He pulls off the road, slams the car into park, yanks the keys out of the ignition. Sam's out and around the back before Dean gets his door open. They've been on these roads all their lives; they know what to do. The thick, still air carries a charge in it that makes Dean's hair stand on end, and the sickly light from the storm clouds leaches all the color from Sam's face. They pull what they can from the back -- guns, clothes, books -- and stuff it all into their bags. The funnel drops fifty yards away just as they slam the trunk.
Sam yanks at Dean's collar and shoves him out in front, launching them both into a dead run. The noise is unbearable, a roar like the voice of God, the last and only sound in the world. Dean looks back to make sure Sam's with him and sees Sam holding back to make sure Dean stays ahead. Beyond that, Dean sees the tip of the monster bounce off the earth, turn, and touch down again.
Sam shoves him again, and Dean nearly trips, turns it into a dive at the very last second and ends up belly-down in the ditch. Sam's fist is still clenched in the back of Dean's shirt, his body half-covering Dean's, forcing him flat. Dean has no problem with that; he presses his face into the grass and dirt, and feels Sam's press into the curve of his neck and shoulder. Pellets of hail rain down around them, and Sam pushes in closer, his breath a hot, damp rush against Dean's cheek.
Dean doesn't pray, but he's not above sending out requests along the wire, in case something charitable might be listening. He does that now -- safety for Sam, for himself, for the fucking car, oh, please don't fuck up the car -- and if anything the noise gets worse and the wind gets wilder and the hail gets harder, and if this is how it all ends, if this is it, there's a new number one on Dean's list of complaints about his life, called Fucking useless, ridiculous death and what the hell, really, seriously -- is this how it ends, in a ditch in fucking Iowa without a demon or a ghost or a monster anywhere in sight? What the fuck--
--and it all stops, right there, just then, and Sam pants against his ear, loud in the sudden quiet stillness, holding him down against a wind that's no longer there.
Scared to look, jangling with adrenaline and filled up with being still alive, Dean lifts his head carefully, blinking away grit and dirt. Sam doesn't move at all. From here Dean can just make out the blurry outline of the car, a black spot of engineered beauty in a corn-colored world. His head drops back down in relief, his body relaxing in the belly of the ditch, hands going slack in the grass. If anything, Sam's long, warm frame presses closer.
For a minute they stay there, catching their breath, letting their nerves settle. Sam's a solid weight along Dean's back, his hand settled over the knob at the top of Dean's spine. His fingers curl in a comforting scratch, and Dean shivers from it, closes his eyes as Sam's body starts to shake.
It takes a second for Dean to get that Sam is laughing.
He shoves up with the shoulder Sam's slowly putting to sleep, and Sam rolls off, flopping over on his back. His laugh rings out, helpless, chest heaving -- a higher, wheezier sound than Dean remembers, but it's been a while. Dean raises up on one elbow to watch. Sam laughing is a full-body enterprise; flailing arms, folded knees, face crunched up like a five year old in a temper tantrum, except for the grinning. He's got tears leaking out of his eyes, and Dean shakes his head, grinning back with no idea why.
One of Sam's arms winds out and he grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt, just to hang on. Dean starts to laugh, too, because God, what a freak -- what a fucked up, beautiful, crackheaded giant freak his little brother is -- and anyway, seriously, tornadoes now? Jesus, come on.
He thumps Sam's chest with a balled up fist, grinning down at him, and leaves his hand there just to feel the heartbeat, the life in Sam, just for now, just for this minute. It closes a circuit between them, lights Dean up with Sam's unpredictable joy, and Sam's eyes get wider while Dean's looking into them, get brighter, even though there isn't any sun. His other hand comes up and settles on Dean's, presses Dean's palm against his chest. The laughter trails off but the smile stays, warm and sweet.
"Like we don't have enough problems," Dean says, talking about the weather. But Sam's smile gets wider, and his hand tugs at Dean's shirt, tries to pull him down.
"Wouldn't it be cool if it ended like that?" Sam says. "Wouldn't it be cool if everybody and every evil thing we've ever met were wrong?"
"You've got a fucked up idea of cool." Dean shakes his head, grinning.
