Like A Light Bulb in a Dark Room, 1/1, Dean/Sam [NC-17]

[toldthestars]

And now begins my slight slash-writing hiatus. To kick off my sabbatical, this is my totally happy, completely 100% non-angst ending that I promised to tabaqui. See? I'm totally capable of not beating the bejezuz out of Dean (it's just fun). After this season ends, there's a few stories a-brewin' in my brain, but until then, I'll end on a high note, and then there's this thing called real life I've got to tend to.

Also, tonight's episode? Dean's my big bad kick ass hero. *siiiigh* Okay, enough fangoo. On to slash!

Title: Like a Light Bulb in a Dark Room (complete)
Fandom: SPN
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17...hooray!
Word Count: 3855
Summary: Sam's bringing sexy back.
Disclaimer: Not mine, however, they are on my birthday list.



It was really starting to get to Sam.

But what wasn’t, these days.

Dean had been home from the hospital for days, his bumps and cuts staying longer then they usually did. Maybe, Sam thought, his body was just plain tired of healing itself, especially when it knew the next broken bone, the next spilt skin, the next inevitable pain was probably just hiding around the damn corner. Maybe Dean’s body was done putting itself back together just to be battered and busted all over again.

And that was just the outside, Sam thought miserably.

Sam understood that his brother was broken, that he was struggling with some serious sick-deep-down-to-his-soul kinda shit, and that what might be best would be to give him time, space, and occasionally drop a meal in front of him and just hope.

But really, this was starting to drive Sam nuts.

A heavy storm had rolled in almost the moment Sam had gotten Dean through the door of the hotel room, and thank G-well, thank whoever for small favors, because between the mean dark yellow sky and the thick, solid raindrops that stung just a little, Sam managed to convince Dean that holing up was not the worst idea in the world. He was happy that Dean was finally sitting in one safe space, slowly healing--really, he was. Still, he chewed at his thumb thinking how weird it was that he sort of missed the fight that Dean didn’t put up.

Even after the hail and gloom had rolled away, Dean still didn’t talk about leaving.

In fact, he didn’t talk about anything. He didn’t do anything. He sat at the small table and stared out the window. He sat on his bed and stared at the TV set. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. Dean could, at this point, take on a dead fish in a staring contest and probably kick ass.

And Sam was ready to blow his own friggin’ head off.

It was boring, yah, there was that, but it was more.

A lot more, actually.

Sam knew it was selfish. In fact, it was ridiculously selfish to want attention after all that happened to Dean. But, dang it, Sam had needs. Even after Dean’s holy return flight from Hell, even now that things were…different…between Sam and Dean, they had still enjoyed an active and…creative intimacy. Less frequently, perhaps, but more intense and mind-blowing then Sam had ever imagined.

Sam understood that, now, it was more about Dean acting out his anger and betrayal and frustration on Sam’s body, and that he should feel distressed about the tension that hung around their interactions like a third wheel. But damn, sometimes Sam couldn’t help but be a little difficult on purpose, just to be punished for it later.

It was Dean’s own fault for creating a subconscious connection for Sam between Dean’s pissed-off face and blindingly good orgasms.

In the months leading up to Dean’s migration south, it had been all gentle kisses and committing-your-curves-to-memory caresses. There had even been, dare Sam admit it, spooning. Every time was emotional, because every time was the almost-last-time, except for the actual last time, which, as far as Sam was concerned, could not be topped--not by anything, ever. That included the new skills Dean had demonstrated since his recent grave escape--skills which involved ropes, handcuffs, chains, whips, and, oddly and excitingly, a faux fur-covered paddle. Sam never breathed the thought aloud, but sometimes wondered if Hell was just a swinger’s club Dean got lost in for four months.

That soul-scorching last time couldn’t even be touched by Ruby, no matter how hard she tried. Sex with Dean was like wine-cheap, boxed wine, maybe, but still. Afterwards, Sam felt dizzy and giddy and kind of wanted a little more even though he knew he’d regret it in the morning. Sex with Ruby…well, she was sort of like a walking juice bar, wasn’t she? One of those ones at the gym. Yes, Ruby was a protein shake. If he was tired of run-down, a hit of Ruby would set him straight and keep him moving. Moving quickly, generally in a direction, usually opposite of where she was. It just was never the same and never would be. She would never be as completely satisfying, as totally electrifying, as everything that Sam needed as Dean was.

