Fic: Avalanche
Fandom: SPN, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Up through All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II
Notes: This is a porny extract from Jaws of Life. Which is kind of ridiculous, because it's almost as long, at 3300 words. It takes place right in the middle. I can't explain why I'm so ass-backwards when it comes to writing this stuff. God. Also, seeing as Wintersleep is too lazy to name their albums, I don't feel bad about stealing the titles of their songs.
Their first night in Crescent City, California, everything was already closed at five, and so for dinner they ate junk food down on the grey shoreline. They perched between huge boulders on the pebble beach and Dean carefully collected each scrap of garbage they produced, and shoved them in his pockets as he ate.
Sam alternated between looking out at the fog rolling off the breakers, and watching Dean horde plastic like a chipmunk. Eventually Sam said, between pringles, “Dude, you'll leave onion rings in the back seat until they turn green, but you won't leave a candy wrapper on the beach?”
Dean stopped chewing, looking almost embarrassed at being caught. “It's disrespectful,” he muttered, after a long hesitation where Sam figured he was trying to come up with a less honest excuse.
Sam sent another sideways glance his way, and didn't pursue the topic. Knowing Dean, it was probably a habit picked up from something Dad had told him when they were little. And given how often they visited the ocean, it had stuck. No littering on the beach. His brother was a closet environmentalist. Sam smiled around his soda, leaned back on his elbows as the wind picked up.
“Don't smirk at me,” said Dean, wiping his hands on his jeans, and rucking up his collar against the ocean's cold.
“I'm not smirking,” Sam wiped the smirk from his mouth and rolled his head around to give Dean the honest face.
Dean averted his eyes, too quick, and grunted his tacit disbelief. Sam looked back to the water, and the silence that had dominated the majority of the past weeks resumed.
--
They went back to the motel across the street when the tide made a sudden jump up the beach and soaked Sam's shoes, socks and feet. It was full dark by then, and Sam was feeling the lack of a solid dinner. He was craving steak, and like, broccoli, or arugula and radishes with feta. Something prissy and delicious that he would've made for Jess, that Dean would make fun of and turn his nose up at. Minerals and vitamins, not salt and cream soda.
His gut twisted, and his stomach actually rumbled as he swiped the key card, and Dean said, “We could drive a bit, see if we can find an all-night diner.”
“Naw, I'll get something in the morning.” Sam held open the door. Dean didn't step past, but stood with his face tilted up, a kind of eager look in his eyes, like he'd boil oceans and burn forests to turn the plastic trash in his pockets into a decent meal. Sam smiled, uneasy. “It's fine, I'll just sleep it off.”
“Alright,” Dean waited, then stepped into the dark room without argument. He went into the bathroom without even turning on the lights, and Sam sat down on the nearer bed. He pried off his wet shoes, and unbuttoned his jeans, squirmed up the bed to prop his head on a pillow.
Dean had been giving him looks like that for his whole conscious life, probably. Eager to please, guilty, hungry all at the same time. It'd never used to bother him, not really. For a long time he'd thought it was the same as Dad's: I love you, you're such a brat, just tell me what you want and you'll have it, alright? You just have to say it. I'll give you anything, except honesty.
But it wasn't. When he was thirteen, maybe fourteen, he'd started to notice a difference. Between the desperation of dad's Anything you want and the constant, sickly hope of Dean's Do you want this? Would you ever want this?.
Sam turned on the TV. He wedged one hand behind his head and let the other stray over his belly and the little curls of hair, down under the elastic waistband of his grey cotton underwear to explore the heat there. He was crotchety, and recognized the itch of dissatisfaction, half hunger and half a need to get in the shower, warm up his feet and just jerk out a load of frustration down the drain.
Instead, he stilled his fingers, muted the local news channel and listened to Dean brushing his teeth through the wall. The sounds from the bathroom, just the swish of water and the creaking of the pipes and Dean shifting on his feet as he reached for a facecloth, calmed him down a bit. But still, here he was, half-cocked with his hand down his pants, thinking about jerking off while his brother stood three feet away and-
Yeah. Was probably doing the same thing.
