[fic] [spn] the time between
[the time between]
spn slash
nightshifter coda
1000 words
==
They drive all night. They cross five borders, six, and it's still not enough. Like anything can be, anymore. Dean drives, and Sam sits close-lipped beside him, stubbornly, stupidly awake.
His fingers tighten around the wheel, and he knows they have to give the impala up, just as much as he knows that he can't. He fucking can't. It'd hurt less to lose an arm. But they're closing in on the inevitable. These days, all he feels is the pressure of minutes, bearing down on him, so much it sometimes hurts to breathe. Maybe-- Maybe he can let go of her, for a time. Lay low. Just until things cool down. Play it smart, for once, because yeah, they're forced into hiding now, but it's not like Dean's ever known life in the open, not like he'd even know what to do if he did. Not like Sam, who lost more tonight than Dean's ever had. A clean name, a fresh start, dreams of picking back up a life interrupted. Dean's never fooled himself otherwise, has known his time with Sam was ticking down from the start, but he never wanted Sam like this. Without choices. Forced to Dean by desperation.
He sees a neon vacancy sign and pulls over. "I know a guy. Owns a garage near here, maybe an hour or two out. Won't be open for a while yet. Figure we're safe to grab a few hours' sleep here in the meantime, shower and shit, before we head on over and trade her out."
Sam starts, the first motion he's made the entire ride. "The impala?"
Dean looks straight ahead. "Just temporary," he says gruffly. "We'll get the mini-van you've always wanted. Now stay here while I get us a room." He grabs his shades from off the dashboard and slides them on, feels like a fucking tool, but he's sure it'll only get worse from here. Bleached hair, he's thinking, new clothes. Maybe Sam'll have to grow his hair out long, beard, mustache, the works, and Dean grins at the image.
They trudge into the room and Dean tells Sam to grab the first shower, but Sam insists. "Fine. But don't complain about the wet towels."
"Don't use all of them, and I won't."
Dean uses two and leaves two for Sam. Hand towels though. He's gunning for a floor show.
Sam gets out, disappointingly dry and dressed, but only by half. His shoulders take up the whole doorway, his chest all tanned and gleaming like he's been rolling outside on the beach instead of skulking about in those oversized hoodies. Dean takes his time looking, before dragging his eyes back to the television screen. Late breaking news, all over the place. He gives it a day, tops, before the news makes it all the way out here. They'll stash the car, he thinks. He does a mean Southern accent. They both do. Who don't they know about? Who can they trust? He sits at the table, guns laid out dismantled before him, cleaning barrels, rotating mags and reloading them.
"Turn that shit off," Sam orders. Dean ignores him.
"Come to bed," Sam says, and Dean stands.
"Hold that thought. I'm just going to grab some food from the vending machine down the hall." He brings a bag with him, and shoves snacks and bottled drinks inside. When he gets back, the tv's off and Sam's back is to him, fists clenched at his sides.
Dean sighs. He wants a handjob and then sleep. He's worked out the route to Kevin's on a napkin shoved deep in his pocket. Figures they can get two hours' rest. Leave before sunup. "Look. Let's just go to sleep alright? Don't know why you didn't sleep earlier. No reason for us both to be tired."
"Get undressed, and get your ass on the bed." Sam bites out, through gritted teeth.
Far be it from Dean to pass up a command like that. He shimmies out of his boxers and slides into bed, legs spread and inviting.
Sam turns around, and his look is angry and mulish. "On your stomach."
"Aw, Sammy. A handjob'll do me. I'll be off like a shot," Dean says, shamelessly. Sam just goes on glaring at him, and Deans sighs and flips over, the window for sleep getting smaller by the second.
Dean waits, and waits, opens his mouth to bitch, and then there's a finger circling his hole before slipping in, and it turns into a groan. "Oh god-- I'm good, man. No need to prep. We don't have all night."
"Dean, do me a favor. Shut the fuck up," and Sam brings his palm down hard against his ass in warning, which is. Kind of hot.
Sam spreads him wide open with his giant hands, and then there's a tongue, wet and hot, lapping at his hole and spearing inside, pressing deep and deeper, before sliding out. He presses a kiss against first one cheek, then the other, before breathing over that wet, little hole, holding Dean down through his shakes. "We have all night, you hear me? All the fucking time in the world."
And he's there again, tongue wiggling inside, even further, face pressed to Dean's ass, hands spreading him, god, wider. Sam fucks him with his tongue, works him over, pushes in and out, unrelenting, and Dean muffles his moans into the pillow, the pleasure so intense it hurts.
Sam comes up for air and slides two fingers in, rough and slick, pressing in past the knuckle. "It's ok," he says, flickers his tongue around the hole stretched wide by his fingers. "I'm ok," he murmurs, searches for just the right spot inside. "You don't have to protect me. I've got you, ok?" and he brushes against that place that makes Dean sees stars and keeps right on hitting it, a third finger joining in. "I've got you."
Dean nods, mute, closes his eyes. Doesn't believe a word Sam says.