"Winchester Family Damnation, called on account of weather," Sam intones, and Dean laughs again, defenseless in Sam's hands, and gives himself up.
Sam settles him, takes Dean's weight on his chest and slides his hand up over Dean's shoulder to curve around the back of his neck. Dean's scalp tingles, hair rising, just like it did in the seconds before the storm. He can feel Sam's breath against his mouth; he licks his lips reflexively, and Sam's gaze tracks the movement.
Dean's body locks up. There's nothing here he hasn't wanted, but he's never wanted it from this close before. Holding back is easy, invisible, from a distance. Holding back when Sam's body is hot and loose under him, when he can feel Sam's intentions like a shock running under his skin -- it's not easy, and the more he does it, the more he starts to think it's not even right.
It doesn't matter, though, he might as well not have bothered, because Sam's not interested in Dean's inner conflict. He's interested in Dean's mouth, and he tells Dean about it with a firm pressure at the base of his skull, with his free hand hooked under Dean's arm, pulling him up, pulling him in.
Holding back isn't just hard, or wrong. It's not even fucking possible.
Dean licks at his lips again, a slow, purposeful swipe, and Sam groans, follows Dean's tongue with his own. His mouth is hot over Dean's, sweet and open, and his hands clench around cloth and skin where they hold Dean tight and close. Dean pulls back, just to look, just to see the wet slick of Sam's mouth, the haze of want in his eyes, and it's beautiful, like he's always thought it would be, perfect like he never dared hope. When Sam leans up to get at him again, Dean says, "Yeah, like this, please" and lays his hands on Sam's face, pulls; urges him higher.
Dean shifts; shoves at Sam to line him up right, and hooks one leg between Sam's so he can get in close. He's hard like he's never been before, even when he's thought of this and used his own hands to end it. There's no stopping, it's too much, the streak of heat that slides through him when Sam's leg shoves up against him; he gasps and rubs his dick against Sam's, the buzz of pleasure winding him up, forcing him down.
Sam's mouth slides away; bites at his jaw, licks softly at the curve of his throat. Sam's teeth close over Dean's skin; he sucks hard, makes the best sound in the world, greedy and whining, and Dean throws his head back and groans. His hips jerk and Sam's leg shoves up between his again. Sam rocks him down on it, helps him, gives it to him just like he's always wanted, and when Dean comes it's because Sam wants him to, because Sam makes him, and it's the hottest, sweetest rush Dean's ever known.
And then there's more. When the haze clears from Dean's eyes. When he can think again, and his body's back under his own control. He finds Sam watching him, that same smile on his face, that same heated, lazy light in his eyes. He pulls Dean's hand where he needs it, unbuttons his own jeans while Dean's hand rubs over him, and slides his zipper down. Dean reaches in, takes Sam's dick into the curve of his hand and slides his fingers down; he feels it like he's touching himself, and leans down to lick the smile off Sam's face while he gives back some of what he was given. He rubs and strokes and squeezes until Sam's bucking up into Dean's hand, biting at Dean's lips; until Sam comes apart with a cry that makes Dean want him right now, all over again.
It's the best thing Dean's ever seen: Sam spooled out and panting, eyes half-lidded and glazed from what they've done. He strokes the last of it out of Sam, holds him while he trembles. He wipes his hand clean on his own jeans and eases over onto his back, pulling Sam with him. He runs his hand slowly across the dip in Sam's spine, and Sam grunts softly, trying to get closer. Dean laughs.
Sam makes a curious sound against Dean's chest, then lifts up to look at him. Dean rubs his thumb over the curve of Sam's jaw, slides his fingers deep into Sam's hair.
"What?" Sam says, a small crease of concern forming between his eyebrows, like he thinks Dean might be losing it a little. Hell, maybe he is, but if this what it feels like to lose it, Dean doesn't care. He shakes his head and lets it fall back, relaxing against the grass. He grins up at the sky, the receding clouds; the whole world, still there, opening up around them.
"Dean, c'mon." Sam shoves at his shoulder. "What?"
Dean smiles up at Sam, crazy about him like he's always been, sure of him like he's never been before. His hands slide down from Sam's face to the back of his neck, urging; pulling Sam in.
