fic: Breathe Out, So I Can Breathe You In (Supernatural; Dean/Sam)
Breathe Out, So I Can Breathe You In
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; post-Born Under a Bad Sign; adult; 1,535 words
Sam keeps him talking, as if he needs to hear Dean's voice as much as Dean needs to hear his.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta.
~*~
Breathe Out, So I Can Breathe You In
Dean lets Sam help him into the shower without complaining too much, shoulder wrapped in plastic in a futile attempt to keep it dry. He continues talking once he's in, so Sam has to stay and answer. He doesn't even know what he's saying, nonsense he's heard on the news: hey, they have a hundred inches of snow in upstate New York, can you believe it? leading to reminiscences: you remember the time we got snowed in with Caleb, and he taught us how to ski? followed by: we should totally hit Aspen, man, and hook up with some hot, rich chicks. What do you think of that, Sammy?
Sam laughs, low and warm, familiar, not the laugh of the demon wearing his skin, and the tension in Dean's shoulders eases a little more.
When he's done in the shower, they switch places. He sits on the toilet and fiddles with the stuff in his shaving kit, talking about how Diamond Dave is rejoining Van Halen, and how he wants to be excited about it, but he's pretty sure it's just going to end badly again. He loses his train of thought once or twice, sleepy now that he's warm and clean and he knows Sam is safe, but Sam prompts him with snarky remarks designed to keep him talking, as if he needs to hear Dean's voice as much as Dean needs to hear his, and Dean yammers on, saying anything and everything except the words that have been looping on endless repeat in his head (I fucked up. I'm sorry.) since Sam disappeared.
The pills and the booze have taken the edge off the pain in his shoulder, and all Dean really wants is to fall into bed and sleep for a week. But he can't settle just yet, can't let go of the anxiety that's driven him for the past week, adrenaline still humming in his veins.
While Sam towels off, Dean gimps into the bedroom, pours a line of salt across the threshold and the windows, not taking any chances tonight, or any time soon.
Then, he shambles back to the bed and yanks the ugly-ass comforter off; he sinks down onto the saggy mattress with a grateful sigh, the sheets smelling of bleach and industrial strength detergent, cleaner than anywhere he's been in ages.
Sam is still shuffling around half-dressed, like he can't decide if he wants to sleep or go for a run, and he's making Dean queasy.
"Sam," he says, raising his good arm. Sam stops, pivots, walks to the side of Dean's bed.
"What, Dean?"
I could have lost you. I did lose you. I'm sorry. I fucked up. It's never going to happen again. "Stop pacing. You're making me dizzy." It's funny, because usually he's the one who can't stop fidgeting and Sam's the one telling him to calm down.
The mattress dips as Sam sits down on the bed with a sigh. He runs a hand through his still-wet hair and says, "I told you, you shouldn't have washed those pills down with Jack Daniels." His voice is soft, earnest, worried, even, underneath the edge of exasperation.
"You shot me." It comes out less annoyed than he'd like, and sadder, and he kind of wishes he hadn't said it at all. Before Sam can answer, he continues, "The least you can do is let me have a little fun with the drugs afterwards."
"Jo took good care of you."
Dean shrugs, and regrets it. "She did the job. And so did the pills and the Jack. Definitely feeling no pain."
"Yeah, about that--"
Dean reaches over and curls his fingers around Sam's wrist, feeling for the slow, steady beat of his pulse. He rubs his thumb along the bones, so recently broken and healed. Sam stares at him, words forgotten, eyes wide and full of something Dean can't even identify--a little fear, maybe, some sadness, some regret. All things he wishes he never had to see on Sam's face, and he just wants to make them go away.
He tugs on Sam's hand. "C'mere," he mutters sleepily, and Sam lets himself be pulled down onto his back, long legs stretching out, warm against Dean's side.
"Dean, I--"
Before he can apologize, or say anything else Dean doesn't want to hear, Dean rolls over and kisses him. Which is possibly the girliest thing he's ever done in his life, and also maybe the weirdest, which is really saying something, but he can't worry about that now, because Sam's lips are warm and soft and a little chapped, and Sam's breathing into his mouth, moist and alive, wholly Sam and no one else.