Sam shoved his offending hand under his back, clenched his jaw and forced his mind away from the little jump his hard-on had made at the mere thought of Dean's.
Dean came out thirty seconds later, damp-faced and fully clothed. Sam pretended not to care, watching the commercials and recounting in his head the number of times he'd ever known Dean to jerk off within earshot. It wasn't many. Not ever in recent times, not even in the shower. But when Sam was just a kid and Dean was thrashing through puberty like a landed bull trout, there'd been shaky breaths in the bed beside him which he honestly - honest to god - hadn't recognized for what they were until years later. And when he was fourteen and Dean was eighteen, dad had left them once to sleep in the car while he went off into the woods. Then, when Dean had started breathing as quiet as possible through his teeth, Sam had pretended to be asleep, but reached down and rubbed his own self through his jeans, finally falling asleep with a cold sticky mess in his underpants.
Crossing in front of the television, Dean didn't say much, just tossed back his covers and crawled into the bed opposite.
Sam tried to be polite, already bored with the mudslides and earthquake warnings anyway, and switched off the television. In the dark, he stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear, dropped his clothes off the edge of the bed. From the other side of the room, Dean's breathing was loud and even, like he'd fallen right asleep.
Sam curled to face in the other direction, and clamped his right hand firm between his thighs. He fell asleep rock hard, and he woke up that way, too.
--
In the morning, Dean didn't want to leave, but he wouldn't say it. He sat at the table with his fork in his hand while Sam pored over the local paper.
“Maybe somebody built another devil's trap around here,” Dean suggested, as Sam turned over yet another completely un-suspicious page. “We could stay and dig around for it for a few days, see if anything turns up.”
“Or maybe it's just a regular town, and nothing's wandered over here yet, and we're wasting our time.” Sam scanned the obituaries. Everyone died of old age or cancer. No murders or violent deaths of any description, ever.
“Could be,” Dean pushed his plate back, balled up his napkin. He coughed and when Sam looked up for a second said, casual, “You want to maybe rent a movie or something?”
Sam chewed his omelet, once, twice. “You mean like from Blockbuster?” he clarified, an idiot.
“Yeah, I guess. We could watch it this afternoon. If the weather. If it doesn't doesn't get any nicer?” Dean's voice curled up to a question mark, and that look - that fucking look that kept coming back more and more - darted around the embarrassed corners of Dean's mouth and marked the way he looked out the window.
Sam pressed his mouth closed, and worked up a careless nod of consent. “Sure, sounds good.”
Sometimes, and especially in the last few months, Dean could make him feel like a skanked-up college girl who'd been taken out to dinner enough times to feed the Roman legions, but who kept finding reasons to put off putting out. Now was one of those times. Sam sat chewing his breakfast, wallowing in guilt, and watching Dean smile happily to himself as he got up to pay their bill.
--
The weather did clear up a bit, and they walked around town all afternoon, a bad horror movie clenched in Dean's hand. Sam kept track, counted out eight times that their hands brushed together accidentally and his chest tightened up and his blood rushed sick with terror. Once, as Dean reached over to examine a DVD in the video store; and again as they walked too close together down the sidewalk, once, twice, three times. Another time when Sam dropped some coins out of his wallet and they both reached for the quarters. Dean never so much as glanced sideways.
They were wandering around town like a couple of high school kids, Sam frightened of Dean, frightened of himself. Dean bought him ice cream, tiger stripe in a waffle cone. They went to the greenway down the centre of town and lounged on a bench, watching joggers and mothers go past. Sam extended an experimental arm along the bench's back, brushed his fingertips between Dean's shoulder blades, and he felt the jolt as his brother leaned away, quick enough that Sam would never have noticed if the touch had been truly accidental.
They started walking back to the motel late in the day, and Sam waited outside as Dean went into a local burger place to pick up some dinner. He paced along the sidewalk, kept glancing in through the plate glass windows to watch Dean ordering and paying.