"Like we don't have enough problems," Dean says, and laughs again.
When he leans up to find Sam's mouth, Sam's laughing too.
~
Feedback is always welcome. :)
Title: Surrender Dorothy
Author: Merry
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Word count: 2,570
Off-LJ story link: Here.
Summary: They've been on these roads all their lives; they know what to do.
Notes: Thanks to flambeau for the readthrough, and to luzdeestrellas for having a birthday to write for. And a thank you also to gwyn_r, a dear friend from whom I belatedly realized I swiped the title!
Iowa is a corn state, all steel-grey sky and silver-tipped stalks, and driving through its back roads is like navigating a maze. Dean's not the world's biggest farming fan, and he doesn't like what the dust and road scrabble do to the paint job, but he isn't ready to risk a lot of traffic when he doesn't have to. Maybe their lives of crime ended in a ball of fire a few weeks ago as far as the FBI is concerned, but the Information Superhighway can get a little clogged up in rural America. Dean is alive, which he didn't really expect, and he's still got Sam, for which he's grateful; he's not about to screw that up on a bet that Sheriff JoeBob from Nowheresville is all caught up on his email.
Dean's window is open, a roar of wind in his ear because there's no such thing as a speed limit where there's no such thing as cops. He's got his arm hooked over the door, fingers tapping out the muddled bass line of whatever crap Sam's got in the player. Sam's window is closed, and he's staring through it with all the attention and animation of a zombie; the book in his hand has been open to the same page for an hour or more, and Dean doubts Sam even remembers the title.
It's the new normal: Dean watching Sam, Sam watching nothing. He's either gone inside, or about to become the world's foremost corn historian. Dean doesn't know what Sam thinks about when he's not thinking about wasting whatever good or bad guy's right in front of him, but the blank, lost look on his face is informative. Whatever it is, it's not something Dean wants to hear about. And whatever it is, eventually, Dean needs to hear it.
So Dean drives, and thinks about killing Ruby, at whose feet he lays the blame for oh, pretty much everything, these past few months. It's his new favorite way to pass the time. He's a creative guy, good at his job, always willing to innovate but still fond of the old, solid standards. Bela still has the Colt, if she hasn't sold it yet, so his end-game options are pretty limited, but Dean's philosophical. Life, he's been told, is about the journey.
He thinks about Lilith, too, another winner on his list of evil things that should seriously not fuck with his brother. He hadn't much liked the thought of Sam being the heir apparent for an army of hellspawn to start with, but he liked the idea of a challenger for the job even less. Ruby's scared of her, which in Dean's book means she's pretty fucking scary; but then again, he kind of likes seeing Ruby scared. Next to dead, it's Dean's favorite look for her.
"You're brooding," Sam says quietly, barely audible over the wind, but Dean snaps his head around and glares.
"What? I am not!" He turns back to the road, shoulders hunched against Sam's sudden interest. "I'm at peace with the world and my place in it, thank you very much. You're the one who's brooding."
"I'm thinking, not brooding," Sam says in his most annoyingly reasonable voice.
"Who even says 'brooding', anyway?"
Sam says, "People who know it when they see it," and that's the end of that conversation because Sam's had a hard few months and Dean really doesn't want to have to hit him.
The sky got darker while he wasn't paying attention, and drops of rain have scattered over the windshield. He flicks on the wipers, which just makes things worse, then shuts them off to let the wind do its work. There's a greenish tinge to the clouds ahead that Dean doesn't really like, and an angry, jagged spin. When he looks over at Sam to see if Sam's seeing it, he can tell Sam doesn't like it, either.
"Perfect," Dean says, because it's bad enough having hell after them without the heavens getting into the act. He takes his foot off the gas while Sam rolls down his window and sticks his head out to see the sky directly overhead. When Sam pulls back in and Dean sees his face, he hits the brakes.
"Bad?" Dean says, and Sam says "Bad," and Dean says, "Fuck. Okay. Time to go."