He keeps his eyes closed, doesn't want to see Sam's reaction, see if he's freaked or horrified or whatever. He just needs to know that Sam is here, and that he's Sam again. He slides his hand along Sam's jaw, stubble prickly against his palm, his neck, his collarbones, skin warm and pliant and still damp from the shower.
The pain in Dean's shoulder is a low, slow, distant throb, and he can feel Sam's heart beating fast, so fast, beneath his palm, syncopated against the jittery beat of his own heart.
Then Sam opens his mouth, whispers, "Dean," like he trusts him, like he thinks Dean knows what he's doing, and it's okay. And Dean does.
He doesn't stop, doesn't think, opens his mouth against Sam's, touches their tongues together, slick and hot, tasting toothpaste and the shape of his own name, the shape of his life. The kiss is sloppy and warm, easy in a way it probably wouldn't be if he wasn't hazy from painkillers and relief, guilt and shame vague in the distance, like names he ought to know but can't quite place, and maybe tomorrow they can all get reacquainted, but for now, he's not thinking about anything but Sam.
Sam's breath hitches, and his hand, huge and gentle, comes up to cup Dean's face, calluses as familiar as his own rough against his cheek.
Dean breaks the kiss, says, "Sam?"
Sam nods, presses their foreheads together. They're breathing the same air, and Dean can feel every inch of Sam's long, lean body pressed against him, solid, real, here. He slides his hand over the broad planes of Sam's chest, down the flat of his belly, feeling the muscles jump in response, hearing Sam's breath catch, every touch a question, and Sam answers every one with yes, it's me. Sam's hand on Dean's body mirrors Dean's on his, pleas for reassurance that Dean answers the only way he knows how: I'm here, Sammy, I've got you.
They've only got two good arms between them, so it's awkward when Dean finally wraps his hand around Sam's dick, and rough--quick firm strokes more about easing anxiety than desire, but from the sounds Sam's making, he doesn't mind. His eyes are open, dark, and clear, watching vigilantly, the way he's always watched Dean, always learned whatever Dean's had to teach him, and now Dean's learning, too--he needs to learn even this, every detail of it, every nuance and secret side of Sam, so he'll be able to tell if it ever happens again, so he'll know when it's Sam and when it's not, down to blood and bone, no need for holy water or the name of God to prove the truth.
Sam's hand is large and warm on Dean's hip, fingers gripping hard, and Dean wants them to bruise, wants marks to balance out the wound in his shoulder, every touch an apology Sam shouldn't ever have to make and Dean doesn't ever want to hear.
"Dean--" Sam chokes on the word, makes it a growl, and Dean laughs breathlessly.
"It's okay, Sammy, I gotcha."
"Got you, too," Sam answers, laughing in response and shoving his hand into Dean's boxers, and Christ, it shouldn't feel that good to have Sam touching him, like the top of his head is going to blow off. Anything else he wants to say is lost in the stroke and slide of Sam's hand on his cock, and his on Sam's, in the gasp and hitch of their breath, all the air in the world right here between them.
Sam's laughter dissolves into a low moan as he comes, warm and wet over Dean's hand. Dean kisses him, swallows the sound down, learns the taste and texture of it in his mouth. Sam's hand is still on his dick, and Dean wraps his own hand around it, jacks himself quickly now, pleasure rolling warm and slow in his veins as he gets himself off.
His body's still beating with the heavy pulse of orgasm, drowning out the pain in his arm and silencing the constant litany of I'm sorry, I fucked up in his head, when Sam snuggles--actually snuggles--in, curling around and clutching Dean like a teddy bear. Dean sighs and tousles his hair, and promises himself he'll mock him in the morning. Now, he just cleans them up half-heartedly with a handful of tissues from the nightstand, and finally lets himself sleep, Sam warm and solid at his side.
end
*
2/14/07
Title from Foo Fighters.