He'd been seventeen when he first showed up at Stanford, and his first night there, he got invited to a welcome party in a neighbouring dorm. A sophomore girl with a wicked smile and dark eyeliner fed him drinks till he was dizzy and then led him back like a tame dog to her room, where he remembered very few specifics, but all of it with a sense of amazement. He knew she'd started with a chaste massage, then licked at his cock like it was candy, supplied the condoms herself and taken his virginity in under twenty minutes. Mostly, Sam pondered her and wondered if those kind of techniques would work on Dean.
He was all but wringing his hands when his brother came back out with french fries in his mouth and foil-wrapped burgers in his arms. Dean tossed Sam his and grinned like a kid, “Guy in there gave me chicken strips on the house,” he bragged, like it was some kind of accomplishment.
Sam tried to look impressed, failed, probably only looked miserable and worried about the quality of his cheeseburger. Dean noticed, and offered him some of his chicken strips.
--
They watched the movie with the curtains pulled against the sunset, each in their own beds. Dean lay with his chin tucked up to the covers, squealing like a girl whenever the wax-carving psycho went after another pretty victim. He shouted at the TV, kicked under his sheets with sympathy for the running girl, and was generally delighted with the entire process of watching the carnage rather than participating in it.
For his part, Sam could barely keep his eyes on the screen. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know how he was going to do it. He just knew that he had to, that he wanted to, that Dean would want to. If he ever found out. If Sam ever did anything to fix it.
Sam felt like a fucking teenager, and it was seriously embarrassing.
He tossed on top of his comforter, and sat up to peel off his shirts, one at a time. Dean didn't look over.
He got up and paced around the room, ostensibly looking for his wallet. He paused a bit at the end of Dean's bed, working up the nerve to - I don't know - crawl onto it with him, or order him to turn over, or something. Dean said, “Man, get out of the way, I can't see.”
Sam retreated to his bed, heaved a sigh and rolled over. He closed his eyes against the flicker of the screen.
--
He woke up to a hesitant touch on the skin of his hip. The mattress was sagging with Dean's weight, and his brother hovered over him, backlit by the bedside lamps.
“What time is it?” Sam mumbled, rolling over, a foul taste in his mouth and his eyes crusted with sleep.
“Ten-thirty,” Dean's voice was low. “It's a full moon outside. You want to come see?”
Sam looked up at him, trying to discern intent, knowing he couldn't say no, not ever, to the brother who'd sold his soul for him. He didn't ever want to say no, didn't want anyone to think he ever would. Dean was giving him that look, that said do you want this?.
Sam nodded.
He sat up and pulled on a shirt, and they shut the door to the room quietly. From the other rooms in the motel's single corridor, they heard a woman making a shrill point, applause and the blare of a half dozen televisions.
But they were the only ones on the beach, and Dean led the way down to their spot from before. Still cool, and dark, and sheltered from view, if not from the wind, by the black boulders. There they stood, silent, watching the white ripples of reflection swimming in the vast dark. The huge white moon hung like a hole in the sky, close enough to reach a finger through.
Sam turned to Dean, who had his hands in his pockets, and was smiling into the dark, like he had all the time in the world to enjoy the ocean at night, beaches and full moons and bad horror movies. He looked almost at peace, and he only stopped smiling when he saw the look on Sam's face. He turned, and stopped, and they stood staring at each other for a moment.
Then Sam kissed him, mumbling incoherently, apologizing even as he did it. A fast and awkward step in with his hands floating in the air to either side, which Dean didn't correct, but just accepted. Like neither of them had been kissed before, not once in their entire lives. Their lips parted and came back together. Sam saw Dean's closed eyes, the frowning line between his eyebrows. He drew away, and Dean's hands caught him at the wrists, but when Dean's mouth opened to ask that question, nothing came out.
“Do you want this?” Sam asked it for the both of them, his voice pared down to a whimper. He practically twisted down and away from Dean's touch, proffering his open palms like a prayer. Holy God, if he could do one thing for Dean; if either of them could earn forgiveness in any way; if he'd earned any right to give something back to him: let this be it.