He pulls off the road, slams the car into park, yanks the keys out of the ignition. Sam's out and around the back before Dean gets his door open. They've been on these roads all their lives; they know what to do. The thick, still air carries a charge in it that makes Dean's hair stand on end, and the sickly light from the storm clouds leaches all the color from Sam's face. They pull what they can from the back -- guns, clothes, books -- and stuff it all into their bags. The funnel drops fifty yards away just as they slam the trunk.
Sam yanks at Dean's collar and shoves him out in front, launching them both into a dead run. The noise is unbearable, a roar like the voice of God, the last and only sound in the world. Dean looks back to make sure Sam's with him and sees Sam holding back to make sure Dean stays ahead. Beyond that, Dean sees the tip of the monster bounce off the earth, turn, and touch down again.
Sam shoves him again, and Dean nearly trips, turns it into a dive at the very last second and ends up belly-down in the ditch. Sam's fist is still clenched in the back of Dean's shirt, his body half-covering Dean's, forcing him flat. Dean has no problem with that; he presses his face into the grass and dirt, and feels Sam's press into the curve of his neck and shoulder. Pellets of hail rain down around them, and Sam pushes in closer, his breath a hot, damp rush against Dean's cheek.
Dean doesn't pray, but he's not above sending out requests along the wire, in case something charitable might be listening. He does that now -- safety for Sam, for himself, for the fucking car, oh, please don't fuck up the car -- and if anything the noise gets worse and the wind gets wilder and the hail gets harder, and if this is how it all ends, if this is it, there's a new number one on Dean's list of complaints about his life, called Fucking useless, ridiculous death and what the hell, really, seriously -- is this how it ends, in a ditch in fucking Iowa without a demon or a ghost or a monster anywhere in sight? What the fuck--
--and it all stops, right there, just then, and Sam pants against his ear, loud in the sudden quiet stillness, holding him down against a wind that's no longer there.
Scared to look, jangling with adrenaline and filled up with being still alive, Dean lifts his head carefully, blinking away grit and dirt. Sam doesn't move at all. From here Dean can just make out the blurry outline of the car, a black spot of engineered beauty in a corn-colored world. His head drops back down in relief, his body relaxing in the belly of the ditch, hands going slack in the grass. If anything, Sam's long, warm frame presses closer.
For a minute they stay there, catching their breath, letting their nerves settle. Sam's a solid weight along Dean's back, his hand settled over the knob at the top of Dean's spine. His fingers curl in a comforting scratch, and Dean shivers from it, closes his eyes as Sam's body starts to shake.
It takes a second for Dean to get that Sam is laughing.
He shoves up with the shoulder Sam's slowly putting to sleep, and Sam rolls off, flopping over on his back. His laugh rings out, helpless, chest heaving -- a higher, wheezier sound than Dean remembers, but it's been a while. Dean raises up on one elbow to watch. Sam laughing is a full-body enterprise; flailing arms, folded knees, face crunched up like a five year old in a temper tantrum, except for the grinning. He's got tears leaking out of his eyes, and Dean shakes his head, grinning back with no idea why.
One of Sam's arms winds out and he grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt, just to hang on. Dean starts to laugh, too, because God, what a freak -- what a fucked up, beautiful, crackheaded giant freak his little brother is -- and anyway, seriously, tornadoes now? Jesus, come on.
He thumps Sam's chest with a balled up fist, grinning down at him, and leaves his hand there just to feel the heartbeat, the life in Sam, just for now, just for this minute. It closes a circuit between them, lights Dean up with Sam's unpredictable joy, and Sam's eyes get wider while Dean's looking into them, get brighter, even though there isn't any sun. His other hand comes up and settles on Dean's, presses Dean's palm against his chest. The laughter trails off but the smile stays, warm and sweet.
"Like we don't have enough problems," Dean says, talking about the weather. But Sam's smile gets wider, and his hand tugs at Dean's shirt, tries to pull him down.
"Wouldn't it be cool if it ended like that?" Sam says. "Wouldn't it be cool if everybody and every evil thing we've ever met were wrong?"
"You've got a fucked up idea of cool." Dean shakes his head, grinning.
"Winchester Family Damnation, called on account of weather," Sam intones, and Dean laughs again, defenseless in Sam's hands, and gives himself up.
