Good Morning, 1/1, Sam/Dean, [R]
Sometimes, Sam and Dean had sex like it was a shame. It was quiet and rushed and satisfying on the barest, basest level possible. Afterwards, they would lie in separate beds, dirty and awake and trying to swallow it all down. The first times were that way, and it was a while before they knew anything else. Those times took days to wash away, lingering and stinking and awful.
Sometimes, Sam and Dean had sex like it was a sport, with plenty of sweat and soreness the next day. They ached from trying to keep up and surpass each other all very long night long. Sam would wake up, his long legs--and more--filled with acid burning, and Dean’s eyes would puff, pissed at him for the mean lack of sleep. They took their pleasure from each other in lightening rounds with K.O. orgasms at the end.
Sometimes the sex was like torture, brimming with primal begging and heavy, heavy hands and, if Dean was nice enough to not let Sam’s lower lip out from between his teeth, just a little bit of blood. The moans they let out at the pushing and pulling and shoving and sucking walked the line, precariously tipping towards pain. The darkness of night smothered the reason and restraint out of them, covered them up and left them to their devices.
It was bruising, fast-hands tight on tired hard muscle and quick, slick movement. High on hunts, their bodies would throb with adrenaline and intense awareness of each other. They outrun sense and shame to bed those nights.
But sometimes, every now and then, after a night of almost losing each other-again-Sam and Dean had sex like it was something similar to love. It was always in the morning, when strips of light seeping through the blinds laid on their bare bodies. The horrors of the night before would have sunk away, just a little, into their dreams. They were unhurried, unconcerned with the rotten world outside their small, cheap room.
Sam would smile, running a thumb over Dean’s lips, and count his freckles, until some special touch made him gasp and lose count. Dean liked to press his face into Sam’s dark hair and breath in-it smelled like shampoo, and sometimes, a fireplace. They smiled at each other in these mornings, and sometimes they even laughed--when Sam mistakenly shot a slimy tube of lube clear across the room, or when Dean accidentally misplaced a knee and nearly caused Sam very serious injury which would have, to say the least, dampened the mood.
Defying the laws of physics, those mornings would last all damn day, until one of the boys would point out the sunset-soaked room’s orange glow to the other. They would marvel at the passage of time. After all, it was painstaking work, for Dean to really analyze how Sam’s stomach tensed when Dean kissed the spot right there, on Sam’s collarbone. Sam had to devote long hours to committing the taste of Dean’s mouth to memory (sharp and a little sweet, like hard liquor). There were several experimental attempts before Dean learned how to drag Sam along the edge of an orgasm before letting him drop into it. They fit together in beautiful, liquid electric movements. Those mornings were slow touches everywhere and lots of unsaid things proclaimed loudly, if silently, through every attentive move.
They never planned those mornings, they just came like rains in summer--unexpected but so very appreciated. In fact, they never talked about it at all. Every time they took off for another shithole town, another crap motel, another nightmare show-down, they left what happened between them behind. As far as the boys were concerned, these incidents never happened. They couldn’t happen. Sam and Dean were brothers, for god’s sake, both of their bodies held the same blood. And, each very secretly speculated, maybe two parts of the same soul.
They lived waiting for the next time a good morning would come.