SPN ficlet: "hold out our hands to catch them"
The porn battle is crazy! Four pages of porn in just the first 24 hours! *boggles* Also, the porn battle soundtrack has, I don't know, about five or six hours worth of music in it now - no excuse for not being in the mood! Great going folks! And in case I don't get to thank everyone individually for taking part, in whatever way, thank you!!
I've written seriously schmoopy first-time porn! More schmoop than porn! I kinda lose at my own challenge! But I will try again!
hold out our hands to catch them,
Supernatural, Dean/Sam, forget/promise
Strong R, 661 words.
eta: Illlustrated beautifully by a_fallen_sister here.
hold out our hands to catch them
Sam never forgets. He holds Dean to the craziest promises - drunken ones, years old ones, promises that weren't even meant to be heard, let alone remembered. Promises Dean half didn't expect to be alive to pay up.
So when Sam says you promised in that tone, Dean knows. He knows.
There's no point making excuses. No point saying it was years ago and he hadn't meant it. No point at all, because Sam will just keep looking at him. He'll mouth those words over and over. You promised.
And there's no way Dean can say he doesn't want to, that he lied back then and he doesn't want Sam, not like this. Because even a blind deaf fool could tell that isn't true (and Sam's not blind or deaf and he's only an idiot some of the time). Dean's wanted Sam since he can remember understanding what wanting really meant. And now he's older, he understands it ten times over. Losing almost everything does that to you. Sharpens the edge of the want until it'll cut through anything.
Cut through right and wrong and yes and no until it's satisfied.
He's older now, they're older, and he'd said to Sam, when you're older, then. He'd added maybe in his head, and meant never, but he knows his body isn't saying never. It's saying yes, loud and clear.
So Sam's collecting, right now. Pushing Dean against the wall like he's furious, but there's no anger in his look. Just want as keen and sharp as Dean's.
Sometimes Dean forgets how huge Sam is. He still remembers carrying him around, soft little bundle in his arms, sweet sleepy smile. There's nothing soft or sleepy about Sam now, nothing gentle about the thighs pressing between Dean's, broad shoulders crowding him, hands working up under Dean's shirts. He's hard and demanding and Dean wants to shout yes.
Sam leans down, forehead to forehead, and his breath is a hot whisper-promise on Dean's face. "Dean," he says, and there's a crack in his voice.
Dean thinks the lump in his throat is going to suffocate him. It's not meant to be this difficult to breathe, not unless you're dying. He doesn't trust his voice to answer. Lets his hand answer for him, cupping Sam's face, keeping him close.
Sam's skin is sweaty and he's not shaved today. Dean feels every flaw under his thumb: the zit on Sam's chin, the little round cushions of moles, the thin scar below his ear. He's not sure when he last took a full breath, and his heart is racing crazy-fast the way it did the first time he nearly died, and Sam is touching him everywhere but where he needs it most. He kisses Sam, more tentative than he intends, more question than answer. His lips are chapped and so are Sam's, dry and rough, and Dean feels thin skin tear when Sam bites, tastes his own blood. It shouldn't feel perfect, but it does.
Sam kisses back like he hadn't even thought of this, like he'd planned all the touching but not even thought of kissing Dean. He's clumsy and eager and it feels more intimate even than the hand that's unbuttoning Dean's jeans, slipping inside the heat there.
"God, yes." Dean doesn't know when he got so desperate, just knows that he's opening his legs for Sam and Sam's hand fits his cock and the air is heavy and hot and weighing him down so it's getting hard to stand up and Dean's not going to last and he doesn't even care that Sam'll mock him forever. He just needs to come because really he's been waiting for this for years. Waiting and wanting and imagining.
There's a satisfied snicker of breath against his cheek as he spills over Sam's fingers, the little fucker laughing at him, and he's going to make Sam pay for that. Just as soon as he can move.
And that's a promise.
*
yeah, all those stars drip down like butter,
and promises are sweet,
we hold out our pans with our hands to catch them.
we eat them up, drink them up, up, up, up
R.E.M.
I've written seriously schmoopy first-time porn! More schmoop than porn! I kinda lose at my own challenge! But I will try again!
hold out our hands to catch them,
Supernatural, Dean/Sam, forget/promise
Strong R, 661 words.
eta: Illlustrated beautifully by a_fallen_sister here.
hold out our hands to catch them
Sam never forgets. He holds Dean to the craziest promises - drunken ones, years old ones, promises that weren't even meant to be heard, let alone remembered. Promises Dean half didn't expect to be alive to pay up.
So when Sam says you promised in that tone, Dean knows. He knows.
There's no point making excuses. No point saying it was years ago and he hadn't meant it. No point at all, because Sam will just keep looking at him. He'll mouth those words over and over. You promised.
And there's no way Dean can say he doesn't want to, that he lied back then and he doesn't want Sam, not like this. Because even a blind deaf fool could tell that isn't true (and Sam's not blind or deaf and he's only an idiot some of the time). Dean's wanted Sam since he can remember understanding what wanting really meant. And now he's older, he understands it ten times over. Losing almost everything does that to you. Sharpens the edge of the want until it'll cut through anything.
Cut through right and wrong and yes and no until it's satisfied.
He's older now, they're older, and he'd said to Sam, when you're older, then. He'd added maybe in his head, and meant never, but he knows his body isn't saying never. It's saying yes, loud and clear.
So Sam's collecting, right now. Pushing Dean against the wall like he's furious, but there's no anger in his look. Just want as keen and sharp as Dean's.
Sometimes Dean forgets how huge Sam is. He still remembers carrying him around, soft little bundle in his arms, sweet sleepy smile. There's nothing soft or sleepy about Sam now, nothing gentle about the thighs pressing between Dean's, broad shoulders crowding him, hands working up under Dean's shirts. He's hard and demanding and Dean wants to shout yes.
Sam leans down, forehead to forehead, and his breath is a hot whisper-promise on Dean's face. "Dean," he says, and there's a crack in his voice.
Dean thinks the lump in his throat is going to suffocate him. It's not meant to be this difficult to breathe, not unless you're dying. He doesn't trust his voice to answer. Lets his hand answer for him, cupping Sam's face, keeping him close.
Sam's skin is sweaty and he's not shaved today. Dean feels every flaw under his thumb: the zit on Sam's chin, the little round cushions of moles, the thin scar below his ear. He's not sure when he last took a full breath, and his heart is racing crazy-fast the way it did the first time he nearly died, and Sam is touching him everywhere but where he needs it most. He kisses Sam, more tentative than he intends, more question than answer. His lips are chapped and so are Sam's, dry and rough, and Dean feels thin skin tear when Sam bites, tastes his own blood. It shouldn't feel perfect, but it does.
Sam kisses back like he hadn't even thought of this, like he'd planned all the touching but not even thought of kissing Dean. He's clumsy and eager and it feels more intimate even than the hand that's unbuttoning Dean's jeans, slipping inside the heat there.
"God, yes." Dean doesn't know when he got so desperate, just knows that he's opening his legs for Sam and Sam's hand fits his cock and the air is heavy and hot and weighing him down so it's getting hard to stand up and Dean's not going to last and he doesn't even care that Sam'll mock him forever. He just needs to come because really he's been waiting for this for years. Waiting and wanting and imagining.
There's a satisfied snicker of breath against his cheek as he spills over Sam's fingers, the little fucker laughing at him, and he's going to make Sam pay for that. Just as soon as he can move.
And that's a promise.
*
yeah, all those stars drip down like butter,
and promises are sweet,
we hold out our pans with our hands to catch them.
we eat them up, drink them up, up, up, up
R.E.M.