Fanfic - SPN: Dance, This is the Way (Sam/Dean)
Title: Dance, This is the Way
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester (and the Impala)
Prompt: "Dance, Dance" by Fall Out Boy for the From Ashes SPN Ficathon. 064-Moody for 100moods, challenge table here. 018.-Writer's Choice Cliché for sam_slut_a_thon, challenge table here. 48-Writer's Choice for 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~2,000 words.
Rating: NC-17 for language and sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers. Pre-series. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Cliché. Car!kink. Kink. Character study. Established relationship. Wincest. Slash. Smut. Graphic m/m sex.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Sam angsts on Prom Night and seeks comfort in the familiar.
Soundtrack: Available Here - includes the prompt song, the big pop song at prom that year, and songs like the silence.
Author's Notes: Title chopped from a line in the prompt song. And yes, in my view Sam is at least 18, if not 19, at this point. Much thanks to wandereringray and traffic_west for the quick beta jobs.
Office Depot Coupon
The girl he took had ditched him for another guy.
Not that he'd been all that into her. He hadn't. In fact he hadn't even asked her to be his date. She had asked him, in a rush and at the last minute, probably after running down her list of ninety other guys, finding them all taken for the big formal spring dance that seemed to take up most of the buzz around high schools this time of year. She was nice enough and pretty enough and he'd been glad enough to say yes, even though he hadn't originally planned to go at all. But standing by himself just inside the door to the local hotel's grand ballroom, watching hundreds of his horrifically normal classmates dance like this was all that mattered, Sam knew that he was out of place.
He was standing so that his back wasn't completely to the door and he couldn't help but feel somewhat uncomfortable by the lack of obvious alternative exits. He knew the cut of his rented tuxedo would restrict sixty-some percent of his hand-to-hand combat moves and he could name two dozen gruesome scenarios that the darkness outside could be holding in wait for all the too-pretty and wish-they-were-too-pretty people currently crowding the room.
It wasn't that he was scared exactly. He wasn't. But he was aware. So aware, in fact, that it felt almost like everyone else must be sleeping, dreaming, and he was the only one who really saw the world for what it was. Well, him and Dad and Dean.
Dean.
Funny how it had only been five minutes since he'd had a girl in his arms, all her soft curves wrapped up in some bright-colored fabric that was smooth under his skin, and yet, left to its own devices, even just for a moment, his mind slid back into thoughts about a soft that went with well-worn cotton t-shirts and a smooth that covered hard muscles. He was fucked, and he knew that, even as his feet took him out to the lobby telephone booth. This place wasn't for him and no matter how hard he wished it would be, he knew it never really could.
It felt contrived, strange, silly, but when he got to the phone he realized he had no change. He almost leaned out to ask at the desk, but his fingers were dialing the override code like lightning before his mind even registered going into autopilot. Then they raced over the keys again, ringing Dean's cell.
"Hel-lo." Dean always put a little extra oomph on the first syllable as if the word was really about some eternally burning place of pain and the ending was just an afterthought.
"You wanna go for a drive or something?" Dean had, grudgingly, let him borrow the car for his supposedly big night. And yeah, okay, so he'd brought his date, but she'd taken everything with her and she probably had an after-party upstairs to go to later anyway.
"Your girl's not coming home with you?"
"Not my girl. And I'm sure she's got a ride."
For a minute, Dean just seemed to breathe onto the phone, and Sam almost thought he'd have to sit through some speech about how to woo back a lost woman or brawl the other guy into tears, but Dean didn't say that. He understood.
"I'm driving when you get here."
"Fine."
Sam hung up and walked out the door without a single look back or blip of hesitation.
The Impala smelled like him, like Dean, like leather and wax, like beer and gun oil and hidden cigarettes. It even smelled like them and it made his clothes itch. They were all wrong on him when the smell of them was trying to reach his skin. And as soon as he was home and saw Dean walking up to the car with an attitude too casual to be a strut or a swagger but with all the intent of both, Sam was hot. Hot like the tux was soaking up rays from a sun that had set hours ago.
He shifted out of the car, his arm brushing against Dean's as he rounded the front to the passenger's side where he tore off his tuxedo coat with a kind of restrained violence, as if the fabric was an attacker he didn't really want to harm. It flew into the backseat with a swish like a ball through a hoop and he slid into his spot next to his brother, the doors clicking shut as the Impala shot out into the night with a creak and a purr.
The buttons slipping between his sweaty fingers and the cloth of his far too well-pressed shirt hardly made a sound, but there was no other noise in the car so it might have seemed loud. He just couldn't bring himself to really care. These clothes were all wrong and he was too hot.