Dean gave the lightest tug on Sam's wrists, and brought him in closer. They bent, then knelt in the pebbles, inching closer, hands clasped. They kissed like children, chaste and worshipful until Sam felt Dean's tongue brush against his lips, and Dean's hand take a hold on his hip. Then his blood ran so hot he thought he'd burn up right there on the beach, and he dug his hands and hips and tongue into Dean like he could bolt them together, bone to bone, muscle to muscle.
“God, Sammy,” Dean's voice was hoarse, his eyebrows knit. He pushed them both up and back, until Sam's back was braced against one of the shadowy boulders, and Dean was up against him, angling his hips and craning his neck like a baby bird, running his hands up inside Sam's shirt, the muscle and skin there. A touch as distantly familiar as rain in the desert.
They rutted against each other like that, through their jeans, driving each other crazy as they bucked against hip bones and dipped cold fingers under waistbands, following the curved horizon of hip and stomach. Sam's voice was a steady moan, and Dean let out tiny gasps that sounded a litany: yesyes yes, yes, yes.
Sam could barely take it, and when it got to be too much, when he was scraping his back against the rock and his fingers were cold and Dean was slowing, almost pausing like maybe Sam would take back his permission, he took a chance. He anchored, took a step away and flipped Dean just hard enough against the boulder to shock the breath out of him. And then Sam dropped down, trailing palms down Dean's stomach and sides, popping the button at his crotch and rucking down his jeans to his knees. Sam nuzzled his face deep into the warm, laundry-smelling cotton underneath, nosed at the tight, soft balls and the hard cock, mouthed everything through Dean's boxer-briefs.
Sam lingered. And then he pulled the elastic waistband down, and licked a long stripe up Dean's shaft, getting the head in his mouth and pulling it down horizontal to suck it and take it deep as he dared. He cast a glance upward, and Dean was looking down at him with something like horror, something like joy etched in his face.
As Sam set up a steady rhythm, cheeks hollow and lips firm, Dean choked off a cry. His fingers brushed Sam's ear, reached down to rake at his shoulders, clamp and prevent himself from bucking hard into Sam's mouth.
Sam held on as long as he could, but god, he wanted it so bad. He pulled back, rubbing his wet mouth against the hot skin under Dean's stomach, and Dean pushed Sam's head down, then his shoulders, kicking off his own shoes and crumpled jeans as he forced Sam to his knees, throwing one of their dirty jackets down to cushion against the pebbles. Dean crouched behind him, straddled over Sam's legs and reaching around to clack off the belt, peel off his jeans and underwear. He grabbed Sam's cock as he did so and rubbed his own under and against Sam's ass, the slick length of it pressed between Sam's thighs, bumping against his balls.
“I want this,” Dean muttered, rough into Sam's ear. Dean curled over him as Sam leaned forward to balance with one fist on the ground, and Dean said it again. “I want this, Sammy.”
Sam squeezed his legs tighter, and Dean kept thrusting, jacking Sam's dick with one hand so they were groaning in unison. Dean came first, spilling down between Sam's thighs, and the convulsion in his grip, the shudder in his voice, made Sam come right then, too. A flood of heat spread in waves, shook him outside of himself, left him gasping and aching, curled into himself under Dean's warm chest and steady arms.
All around them, the world was sinking back in, a slow avalanche of reminders. Cold rock, the steady bump and splash of the rollers, fog rising off the water, the low purr of cars running along the street at the top of the beach. In the dark, their bright beams ran like searchlights for the guilty.
Dean pulled away first, started picking up his clothes. The two of them re-assembled themselves like abandoned dolls, and walked together up the beach, across the street to the motel.
While Dean shut himself away in the bathroom again, tap running and toothbrush swishing, Sam tucked himself into his bed. He was freezing, and dirty and Dean hadn't said a word. So again, with the adolescence: he barely knew what had happened. Barely knew whether what he'd done had been bad or worse. Or whether they'd ever acknowledge again that it had happened at all.
He listened to Dean turn off the tap. The door to the washroom opened and the light flicked off. Past the curtains, he could see that the white moon had turned the entire ocean to waves of salt.