~*~
Feedback is love!
~*~
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; post-Born Under a Bad Sign; adult; 1,535 words
Sam keeps him talking, as if he needs to hear Dean's voice as much as Dean needs to hear his.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta.
~*~
Breathe Out, So I Can Breathe You In
Dean lets Sam help him into the shower without complaining too much, shoulder wrapped in plastic in a futile attempt to keep it dry. He continues talking once he's in, so Sam has to stay and answer. He doesn't even know what he's saying, nonsense he's heard on the news: hey, they have a hundred inches of snow in upstate New York, can you believe it? leading to reminiscences: you remember the time we got snowed in with Caleb, and he taught us how to ski? followed by: we should totally hit Aspen, man, and hook up with some hot, rich chicks. What do you think of that, Sammy?
Sam laughs, low and warm, familiar, not the laugh of the demon wearing his skin, and the tension in Dean's shoulders eases a little more.
When he's done in the shower, they switch places. He sits on the toilet and fiddles with the stuff in his shaving kit, talking about how Diamond Dave is rejoining Van Halen, and how he wants to be excited about it, but he's pretty sure it's just going to end badly again. He loses his train of thought once or twice, sleepy now that he's warm and clean and he knows Sam is safe, but Sam prompts him with snarky remarks designed to keep him talking, as if he needs to hear Dean's voice as much as Dean needs to hear his, and Dean yammers on, saying anything and everything except the words that have been looping on endless repeat in his head (I fucked up. I'm sorry.) since Sam disappeared.
The pills and the booze have taken the edge off the pain in his shoulder, and all Dean really wants is to fall into bed and sleep for a week. But he can't settle just yet, can't let go of the anxiety that's driven him for the past week, adrenaline still humming in his veins.
While Sam towels off, Dean gimps into the bedroom, pours a line of salt across the threshold and the windows, not taking any chances tonight, or any time soon.
Then, he shambles back to the bed and yanks the ugly-ass comforter off; he sinks down onto the saggy mattress with a grateful sigh, the sheets smelling of bleach and industrial strength detergent, cleaner than anywhere he's been in ages.
Sam is still shuffling around half-dressed, like he can't decide if he wants to sleep or go for a run, and he's making Dean queasy.
"Sam," he says, raising his good arm. Sam stops, pivots, walks to the side of Dean's bed.
"What, Dean?"
I could have lost you. I did lose you. I'm sorry. I fucked up. It's never going to happen again. "Stop pacing. You're making me dizzy." It's funny, because usually he's the one who can't stop fidgeting and Sam's the one telling him to calm down.
The mattress dips as Sam sits down on the bed with a sigh. He runs a hand through his still-wet hair and says, "I told you, you shouldn't have washed those pills down with Jack Daniels." His voice is soft, earnest, worried, even, underneath the edge of exasperation.
"You shot me." It comes out less annoyed than he'd like, and sadder, and he kind of wishes he hadn't said it at all. Before Sam can answer, he continues, "The least you can do is let me have a little fun with the drugs afterwards."
"Jo took good care of you."
Dean shrugs, and regrets it. "She did the job. And so did the pills and the Jack. Definitely feeling no pain."
"Yeah, about that--"
Dean reaches over and curls his fingers around Sam's wrist, feeling for the slow, steady beat of his pulse. He rubs his thumb along the bones, so recently broken and healed. Sam stares at him, words forgotten, eyes wide and full of something Dean can't even identify--a little fear, maybe, some sadness, some regret. All things he wishes he never had to see on Sam's face, and he just wants to make them go away.
He tugs on Sam's hand. "C'mere," he mutters sleepily, and Sam lets himself be pulled down onto his back, long legs stretching out, warm against Dean's side.
"Dean, I--"
Before he can apologize, or say anything else Dean doesn't want to hear, Dean rolls over and kisses him. Which is possibly the girliest thing he's ever done in his life, and also maybe the weirdest, which is really saying something, but he can't worry about that now, because Sam's lips are warm and soft and a little chapped, and Sam's breathing into his mouth, moist and alive, wholly Sam and no one else.