It came free in his hands, yanked up from its stuffed and tucked place in his pants and he struggled, head nearly against the dashboard, as he tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. He sighed, a kind of partial relief, when he threw it over the seat to join its fallen formal peer. Now he could begin to breathe again, his chest only separated from the air, and his back from the leather of the seat, by the familiar stretch of an undershirt that used to be Dean's.
He was still hot and things still didn't quite seem right, didn't quite fit yet, but he was better. He was with Dean.
"You okay?"
All he saw outside the windshield was farmland, farmhouses, and farming equipment, so they must have been driving longer than he'd thought. His fingers must have been more nervous, more fumbling, than he could recall. All he'd known was the pressing need to get out, to push and pull his way out of the fabric that tried to bind him into some false ritual of normalcy where he was always the wrong fucking ingredient, some bit of tainted boy that everyone thought they could just mix in, but would always end up floating alone on the top.
Alone, unless he was with other tainted boys.
He snickered, hands running through hair still shorter than he'd like.
Alone, unless they could be fucked up together.
"Sam?"
"Just hot."
"Okay."
Dean kept driving, but no one reached for the radio. It was almost like the silence was its own song, one they wrote with their breaths and their heartbeats, their sweat and their anticipation. And anything with any real melody, any lyrics and tones sanctioned by some piece of the world, would just make their song sound like a jumble of chords that shouldn't really exist, let alone be twined in and around each other as if it were beautiful instead of just nine extra levels of fucked.
They weren't going anywhere in particular, except maybe nowhere or as close to nowhere as they could get. It was never quite the same place, even if they'd set out in the exact same direction, and it wasn't like they scouted for spots. They just pulled over when it felt right, when it felt as safe as it ever could feel, and most times that wasn't so much a place as a way of being between them. It could really happen anywhere, but most times it came easier when they were driving, as if moving around so much had made them into motion-based beings who were more themselves when moving than they ever could be standing still.
That movement didn't stop when the car did, when the doors opened, when they slid into slouches with their legs against the front fender, or when the wet of their skin almost sizzled against the heat of the hood.
There were fingers in hair and palms crooked around hipbones, hands tearing at tees and jeans and slacks and boxers. There were teeth denting skin at the shoulder and cocks grinding harsh against thighs. He tasted bourbon from Dad's personal stash and refused to wonder if the scent of some female perfume was his fault or his brother's. But after only a minute, he stopped trying to think and let himself go, then all he could taste was Dean and himself on Dean.
His tongue dipped down, following trails over Dean's chest that he knew by rote because he'd mapped this skin with his mouth too many times to count. Then his brother was moaning into the humidity hanging over them as Sam licked his lips against the head of Dean's cock and plunged down over it, his mouth working up and down it, his throat pulling it in.
He groaned low, slick skin over hard flesh slipping between lips that should have met a girl's tonight, should have curled into smiles at stupid high school jokes, should have mouthed the words to stupid fucking pop songs that all the cool kids knew. Instead, he was here, where he wanted to be, taking what he needed, and giving what he had.
He sucked hard, taking rough slow drafts of Dean's dick like it was a bottle of forget-everything-but-this. And he gripped his own cock like bruises were the only way to bliss as his brother came hot and loud, butter and salt on the back of his tongue.
He didn't wait for Dean to come down from his high, didn't have to and didn't need to. His moves were one part sex and two parts streetfighting as he flipped Dean over, catching him before damage was done but rough enough to mark him anyway. Then there was spit in his palm, his hand on his dick, and his brother's back bowed as he pressed cock into him.
Dean was so fucking tight, always so fucking tight like the near-virgin he'd been when Sam had first wanted this, asked for this, pushed for this. If weeks had gone by or only days, it didn't matter. Spit was never enough to ease the ache for either of them, but they needed it like this, needed to feel each other, friction and flesh, needed to throb from the pain as much as the pleasure, needed to shudder, already so close, when that final ring of muscle gave and there was nothing between them anymore.
The rhythm he set was only slow enough to make this count, to make this last not just for now, but until whenever the next time might be, which always seemed potentially to be never. His hands were at the front of Dean's thigh and the top of Dean's shoulder, eight and one, steering their fuck wordlessly as he ground down and into Dean's ass with the full force of his hips.
The sounds he heard were stuttered, his voice shook up and his brother's damn near broken, and it was so impossibly hot and getting hotter. His sweat boiled, creeping up his skin as he fucked them down into sleek black metal until he was sure there would be a boy-on-boy-sized dent come daylight. Then he felt a shiver rattle his spine and his cock jerked, spitting come warm and deep into his brother as Dean grunted under him, his jizz hitting the hood like heavy rain drops.