Dean crawled into Sam's bed, and placed his damp face against Sam's shoulder, warm hands around Sam's chest.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Up through All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II
Notes: This is a porny extract from Jaws of Life. Which is kind of ridiculous, because it's almost as long, at 3300 words. It takes place right in the middle. I can't explain why I'm so ass-backwards when it comes to writing this stuff. God. Also, seeing as Wintersleep is too lazy to name their albums, I don't feel bad about stealing the titles of their songs.
Their first night in Crescent City, California, everything was already closed at five, and so for dinner they ate junk food down on the grey shoreline. They perched between huge boulders on the pebble beach and Dean carefully collected each scrap of garbage they produced, and shoved them in his pockets as he ate.
Sam alternated between looking out at the fog rolling off the breakers, and watching Dean horde plastic like a chipmunk. Eventually Sam said, between pringles, “Dude, you'll leave onion rings in the back seat until they turn green, but you won't leave a candy wrapper on the beach?”
Dean stopped chewing, looking almost embarrassed at being caught. “It's disrespectful,” he muttered, after a long hesitation where Sam figured he was trying to come up with a less honest excuse.
Sam sent another sideways glance his way, and didn't pursue the topic. Knowing Dean, it was probably a habit picked up from something Dad had told him when they were little. And given how often they visited the ocean, it had stuck. No littering on the beach. His brother was a closet environmentalist. Sam smiled around his soda, leaned back on his elbows as the wind picked up.
“Don't smirk at me,” said Dean, wiping his hands on his jeans, and rucking up his collar against the ocean's cold.
“I'm not smirking,” Sam wiped the smirk from his mouth and rolled his head around to give Dean the honest face.
Dean averted his eyes, too quick, and grunted his tacit disbelief. Sam looked back to the water, and the silence that had dominated the majority of the past weeks resumed.
--
They went back to the motel across the street when the tide made a sudden jump up the beach and soaked Sam's shoes, socks and feet. It was full dark by then, and Sam was feeling the lack of a solid dinner. He was craving steak, and like, broccoli, or arugula and radishes with feta. Something prissy and delicious that he would've made for Jess, that Dean would make fun of and turn his nose up at. Minerals and vitamins, not salt and cream soda.
His gut twisted, and his stomach actually rumbled as he swiped the key card, and Dean said, “We could drive a bit, see if we can find an all-night diner.”
“Naw, I'll get something in the morning.” Sam held open the door. Dean didn't step past, but stood with his face tilted up, a kind of eager look in his eyes, like he'd boil oceans and burn forests to turn the plastic trash in his pockets into a decent meal. Sam smiled, uneasy. “It's fine, I'll just sleep it off.”
“Alright,” Dean waited, then stepped into the dark room without argument. He went into the bathroom without even turning on the lights, and Sam sat down on the nearer bed. He pried off his wet shoes, and unbuttoned his jeans, squirmed up the bed to prop his head on a pillow.
Dean had been giving him looks like that for his whole conscious life, probably. Eager to please, guilty, hungry all at the same time. It'd never used to bother him, not really. For a long time he'd thought it was the same as Dad's: I love you, you're such a brat, just tell me what you want and you'll have it, alright? You just have to say it. I'll give you anything, except honesty.
But it wasn't. When he was thirteen, maybe fourteen, he'd started to notice a difference. Between the desperation of dad's Anything you want and the constant, sickly hope of Dean's Do you want this? Would you ever want this?.
Sam turned on the TV. He wedged one hand behind his head and let the other stray over his belly and the little curls of hair, down under the elastic waistband of his grey cotton underwear to explore the heat there. He was crotchety, and recognized the itch of dissatisfaction, half hunger and half a need to get in the shower, warm up his feet and just jerk out a load of frustration down the drain.
Instead, he stilled his fingers, muted the local news channel and listened to Dean brushing his teeth through the wall. The sounds from the bathroom, just the swish of water and the creaking of the pipes and Dean shifting on his feet as he reached for a facecloth, calmed him down a bit. But still, here he was, half-cocked with his hand down his pants, thinking about jerking off while his brother stood three feet away and-
Yeah. Was probably doing the same thing.