So Sam was kind of climbing the walls.

But, despite all Dean’s teasing (and all the demon blood), Sam still prided himself on his sensitivity to the needs and desires of others. Which was why he would never, ever simply say to Dean, in his delicate and diminished state, “Hey, you. I want your cock.” No, that certainly would not do.

Nevertheless, it was really, really, really starting to get to Sam.

So surely some subtle hints wouldn’t be totally out line, right?

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, sitting down on the bed his brother had claimed. “You hot? I’m, uh, I’m a little hot.” Sam snags his teeshirt collar with a crooked finger and pulls on it.

Dean’s slightly glazed eyes swing to Sam and it’s that barely-there stare he’s perfected.

“Just saying, you know. It’s kinda warm to me. Like, you know…” Sam lowers his voice and his gaze. “Hot.” He tries to say a lot in one heavily emphasized word. Just for good measure, he gives Dean an eyebrow quirk.

Dean blinks, then leans over and switches on the A/C. He gives Sam an insincere shadow of a smile and then resumes tracking the clouds as they stalk across the sky.

Okay. So, clearly, not Sam’s best work. It wasn’t the right approach, especially since Sam should have remembered that since coming back, Dean only ever felt too cold. Which is why Sam feels a stab of guilt as he watches Dean shiver slightly while the air conditioning drags the temperature in the room down.

It was okay. It’s alright, because Sam isn’t easily deterred. Admittedly, the first attempt had been somewhat lame, but he could do better.

He thinks back to the early days, after Stanford, when their touches had started to take on lives of their own. As Sam mulls it over, it makes sense that it could be gradual, pulling Dean back into bed with him, the way it had been in the very beginning.

If Sam can just get Dean’s hands on him, it was enough.

“Dean, man, my back is killing me,” he says, pressing his shoulders back and putting a hand on his neck. “I don’t know what I did to it.”

When Sam looks up, Dean’s eyes are on him again, reminding Sam of a dog that’s heard its name but isn’t sure what comes next. So Sam gives him a small smile, tempered it with good-natured need, and makes himself a little more clear. “Help me out here?”

Sam’s startled by how quickly and quietly Dean pads on bare feet across the room, his face blank like slate.  In seconds, he’s sinking to his knees in front of Sam. Sam tenses up suddenly, his breath sucking in without him wanting it to and his eyes going wide. Dean looks up at him, big, beautiful glassy green eyes lighting up everything, and he reaches between Sam’s feet, under the bed and yanks out his duffel. He shoves a hand inside it and pulls out a small tub of Bengay, which he tosses in Sam’s lap before moving fast to flip on the television and fling himself down on Sam’s bed.

Sam breathes. Well, damn it. That had been the opposite of helpful. Sam opens the little jar, crinkles his nose and holds himself precariously in check. The simple sight of Dean dropping to his knees in front of him had brought Sam’s tensely pent-up energy to critical, hazardous levels, and any moment he’s certain he’ll explode like a walking sex bomb of horny doom and destruction.

Okay, maybe not quite, but he sure as hell wanted to hit something.

It’s time to pull out the stops. Sam knows Dean well, despite Dean’s best efforts to be an inscrutable wall of badass. He knows Dean’s strengths, and more importantly, his weakness. Sam lets a grin slip across his face as he heads for the door and sends a promise to be right back over his shoulder to Dean.

He returns shortly later, clutching a paper bag full of warmth that radiated a delicious smell. Dean is exactly where Sam had left him, laying limp on his bed and looking at the T.V. like he it was plotting against him. Sam lets the paper bag land on the small table with a loud thud. Dean doesn’t look over, but that’s okay. Sam smiles mischievously as he strips off his tee to the thin, worn tank top he had on underneath and plunks down in a chair, his legs sprawled wide.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. He slides out two Styrofoam containers from the bag, and pops one open in front of him and lets the full, spicy smell of cinnamon, pastry crust and apples slink sensuously into the room and curl into every corner.