Then they were breathing hard, lungs not quite big enough to hold all the air they needed, yet puffing what little air they had out into the dark like a gift, but it was good. Their muscles were exhausted, too tense and too relaxed, and all at once unable to move, but it was good. They were brothers dick-deep into each other, their love and need buried so far down inside that nothing could ever really exorcise it, but it was good.
Fucked, really, they were fucked, but somehow it was all still so damn good.
It wasn't any wonder, then, that he was addicted and couldn't ever seem to get clean. He could try to learn the steps to some new dance, so he could be just like the others, but he'd always trip, in the end, and reach for the safety of that old familiar swing-twist combination.
Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam. To touch and turn and shift and switch, to bend and sweat and breathe. It didn't matter where or when or how it happened.
This was just the only dance that he ever really knew.
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester (and the Impala)
Prompt: "Dance, Dance" by Fall Out Boy for the From Ashes SPN Ficathon. 064-Moody for 100moods, challenge table here. 018.-Writer's Choice Cliché for sam_slut_a_thon, challenge table here. 48-Writer's Choice for 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~2,000 words.
Rating: NC-17 for language and sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers. Pre-series. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Cliché. Car!kink. Kink. Character study. Established relationship. Wincest. Slash. Smut. Graphic m/m sex.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Sam angsts on Prom Night and seeks comfort in the familiar.
Soundtrack: Available Here - includes the prompt song, the big pop song at prom that year, and songs like the silence.
Author's Notes: Title chopped from a line in the prompt song. And yes, in my view Sam is at least 18, if not 19, at this point. Much thanks to wandereringray and traffic_west for the quick beta jobs.
Office Depot Coupon
The girl he took had ditched him for another guy.
Not that he'd been all that into her. He hadn't. In fact he hadn't even asked her to be his date. She had asked him, in a rush and at the last minute, probably after running down her list of ninety other guys, finding them all taken for the big formal spring dance that seemed to take up most of the buzz around high schools this time of year. She was nice enough and pretty enough and he'd been glad enough to say yes, even though he hadn't originally planned to go at all. But standing by himself just inside the door to the local hotel's grand ballroom, watching hundreds of his horrifically normal classmates dance like this was all that mattered, Sam knew that he was out of place.
He was standing so that his back wasn't completely to the door and he couldn't help but feel somewhat uncomfortable by the lack of obvious alternative exits. He knew the cut of his rented tuxedo would restrict sixty-some percent of his hand-to-hand combat moves and he could name two dozen gruesome scenarios that the darkness outside could be holding in wait for all the too-pretty and wish-they-were-too-pretty people currently crowding the room.
It wasn't that he was scared exactly. He wasn't. But he was aware. So aware, in fact, that it felt almost like everyone else must be sleeping, dreaming, and he was the only one who really saw the world for what it was. Well, him and Dad and Dean.
Dean.
Funny how it had only been five minutes since he'd had a girl in his arms, all her soft curves wrapped up in some bright-colored fabric that was smooth under his skin, and yet, left to its own devices, even just for a moment, his mind slid back into thoughts about a soft that went with well-worn cotton t-shirts and a smooth that covered hard muscles. He was fucked, and he knew that, even as his feet took him out to the lobby telephone booth. This place wasn't for him and no matter how hard he wished it would be, he knew it never really could.
It felt contrived, strange, silly, but when he got to the phone he realized he had no change. He almost leaned out to ask at the desk, but his fingers were dialing the override code like lightning before his mind even registered going into autopilot. Then they raced over the keys again, ringing Dean's cell.
"Hel-lo." Dean always put a little extra oomph on the first syllable as if the word was really about some eternally burning place of pain and the ending was just an afterthought.
"You wanna go for a drive or something?" Dean had, grudgingly, let him borrow the car for his supposedly big night. And yeah, okay, so he'd brought his date, but she'd taken everything with her and she probably had an after-party upstairs to go to later anyway.
"Your girl's not coming home with you?"
"Not my girl. And I'm sure she's got a ride."
For a minute, Dean just seemed to breathe onto the phone, and Sam almost thought he'd have to sit through some speech about how to woo back a lost woman or brawl the other guy into tears, but Dean didn't say that. He understood.
"I'm driving when you get here."
"Fine."
Sam hung up and walked out the door without a single look back or blip of hesitation.