==
spn slash
nightshifter coda
1000 words
==
They drive all night. They cross five borders, six, and it's still not enough. Like anything can be, anymore. Dean drives, and Sam sits close-lipped beside him, stubbornly, stupidly awake.
His fingers tighten around the wheel, and he knows they have to give the impala up, just as much as he knows that he can't. He fucking can't. It'd hurt less to lose an arm. But they're closing in on the inevitable. These days, all he feels is the pressure of minutes, bearing down on him, so much it sometimes hurts to breathe. Maybe-- Maybe he can let go of her, for a time. Lay low. Just until things cool down. Play it smart, for once, because yeah, they're forced into hiding now, but it's not like Dean's ever known life in the open, not like he'd even know what to do if he did. Not like Sam, who lost more tonight than Dean's ever had. A clean name, a fresh start, dreams of picking back up a life interrupted. Dean's never fooled himself otherwise, has known his time with Sam was ticking down from the start, but he never wanted Sam like this. Without choices. Forced to Dean by desperation.
He sees a neon vacancy sign and pulls over. "I know a guy. Owns a garage near here, maybe an hour or two out. Won't be open for a while yet. Figure we're safe to grab a few hours' sleep here in the meantime, shower and shit, before we head on over and trade her out."
Sam starts, the first motion he's made the entire ride. "The impala?"
Dean looks straight ahead. "Just temporary," he says gruffly. "We'll get the mini-van you've always wanted. Now stay here while I get us a room." He grabs his shades from off the dashboard and slides them on, feels like a fucking tool, but he's sure it'll only get worse from here. Bleached hair, he's thinking, new clothes. Maybe Sam'll have to grow his hair out long, beard, mustache, the works, and Dean grins at the image.
They trudge into the room and Dean tells Sam to grab the first shower, but Sam insists. "Fine. But don't complain about the wet towels."
"Don't use all of them, and I won't."
Dean uses two and leaves two for Sam. Hand towels though. He's gunning for a floor show.
Sam gets out, disappointingly dry and dressed, but only by half. His shoulders take up the whole doorway, his chest all tanned and gleaming like he's been rolling outside on the beach instead of skulking about in those oversized hoodies. Dean takes his time looking, before dragging his eyes back to the television screen. Late breaking news, all over the place. He gives it a day, tops, before the news makes it all the way out here. They'll stash the car, he thinks. He does a mean Southern accent. They both do. Who don't they know about? Who can they trust? He sits at the table, guns laid out dismantled before him, cleaning barrels, rotating mags and reloading them.
"Turn that shit off," Sam orders. Dean ignores him.
"Come to bed," Sam says, and Dean stands.
"Hold that thought. I'm just going to grab some food from the vending machine down the hall." He brings a bag with him, and shoves snacks and bottled drinks inside. When he gets back, the tv's off and Sam's back is to him, fists clenched at his sides.
Dean sighs. He wants a handjob and then sleep. He's worked out the route to Kevin's on a napkin shoved deep in his pocket. Figures they can get two hours' rest. Leave before sunup. "Look. Let's just go to sleep alright? Don't know why you didn't sleep earlier. No reason for us both to be tired."
"Get undressed, and get your ass on the bed." Sam bites out, through gritted teeth.
Far be it from Dean to pass up a command like that. He shimmies out of his boxers and slides into bed, legs spread and inviting.
Sam turns around, and his look is angry and mulish. "On your stomach."
"Aw, Sammy. A handjob'll do me. I'll be off like a shot," Dean says, shamelessly. Sam just goes on glaring at him, and Deans sighs and flips over, the window for sleep getting smaller by the second.
Dean waits, and waits, opens his mouth to bitch, and then there's a finger circling his hole before slipping in, and it turns into a groan. "Oh god-- I'm good, man. No need to prep. We don't have all night."
"Dean, do me a favor. Shut the fuck up," and Sam brings his palm down hard against his ass in warning, which is. Kind of hot.
Sam spreads him wide open with his giant hands, and then there's a tongue, wet and hot, lapping at his hole and spearing inside, pressing deep and deeper, before sliding out. He presses a kiss against first one cheek, then the other, before breathing over that wet, little hole, holding Dean down through his shakes. "We have all night, you hear me? All the fucking time in the world."
And he's there again, tongue wiggling inside, even further, face pressed to Dean's ass, hands spreading him, god, wider. Sam fucks him with his tongue, works him over, pushes in and out, unrelenting, and Dean muffles his moans into the pillow, the pleasure so intense it hurts.
Sam comes up for air and slides two fingers in, rough and slick, pressing in past the knuckle. "It's ok," he says, flickers his tongue around the hole stretched wide by his fingers. "I'm ok," he murmurs, searches for just the right spot inside. "You don't have to protect me. I've got you, ok?" and he brushes against that place that makes Dean sees stars and keeps right on hitting it, a third finger joining in. "I've got you."
Dean nods, mute, closes his eyes. Doesn't believe a word Sam says.
==