Sam shoved his offending hand under his back, clenched his jaw and forced his mind away from the little jump his hard-on had made at the mere thought of Dean's.
Dean came out thirty seconds later, damp-faced and fully clothed. Sam pretended not to care, watching the commercials and recounting in his head the number of times he'd ever known Dean to jerk off within earshot. It wasn't many. Not ever in recent times, not even in the shower. But when Sam was just a kid and Dean was thrashing through puberty like a landed bull trout, there'd been shaky breaths in the bed beside him which he honestly - honest to god - hadn't recognized for what they were until years later. And when he was fourteen and Dean was eighteen, dad had left them once to sleep in the car while he went off into the woods. Then, when Dean had started breathing as quiet as possible through his teeth, Sam had pretended to be asleep, but reached down and rubbed his own self through his jeans, finally falling asleep with a cold sticky mess in his underpants.
Crossing in front of the television, Dean didn't say much, just tossed back his covers and crawled into the bed opposite.
Sam tried to be polite, already bored with the mudslides and earthquake warnings anyway, and switched off the television. In the dark, he stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear, dropped his clothes off the edge of the bed. From the other side of the room, Dean's breathing was loud and even, like he'd fallen right asleep.
Sam curled to face in the other direction, and clamped his right hand firm between his thighs. He fell asleep rock hard, and he woke up that way, too.
--
In the morning, Dean didn't want to leave, but he wouldn't say it. He sat at the table with his fork in his hand while Sam pored over the local paper.
“Maybe somebody built another devil's trap around here,” Dean suggested, as Sam turned over yet another completely un-suspicious page. “We could stay and dig around for it for a few days, see if anything turns up.”
“Or maybe it's just a regular town, and nothing's wandered over here yet, and we're wasting our time.” Sam scanned the obituaries. Everyone died of old age or cancer. No murders or violent deaths of any description, ever.
“Could be,” Dean pushed his plate back, balled up his napkin. He coughed and when Sam looked up for a second said, casual, “You want to maybe rent a movie or something?”
Sam chewed his omelet, once, twice. “You mean like from Blockbuster?” he clarified, an idiot.
“Yeah, I guess. We could watch it this afternoon. If the weather. If it doesn't doesn't get any nicer?” Dean's voice curled up to a question mark, and that look - that fucking look that kept coming back more and more - darted around the embarrassed corners of Dean's mouth and marked the way he looked out the window.
Sam pressed his mouth closed, and worked up a careless nod of consent. “Sure, sounds good.”
Sometimes, and especially in the last few months, Dean could make him feel like a skanked-up college girl who'd been taken out to dinner enough times to feed the Roman legions, but who kept finding reasons to put off putting out. Now was one of those times. Sam sat chewing his breakfast, wallowing in guilt, and watching Dean smile happily to himself as he got up to pay their bill.
--
The weather did clear up a bit, and they walked around town all afternoon, a bad horror movie clenched in Dean's hand. Sam kept track, counted out eight times that their hands brushed together accidentally and his chest tightened up and his blood rushed sick with terror. Once, as Dean reached over to examine a DVD in the video store; and again as they walked too close together down the sidewalk, once, twice, three times. Another time when Sam dropped some coins out of his wallet and they both reached for the quarters. Dean never so much as glanced sideways.
They were wandering around town like a couple of high school kids, Sam frightened of Dean, frightened of himself. Dean bought him ice cream, tiger stripe in a waffle cone. They went to the greenway down the centre of town and lounged on a bench, watching joggers and mothers go past. Sam extended an experimental arm along the bench's back, brushed his fingertips between Dean's shoulder blades, and he felt the jolt as his brother leaned away, quick enough that Sam would never have noticed if the touch had been truly accidental.
They started walking back to the motel late in the day, and Sam waited outside as Dean went into a local burger place to pick up some dinner. He paced along the sidewalk, kept glancing in through the plate glass windows to watch Dean ordering and paying.