“Want some?” he asks from behind a loaded plastic fork.

Dean blinks over at Sam. His face is shifting, and Sam studies him intently, warily. He watches those jade eyes in an ashen face dart all over him, and he savors the look of Dean’s dry lips parting and a pink tongue running over them. Sam’s heart’s hanging on the word building behind those delicious lips.

“No.” Dean says. It’s the first word in nearly three days. And it’s ‘no.’ “Thanks,” Dean tacks on flatly.

Hell. Sam wonders if Dean can see him deflating. He pulls in a breath and feels defiant. He shoves the forkful of pie into his mouth and lets out a winding moan of satisfaction that isn’t at all insincere.

It is pretty damn good pie.

He swipes a finger through the warm pie goo, coats the length of it in glistening yumminess. Dean’s already gone back to tv, so Sam clears his throat and when Dean looks over, he tries to pin Dean’s attention under a sultry smile and a simmering gaze.

“You sure?” Sam says in a voice that’s coming straight from his dick. He slides the finger into his mouth, rolls his tongue around it and let his eye lids slip closed. He’s offering Dean pie and sex. Both at once. If his mouth wasn’t full of his own finger, he would smirk.

Sam thinks, not for the first time, that he’s a freakin’ genius.

He opens his eyes up to find Dean’s bed, sans Dean. Sam feels that familiar pinch of panic as he pulls his finger out with a pop and swings his head around, catching sight of the bathroom door just as its swinging closed behind Dean.

And for a second Sam is startled and stupidly paralyzed, stuck on staring at the bathroom door. It’s quiet and still and suddenly Sam’s seeing red.

Sam thinks, not for the first time, that he’s a freakin’ idiot.

By the time Dean’s out of the bathroom, Sam is yanking open drawers and shoving clothes in his duffel. His body, his jaw, his shoulders-he’s all tense, straight lines ready to snap like friggin’ kindling twigs.

“Leaving?” Dean grates out, with a slow blink like he’s drugged.

“Yup,” Sam replies. He can pull the monosyllabic mystery man act, too, god damn it.

Dean just nods slightly and shuffles in the direction of his bed.

Alright, so Sam’s never been good at playing simon-says-shut-the-fuck-up, so through gritted teeth he says to Dean, “Wanna know where we’re headed? What we’re doing?”

He’s still glaring knives into the bottom of an empty drawer, but he can feel Dean shrugging.

Sam manages to keep his cool. For all of ten seconds.

He whips around fast enough to hurt his neck and slams the drawer so hard it sounds like a shot went off.

“God damn it, Dean, don’t you give a fuck about anything? For Christ’s sake, just…drag me all over the god forsaken country on a marathon hunt, or get stinkin’ drunk, or bang a parade of waitresses, or hell, take a swing at me, just-something! Do something!”

Dean’s looking at Sam like he’s just been tossed in lion’s den at feeding time. His eyes are wide and rimmed red, and Sam swears he sees them dart towards the door like Dean’s thinking of making a wild bolt for freedom.

“What’s wrong with you Dean?” Sam practically shouts, throwing his arms out like he’s just begging, begging for a fight. At least then he’d feel Dean’s skin again.

Dean looks over out the window. The rain clouds are rolling in again, dark and mean. Thunder’s reverberating off in distance, and nearly rolls over the words Dean rasps out.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Sammy…but everything I touch tends to turn to shit.”

“Is that why you won’t touch me?” Sam says before he can stop himself.

Dean’s surprised gaze snaps to Sam’s face, but only briefly, before it drifts slowly back to the fat drops falling outside.

“Dean,” Sam says, not even caring that his desperation is in his voice, “Man, it’s like…like you’re a million miles away, and I don’t know what to do to bring you back. It’s like you’re in Hell all over again, only this time I’ve brought your body along for company.”

“The world would be better off if I was still there,” Dean says, quietly and plainly.