Sam settles him, takes Dean's weight on his chest and slides his hand up over Dean's shoulder to curve around the back of his neck. Dean's scalp tingles, hair rising, just like it did in the seconds before the storm. He can feel Sam's breath against his mouth; he licks his lips reflexively, and Sam's gaze tracks the movement.
Dean's body locks up. There's nothing here he hasn't wanted, but he's never wanted it from this close before. Holding back is easy, invisible, from a distance. Holding back when Sam's body is hot and loose under him, when he can feel Sam's intentions like a shock running under his skin -- it's not easy, and the more he does it, the more he starts to think it's not even right.
It doesn't matter, though, he might as well not have bothered, because Sam's not interested in Dean's inner conflict. He's interested in Dean's mouth, and he tells Dean about it with a firm pressure at the base of his skull, with his free hand hooked under Dean's arm, pulling him up, pulling him in.
Holding back isn't just hard, or wrong. It's not even fucking possible.
Dean licks at his lips again, a slow, purposeful swipe, and Sam groans, follows Dean's tongue with his own. His mouth is hot over Dean's, sweet and open, and his hands clench around cloth and skin where they hold Dean tight and close. Dean pulls back, just to look, just to see the wet slick of Sam's mouth, the haze of want in his eyes, and it's beautiful, like he's always thought it would be, perfect like he never dared hope. When Sam leans up to get at him again, Dean says, "Yeah, like this, please" and lays his hands on Sam's face, pulls; urges him higher.
Dean shifts; shoves at Sam to line him up right, and hooks one leg between Sam's so he can get in close. He's hard like he's never been before, even when he's thought of this and used his own hands to end it. There's no stopping, it's too much, the streak of heat that slides through him when Sam's leg shoves up against him; he gasps and rubs his dick against Sam's, the buzz of pleasure winding him up, forcing him down.
Sam's mouth slides away; bites at his jaw, licks softly at the curve of his throat. Sam's teeth close over Dean's skin; he sucks hard, makes the best sound in the world, greedy and whining, and Dean throws his head back and groans. His hips jerk and Sam's leg shoves up between his again. Sam rocks him down on it, helps him, gives it to him just like he's always wanted, and when Dean comes it's because Sam wants him to, because Sam makes him, and it's the hottest, sweetest rush Dean's ever known.
And then there's more. When the haze clears from Dean's eyes. When he can think again, and his body's back under his own control. He finds Sam watching him, that same smile on his face, that same heated, lazy light in his eyes. He pulls Dean's hand where he needs it, unbuttons his own jeans while Dean's hand rubs over him, and slides his zipper down. Dean reaches in, takes Sam's dick into the curve of his hand and slides his fingers down; he feels it like he's touching himself, and leans down to lick the smile off Sam's face while he gives back some of what he was given. He rubs and strokes and squeezes until Sam's bucking up into Dean's hand, biting at Dean's lips; until Sam comes apart with a cry that makes Dean want him right now, all over again.
It's the best thing Dean's ever seen: Sam spooled out and panting, eyes half-lidded and glazed from what they've done. He strokes the last of it out of Sam, holds him while he trembles. He wipes his hand clean on his own jeans and eases over onto his back, pulling Sam with him. He runs his hand slowly across the dip in Sam's spine, and Sam grunts softly, trying to get closer. Dean laughs.
Sam makes a curious sound against Dean's chest, then lifts up to look at him. Dean rubs his thumb over the curve of Sam's jaw, slides his fingers deep into Sam's hair.
"What?" Sam says, a small crease of concern forming between his eyebrows, like he thinks Dean might be losing it a little. Hell, maybe he is, but if this what it feels like to lose it, Dean doesn't care. He shakes his head and lets it fall back, relaxing against the grass. He grins up at the sky, the receding clouds; the whole world, still there, opening up around them.
"Dean, c'mon." Sam shoves at his shoulder. "What?"
Dean smiles up at Sam, crazy about him like he's always been, sure of him like he's never been before. His hands slide down from Sam's face to the back of his neck, urging; pulling Sam in.
"Like we don't have enough problems," Dean says, and laughs again.
When he leans up to find Sam's mouth, Sam's laughing too.
~
Feedback is always welcome. :)