(no subject)
Somewhat indirectly inspired by oxoniensis, have some kissing. A lot of kissing. Teeny kissing vignettes!
Pressing, Sam/Dean, R, 730 words.
Pressing
The first time is just outside of Boston, on the shoulder of an exit ramp. It's thirty five degrees and pouring rain, and one of their headlights is out; Dean's got two wrenches and a replacement light bulb, and he's been fucking with it for fifteen minutes.
"Fuck," Dean says, when he drops the hex key for the third time in a row, rubbing his fingers against the inside of his jacket to bring feeling back. Sam just leans in and grabs his hands, close, and somewhere between the press of his Dean's fingers against the inside of his wrist and the headlight flickering back on, there's the brush of mouth against mouth, Dean's breath warm against his lips. Sam realizes that Dean tastes like coffee before he realizes what they're doing, what the accidental pull of Dean's startled expression is doing to him.
"Uh," Sam manages.
"Fuck," Dean says, and drops the allen wrench again.
-
The first time it counts, there's an entire bottle of tequila and five days of driving between them, and even Dean can't hold it together.
"Sam," he says, laughing when he goes for the keys, "Sammy," and Sam eases him back against the motel door and spreads a hand out next to the brass numbers just behind Dean's shoulder. There are thirteen cars, six glass bottles, and one abandoned suitcase in the parking lot, and when they kiss, Sam stops breathing.
Sam keeps his eyes open, just watching. Dean lets his close.
-
Sam breaks four ribs and needs twenty-three stitches when a poltergeist throws him through a picture window, and when he comes out of the emergency room, careful, Dean shoves him back against the car in the ambulance dock. He's pinned tight, Dean's hips up against his, and he thinks Dean's going to punch him, the kind of solid connect to the jaw that's going to have Sam turning around and walking back into the ER.
"If you ever," Dean manages, breathing hard, and kisses him, possessive and desperate.
Sam closes his hands in Dean's shirt and lets him, and when they get to the hotel room, Dean nudges four soft, brief kisses against the curve of Sam's jaw, just the barest touch of mouth against skin. He lets Sam fall asleep on his shoulder watching The History Channel, something about the Civil War, and their fourth kiss - Dean's mouth to the corner of Sam's, unsteady - doesn't count because Sam's too far gone to remember it.
-
It lasts two hours, with so little space between breaths that Sam's pretty sure it only counts as one kiss, and by the time they finally roll apart, Dean can't keep his hips from pressing up and Sam can't think. It's hot and wet and deep, pressed together in the back of the Impala, and Sam loses track of where his mouth ends and Dean's begins. Dean drags his teeth just beneath Sam's collar, steady pressure, and he's so hard it hurts. Dean gets a hand into his back pocket, pulling him in, and Sam breathes for both of them, in and out of Dean's mouth like he can't manage on his own.
"Good night?" the gas station clerk says, a couple hours later, just outside of Omaha, and it doesn't matter that it hurts to grin.
"God, yes," Sam says, and pays for ten gallons of gas and a pack of cigarettes.
-
Spread out in bed, hands flat against thin cotton sheets, Sam stops thinking and leans into Dean's hands, cupped against his face.
"Can I -" Dean says, so close he can feel the words, "Sammy -" and Sam laughs against his mouth, a little like kissing.
"Yeah," he says, "fuck," and it's as close to perfect as kisses get.
-
"First shower," Dean says, already half way into the bathroom, and stops for a kiss, all toothpaste and shaving cream, commonplace.
They kiss: goodnight, good morning, hello, at stoplights, and once because Sam wants the remote. It's like coffee and cough syrup, cinnamon gum and mouthwash, and Sam passes on two colds. Dean likes making out, slow and deep, licking into Sam's mouth, and Sam cups his face in a supermarket, after it all, and kisses him next to eight types of Cheerios and an already-opened box of Corn Flakes, on sale for half off.
-
He stops counting, eventually.
Pressing, Sam/Dean, R, 730 words.
Pressing
The first time is just outside of Boston, on the shoulder of an exit ramp. It's thirty five degrees and pouring rain, and one of their headlights is out; Dean's got two wrenches and a replacement light bulb, and he's been fucking with it for fifteen minutes.
"Fuck," Dean says, when he drops the hex key for the third time in a row, rubbing his fingers against the inside of his jacket to bring feeling back. Sam just leans in and grabs his hands, close, and somewhere between the press of his Dean's fingers against the inside of his wrist and the headlight flickering back on, there's the brush of mouth against mouth, Dean's breath warm against his lips. Sam realizes that Dean tastes like coffee before he realizes what they're doing, what the accidental pull of Dean's startled expression is doing to him.
"Uh," Sam manages.
"Fuck," Dean says, and drops the allen wrench again.
-
The first time it counts, there's an entire bottle of tequila and five days of driving between them, and even Dean can't hold it together.
"Sam," he says, laughing when he goes for the keys, "Sammy," and Sam eases him back against the motel door and spreads a hand out next to the brass numbers just behind Dean's shoulder. There are thirteen cars, six glass bottles, and one abandoned suitcase in the parking lot, and when they kiss, Sam stops breathing.
Sam keeps his eyes open, just watching. Dean lets his close.
-
Sam breaks four ribs and needs twenty-three stitches when a poltergeist throws him through a picture window, and when he comes out of the emergency room, careful, Dean shoves him back against the car in the ambulance dock. He's pinned tight, Dean's hips up against his, and he thinks Dean's going to punch him, the kind of solid connect to the jaw that's going to have Sam turning around and walking back into the ER.
"If you ever," Dean manages, breathing hard, and kisses him, possessive and desperate.
Sam closes his hands in Dean's shirt and lets him, and when they get to the hotel room, Dean nudges four soft, brief kisses against the curve of Sam's jaw, just the barest touch of mouth against skin. He lets Sam fall asleep on his shoulder watching The History Channel, something about the Civil War, and their fourth kiss - Dean's mouth to the corner of Sam's, unsteady - doesn't count because Sam's too far gone to remember it.
-
It lasts two hours, with so little space between breaths that Sam's pretty sure it only counts as one kiss, and by the time they finally roll apart, Dean can't keep his hips from pressing up and Sam can't think. It's hot and wet and deep, pressed together in the back of the Impala, and Sam loses track of where his mouth ends and Dean's begins. Dean drags his teeth just beneath Sam's collar, steady pressure, and he's so hard it hurts. Dean gets a hand into his back pocket, pulling him in, and Sam breathes for both of them, in and out of Dean's mouth like he can't manage on his own.
"Good night?" the gas station clerk says, a couple hours later, just outside of Omaha, and it doesn't matter that it hurts to grin.
"God, yes," Sam says, and pays for ten gallons of gas and a pack of cigarettes.
-
Spread out in bed, hands flat against thin cotton sheets, Sam stops thinking and leans into Dean's hands, cupped against his face.
"Can I -" Dean says, so close he can feel the words, "Sammy -" and Sam laughs against his mouth, a little like kissing.
"Yeah," he says, "fuck," and it's as close to perfect as kisses get.
-
"First shower," Dean says, already half way into the bathroom, and stops for a kiss, all toothpaste and shaving cream, commonplace.
They kiss: goodnight, good morning, hello, at stoplights, and once because Sam wants the remote. It's like coffee and cough syrup, cinnamon gum and mouthwash, and Sam passes on two colds. Dean likes making out, slow and deep, licking into Sam's mouth, and Sam cups his face in a supermarket, after it all, and kisses him next to eight types of Cheerios and an already-opened box of Corn Flakes, on sale for half off.
-
He stops counting, eventually.