“Fuck the world, Dean! Fuck Heaven and Hell and earth-you’re the one I’m interested in saving. It’s you I give a shit about. I love you, for fuck’s sake, and I’m tired of watching every side of this damn thing use you for their own personal punching bag. They’ve used you all up and…and…”

Sam’s choking on the thoughts coming out of his mouth, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s true. Maybe there’s nothing left in Dean, because the way his brother is looking at him now, it’s like Dean’s got a black hole for a heart and the empty space between them is overwhelming. Sam’s not gonna cry, because that would be the pussiest thing he could possibly do right now. He will, however, turn back to his packing and maybe rub his eyes a little, as they itch something awful. “I just miss you, that’s all. I just do.”

And that’s it. Sam’s done.

He’s shoving his last crumpled pair of jeans in the duffel and nearly jumps through his skin when he feels fingertips brush feather-light against his sides. Dean’s arms, strong and solid despite everything, squeeze tight around him, giving Sam a good excuse for suddenly not being able to breathe.

“You too, Sammy,” Dean says, pressing his cheek between Sam’s shoulder blades, the way he sometimes did before he (and everything) went all to hell. He turns to let his breath sweep over Sam’s neck as he says, “I miss you, too.”

Sam marvels at the power of the four little words, four tiny, one-syllable words. Dean is still here. Dean is with him.

Sam slowly reaches a hand up to rest over Dean’s, almost afraid that he’ll shatter if he touches him, but lightly. Dean’s skin is ceramic-smooth, and though Dean doesn’t say it, Sam knows he misses his old scars and calluses and aches, although he’s got a quickly expanding collection of new ones. The old marks were stories about the Winchester men in the glory days that only Dean had ever actually considered glorious. He deserved to keep those mementos.

“Sam, man, I thought I taught you better,” Dean whispers against his back, and Sam shudders a little.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hot in here? I mean, how lame can you get, ya little slut? About as subtle as handing me some lube and bending over,” Dean chuckles.

In the same breath, Sam is thanking the stormy heavens that he has his brother again, and is also considering ass-checking the jerk as hard as he can. But, he holds himself back-he doesn’t want to damage anything he’s interested in using in the very immediate future.

Dean’s hands are on Sam’s hips, now, directing him to turn around and Sam is happy to be maneuvered.

“Come here, Sasquatch,” he mutters, and Sam’s heart feels like a balloon, filling up and floating up and away as he leans down to feel Dean’s lips on his. The warm, happy feeling spiraling through his body gets a lot warmer and a lot happier as the kiss deepens and Sam remembers the taste of Dean; sweet and bitter and so warm and comfortable, like Dean’s mouth is made of 100 proof summertime.

Dean’s got a hand wrapped in Sam’s tank top, and is dragging him back towards his bed. Sam feels like a damn teenager, already hard and leaking in his shorts, stumbling and awkward as he tries to follow wherever Dean’s lips lead.

“We still gotta leave?” Dean says around Sam’s mouth. In response, Sam smirks and pushes Dean backwards onto the disheveled bed.  “Guess not,” Dean laughs, and Sam’s breathe catches. It suddenly occurs to him that he doesn’t remember the last time he heard that laugh. It fills the room like the sun rise.

Sam’s undressed in seconds-he wants to take his time, to let Dean watch and want, but clearly he is now under the dictatorship of his ecstatically anxious dick, and the clothes just come off faster then he intended. He looks over Dean, sprawled on the bed, and enjoys the wet-lipped look of excitement on Dean’s face.

“Dean, we, uh, we have a nudity gap,” Sam points out with a smirk.

“A nudity gap?”

“Yes, a nudity gap. Strip,” Sam says, trying to sound commanding. The effect is probably ruined by the kid-on-Christmas expression on his face. Nevertheless, Dean smirks for only a second before peeling off his thermal and taking extra effort in unbuckling his belt. In a fleeting moment of smoothness, Sam grips Dean’s jeans and slides them off in one fluid movement.

“You’ve been practicing,” Dean grins and nods approvingly.