He'd been seventeen when he first showed up at Stanford, and his first night there, he got invited to a welcome party in a neighbouring dorm. A sophomore girl with a wicked smile and dark eyeliner fed him drinks till he was dizzy and then led him back like a tame dog to her room, where he remembered very few specifics, but all of it with a sense of amazement. He knew she'd started with a chaste massage, then licked at his cock like it was candy, supplied the condoms herself and taken his virginity in under twenty minutes. Mostly, Sam pondered her and wondered if those kind of techniques would work on Dean.
He was all but wringing his hands when his brother came back out with french fries in his mouth and foil-wrapped burgers in his arms. Dean tossed Sam his and grinned like a kid, “Guy in there gave me chicken strips on the house,” he bragged, like it was some kind of accomplishment.
Sam tried to look impressed, failed, probably only looked miserable and worried about the quality of his cheeseburger. Dean noticed, and offered him some of his chicken strips.
--
They watched the movie with the curtains pulled against the sunset, each in their own beds. Dean lay with his chin tucked up to the covers, squealing like a girl whenever the wax-carving psycho went after another pretty victim. He shouted at the TV, kicked under his sheets with sympathy for the running girl, and was generally delighted with the entire process of watching the carnage rather than participating in it.
For his part, Sam could barely keep his eyes on the screen. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know how he was going to do it. He just knew that he had to, that he wanted to, that Dean would want to. If he ever found out. If Sam ever did anything to fix it.
Sam felt like a fucking teenager, and it was seriously embarrassing.
He tossed on top of his comforter, and sat up to peel off his shirts, one at a time. Dean didn't look over.
He got up and paced around the room, ostensibly looking for his wallet. He paused a bit at the end of Dean's bed, working up the nerve to - I don't know - crawl onto it with him, or order him to turn over, or something. Dean said, “Man, get out of the way, I can't see.”
Sam retreated to his bed, heaved a sigh and rolled over. He closed his eyes against the flicker of the screen.
--
He woke up to a hesitant touch on the skin of his hip. The mattress was sagging with Dean's weight, and his brother hovered over him, backlit by the bedside lamps.
“What time is it?” Sam mumbled, rolling over, a foul taste in his mouth and his eyes crusted with sleep.
“Ten-thirty,” Dean's voice was low. “It's a full moon outside. You want to come see?”
Sam looked up at him, trying to discern intent, knowing he couldn't say no, not ever, to the brother who'd sold his soul for him. He didn't ever want to say no, didn't want anyone to think he ever would. Dean was giving him that look, that said do you want this?.
Sam nodded.
He sat up and pulled on a shirt, and they shut the door to the room quietly. From the other rooms in the motel's single corridor, they heard a woman making a shrill point, applause and the blare of a half dozen televisions.
But they were the only ones on the beach, and Dean led the way down to their spot from before. Still cool, and dark, and sheltered from view, if not from the wind, by the black boulders. There they stood, silent, watching the white ripples of reflection swimming in the vast dark. The huge white moon hung like a hole in the sky, close enough to reach a finger through.
Sam turned to Dean, who had his hands in his pockets, and was smiling into the dark, like he had all the time in the world to enjoy the ocean at night, beaches and full moons and bad horror movies. He looked almost at peace, and he only stopped smiling when he saw the look on Sam's face. He turned, and stopped, and they stood staring at each other for a moment.
Then Sam kissed him, mumbling incoherently, apologizing even as he did it. A fast and awkward step in with his hands floating in the air to either side, which Dean didn't correct, but just accepted. Like neither of them had been kissed before, not once in their entire lives. Their lips parted and came back together. Sam saw Dean's closed eyes, the frowning line between his eyebrows. He drew away, and Dean's hands caught him at the wrists, but when Dean's mouth opened to ask that question, nothing came out.
“Do you want this?” Sam asked it for the both of them, his voice pared down to a whimper. He practically twisted down and away from Dean's touch, proffering his open palms like a prayer. Holy God, if he could do one thing for Dean; if either of them could earn forgiveness in any way; if he'd earned any right to give something back to him: let this be it.