He keeps his eyes closed, doesn't want to see Sam's reaction, see if he's freaked or horrified or whatever. He just needs to know that Sam is here, and that he's Sam again. He slides his hand along Sam's jaw, stubble prickly against his palm, his neck, his collarbones, skin warm and pliant and still damp from the shower.
The pain in Dean's shoulder is a low, slow, distant throb, and he can feel Sam's heart beating fast, so fast, beneath his palm, syncopated against the jittery beat of his own heart.
Then Sam opens his mouth, whispers, "Dean," like he trusts him, like he thinks Dean knows what he's doing, and it's okay. And Dean does.
He doesn't stop, doesn't think, opens his mouth against Sam's, touches their tongues together, slick and hot, tasting toothpaste and the shape of his own name, the shape of his life. The kiss is sloppy and warm, easy in a way it probably wouldn't be if he wasn't hazy from painkillers and relief, guilt and shame vague in the distance, like names he ought to know but can't quite place, and maybe tomorrow they can all get reacquainted, but for now, he's not thinking about anything but Sam.
Sam's breath hitches, and his hand, huge and gentle, comes up to cup Dean's face, calluses as familiar as his own rough against his cheek.
Dean breaks the kiss, says, "Sam?"
Sam nods, presses their foreheads together. They're breathing the same air, and Dean can feel every inch of Sam's long, lean body pressed against him, solid, real, here. He slides his hand over the broad planes of Sam's chest, down the flat of his belly, feeling the muscles jump in response, hearing Sam's breath catch, every touch a question, and Sam answers every one with yes, it's me. Sam's hand on Dean's body mirrors Dean's on his, pleas for reassurance that Dean answers the only way he knows how: I'm here, Sammy, I've got you.
They've only got two good arms between them, so it's awkward when Dean finally wraps his hand around Sam's dick, and rough--quick firm strokes more about easing anxiety than desire, but from the sounds Sam's making, he doesn't mind. His eyes are open, dark, and clear, watching vigilantly, the way he's always watched Dean, always learned whatever Dean's had to teach him, and now Dean's learning, too--he needs to learn even this, every detail of it, every nuance and secret side of Sam, so he'll be able to tell if it ever happens again, so he'll know when it's Sam and when it's not, down to blood and bone, no need for holy water or the name of God to prove the truth.
Sam's hand is large and warm on Dean's hip, fingers gripping hard, and Dean wants them to bruise, wants marks to balance out the wound in his shoulder, every touch an apology Sam shouldn't ever have to make and Dean doesn't ever want to hear.
"Dean--" Sam chokes on the word, makes it a growl, and Dean laughs breathlessly.
"It's okay, Sammy, I gotcha."
"Got you, too," Sam answers, laughing in response and shoving his hand into Dean's boxers, and Christ, it shouldn't feel that good to have Sam touching him, like the top of his head is going to blow off. Anything else he wants to say is lost in the stroke and slide of Sam's hand on his cock, and his on Sam's, in the gasp and hitch of their breath, all the air in the world right here between them.
Sam's laughter dissolves into a low moan as he comes, warm and wet over Dean's hand. Dean kisses him, swallows the sound down, learns the taste and texture of it in his mouth. Sam's hand is still on his dick, and Dean wraps his own hand around it, jacks himself quickly now, pleasure rolling warm and slow in his veins as he gets himself off.
His body's still beating with the heavy pulse of orgasm, drowning out the pain in his arm and silencing the constant litany of I'm sorry, I fucked up in his head, when Sam snuggles--actually snuggles--in, curling around and clutching Dean like a teddy bear. Dean sighs and tousles his hair, and promises himself he'll mock him in the morning. Now, he just cleans them up half-heartedly with a handful of tissues from the nightstand, and finally lets himself sleep, Sam warm and solid at his side.
end
*
2/14/07
Title from Foo Fighters.
~*~
Feedback is love!
~*~