“God, I wish that was true,” Sam says as he kisses a trail up Dean’s body, from his knee, over the ridge of his hipbone, over tight abs, past ever-perky nipples, to his collarbone, and finally arriving back at Dean’s lips. Their warm tongues slide around and over each other, and hands are just everywhere between them, as though they’ve sprouted a few extra just to feel each other. Sam is acutely aware of their hard and hot cocks pressing against each other, and savors the pressure wtih a low moan. His eyes nearly roll back when Dean’s hand slithers down his body and cups his balls, squeezing them with just hard enough to make Sam completely insane. It makes it very difficult to tear away and drag himself back down the length of Dean’s body. Then again, Dean’s expression as Sam’s tongue blazes the trail down to Dean’s dick and up the slick shaft from his navel makes the whole journey really worthwhile.

Sam’s so stark raving hungry  for Dean that he wraps his mouth around him like his dick’s a friggin’ lollipop, a fucking amazing magical lollipop that grants immortality and orgasms. The idea is delightful and dirty in Sam's mind as he fucks Dean with his mouth. Dean, his smooth, unshakeable Dean, shudders all over and lifts his hips to drive his dick deeper into the tight-warm--wonderful of Sam. He’s got a fan-fucking-tastic view of Dean from where he is. There’s the jade-and-gold-rimmed irises just circling deep and wide pupils, and the scattering of freckles floating across flushed and sweat-coated cheek bones. As Sam sucks fucking sexy sounds out of Dean, he watches the big hands clutch the sheets, like Dean's afraid he might lift off it entirely, too high on Sam going down on him, and watches the muscles of his stomach pulling tight as Dean’s body tenses. The way Dean’s grunting and groaning has Sam turned on to the point that he can feel his own hips pumping fitfully forward into nothing but air, but he swears up and down he’s not actually doing it.

A heavy palm lands on Sam’s head, sweeping, quick fingers running through his hair gently before clutching a greedy handful of it. Sam is suddenly struck with two impulses. The first happens the moment it enters his fuck-fuzzy brain-he whips a hand down and wraps it around his hard dick, . He’s so fucking needy right now, his dick screaming at him for relief so clearly that Sam’s slightly afraid it may become self-aware and at that point, it’d be every man for himself. The hand that isn’t jerking himself off  is completely involved in sliding all over Dean’s sculpted, sweat-slicked body. It’s like touching living art.

The other sudden urge is to hum-so he does. Oddly, the first song that occurs to him is “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica. It vibrates out from his wet, working lips into Dean’s hips and sizzles up their spines to their brains and set off sparks of painful good pleasure that tingle all the way to their fingertips and toes.

“Dude, is that…?” Dean huffs.

“Mmm hmm,” Sam says, never breaking away from the taste of Dean to answer. The flavor of Dean’s dick reminds him the way the Impala smells after a quick pull-over.

"Awesome,” Dean groans out. “You…oh, jesus, Sammy, you’re so fuckin'…”

Whatever Sam is gets choked off deep in Dean’s throat as Sam’s tongue flicks around the head of Dean’s dick, and within moments his pumping hips are in the air and Dean's coming, filling up Sam’s mouth, and Sam’s drunk on it. It’s only seconds later that Sam’s popping like a champagne bottle himself and making a mindless moan to the ceiling. He falls forward next to Dean like all his bones have turned to rubber, and Dean chuckles low and quiet, and reaches over to stroke his fingers through Sam’s sex-styled hair.

“You still with me, Sammy?” Dean says quietly.

“Mmm hmm,” Sam murmurs, not totally certain he’s still awake. “Always.”

“Yah, kid, I know.”

Sam, plotting to blame it all on the sleepy post-orgasm stupor, snuggles up to Dean and cracks open an eye to glance up at him. He looks like a different man then an hour ago; his face has color, all blushed up pink with those gold freckles, and he’s smiling. Actually, truly smiling.

That smile. It really gets to Sam.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Yah, Dean?"

"There still some pie left?"

Sam feels triumphant. More than that, though, Sam feels... feels like suddenly the light's come back. He lets out a little sigh.

He just knew there had to be some way to turn Dean back on.