Dean gave the lightest tug on Sam's wrists, and brought him in closer. They bent, then knelt in the pebbles, inching closer, hands clasped. They kissed like children, chaste and worshipful until Sam felt Dean's tongue brush against his lips, and Dean's hand take a hold on his hip. Then his blood ran so hot he thought he'd burn up right there on the beach, and he dug his hands and hips and tongue into Dean like he could bolt them together, bone to bone, muscle to muscle.
“God, Sammy,” Dean's voice was hoarse, his eyebrows knit. He pushed them both up and back, until Sam's back was braced against one of the shadowy boulders, and Dean was up against him, angling his hips and craning his neck like a baby bird, running his hands up inside Sam's shirt, the muscle and skin there. A touch as distantly familiar as rain in the desert.
They rutted against each other like that, through their jeans, driving each other crazy as they bucked against hip bones and dipped cold fingers under waistbands, following the curved horizon of hip and stomach. Sam's voice was a steady moan, and Dean let out tiny gasps that sounded a litany: yesyes yes, yes, yes.
Sam could barely take it, and when it got to be too much, when he was scraping his back against the rock and his fingers were cold and Dean was slowing, almost pausing like maybe Sam would take back his permission, he took a chance. He anchored, took a step away and flipped Dean just hard enough against the boulder to shock the breath out of him. And then Sam dropped down, trailing palms down Dean's stomach and sides, popping the button at his crotch and rucking down his jeans to his knees. Sam nuzzled his face deep into the warm, laundry-smelling cotton underneath, nosed at the tight, soft balls and the hard cock, mouthed everything through Dean's boxer-briefs.
Sam lingered. And then he pulled the elastic waistband down, and licked a long stripe up Dean's shaft, getting the head in his mouth and pulling it down horizontal to suck it and take it deep as he dared. He cast a glance upward, and Dean was looking down at him with something like horror, something like joy etched in his face.
As Sam set up a steady rhythm, cheeks hollow and lips firm, Dean choked off a cry. His fingers brushed Sam's ear, reached down to rake at his shoulders, clamp and prevent himself from bucking hard into Sam's mouth.
Sam held on as long as he could, but god, he wanted it so bad. He pulled back, rubbing his wet mouth against the hot skin under Dean's stomach, and Dean pushed Sam's head down, then his shoulders, kicking off his own shoes and crumpled jeans as he forced Sam to his knees, throwing one of their dirty jackets down to cushion against the pebbles. Dean crouched behind him, straddled over Sam's legs and reaching around to clack off the belt, peel off his jeans and underwear. He grabbed Sam's cock as he did so and rubbed his own under and against Sam's ass, the slick length of it pressed between Sam's thighs, bumping against his balls.
“I want this,” Dean muttered, rough into Sam's ear. Dean curled over him as Sam leaned forward to balance with one fist on the ground, and Dean said it again. “I want this, Sammy.”
Sam squeezed his legs tighter, and Dean kept thrusting, jacking Sam's dick with one hand so they were groaning in unison. Dean came first, spilling down between Sam's thighs, and the convulsion in his grip, the shudder in his voice, made Sam come right then, too. A flood of heat spread in waves, shook him outside of himself, left him gasping and aching, curled into himself under Dean's warm chest and steady arms.
All around them, the world was sinking back in, a slow avalanche of reminders. Cold rock, the steady bump and splash of the rollers, fog rising off the water, the low purr of cars running along the street at the top of the beach. In the dark, their bright beams ran like searchlights for the guilty.
Dean pulled away first, started picking up his clothes. The two of them re-assembled themselves like abandoned dolls, and walked together up the beach, across the street to the motel.
While Dean shut himself away in the bathroom again, tap running and toothbrush swishing, Sam tucked himself into his bed. He was freezing, and dirty and Dean hadn't said a word. So again, with the adolescence: he barely knew what had happened. Barely knew whether what he'd done had been bad or worse. Or whether they'd ever acknowledge again that it had happened at all.
He listened to Dean turn off the tap. The door to the washroom opened and the light flicked off. Past the curtains, he could see that the white moon had turned the entire ocean to waves of salt.
Dean crawled into Sam's bed, and placed his damp face against Sam's shoulder, warm hands around Sam's chest.