The Impala smelled like him, like Dean, like leather and wax, like beer and gun oil and hidden cigarettes. It even smelled like them and it made his clothes itch. They were all wrong on him when the smell of them was trying to reach his skin. And as soon as he was home and saw Dean walking up to the car with an attitude too casual to be a strut or a swagger but with all the intent of both, Sam was hot. Hot like the tux was soaking up rays from a sun that had set hours ago.
He shifted out of the car, his arm brushing against Dean's as he rounded the front to the passenger's side where he tore off his tuxedo coat with a kind of restrained violence, as if the fabric was an attacker he didn't really want to harm. It flew into the backseat with a swish like a ball through a hoop and he slid into his spot next to his brother, the doors clicking shut as the Impala shot out into the night with a creak and a purr.
The buttons slipping between his sweaty fingers and the cloth of his far too well-pressed shirt hardly made a sound, but there was no other noise in the car so it might have seemed loud. He just couldn't bring himself to really care. These clothes were all wrong and he was too hot.
It came free in his hands, yanked up from its stuffed and tucked place in his pants and he struggled, head nearly against the dashboard, as he tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. He sighed, a kind of partial relief, when he threw it over the seat to join its fallen formal peer. Now he could begin to breathe again, his chest only separated from the air, and his back from the leather of the seat, by the familiar stretch of an undershirt that used to be Dean's.
He was still hot and things still didn't quite seem right, didn't quite fit yet, but he was better. He was with Dean.
"You okay?"
All he saw outside the windshield was farmland, farmhouses, and farming equipment, so they must have been driving longer than he'd thought. His fingers must have been more nervous, more fumbling, than he could recall. All he'd known was the pressing need to get out, to push and pull his way out of the fabric that tried to bind him into some false ritual of normalcy where he was always the wrong fucking ingredient, some bit of tainted boy that everyone thought they could just mix in, but would always end up floating alone on the top.
Alone, unless he was with other tainted boys.
He snickered, hands running through hair still shorter than he'd like.
Alone, unless they could be fucked up together.
"Sam?"
"Just hot."
"Okay."
Dean kept driving, but no one reached for the radio. It was almost like the silence was its own song, one they wrote with their breaths and their heartbeats, their sweat and their anticipation. And anything with any real melody, any lyrics and tones sanctioned by some piece of the world, would just make their song sound like a jumble of chords that shouldn't really exist, let alone be twined in and around each other as if it were beautiful instead of just nine extra levels of fucked.
They weren't going anywhere in particular, except maybe nowhere or as close to nowhere as they could get. It was never quite the same place, even if they'd set out in the exact same direction, and it wasn't like they scouted for spots. They just pulled over when it felt right, when it felt as safe as it ever could feel, and most times that wasn't so much a place as a way of being between them. It could really happen anywhere, but most times it came easier when they were driving, as if moving around so much had made them into motion-based beings who were more themselves when moving than they ever could be standing still.
That movement didn't stop when the car did, when the doors opened, when they slid into slouches with their legs against the front fender, or when the wet of their skin almost sizzled against the heat of the hood.
There were fingers in hair and palms crooked around hipbones, hands tearing at tees and jeans and slacks and boxers. There were teeth denting skin at the shoulder and cocks grinding harsh against thighs. He tasted bourbon from Dad's personal stash and refused to wonder if the scent of some female perfume was his fault or his brother's. But after only a minute, he stopped trying to think and let himself go, then all he could taste was Dean and himself on Dean.
His tongue dipped down, following trails over Dean's chest that he knew by rote because he'd mapped this skin with his mouth too many times to count. Then his brother was moaning into the humidity hanging over them as Sam licked his lips against the head of Dean's cock and plunged down over it, his mouth working up and down it, his throat pulling it in.
He groaned low, slick skin over hard flesh slipping between lips that should have met a girl's tonight, should have curled into smiles at stupid high school jokes, should have mouthed the words to stupid fucking pop songs that all the cool kids knew. Instead, he was here, where he wanted to be, taking what he needed, and giving what he had.
He sucked hard, taking rough slow drafts of Dean's dick like it was a bottle of forget-everything-but-this. And he gripped his own cock like bruises were the only way to bliss as his brother came hot and loud, butter and salt on the back of his tongue.
He didn't wait for Dean to come down from his high, didn't have to and didn't need to. His moves were one part sex and two parts streetfighting as he flipped Dean over, catching him before damage was done but rough enough to mark him anyway. Then there was spit in his palm, his hand on his dick, and his brother's back bowed as he pressed cock into him.
Dean was so fucking tight, always so fucking tight like the near-virgin he'd been when Sam had first wanted this, asked for this, pushed for this. If weeks had gone by or only days, it didn't matter. Spit was never enough to ease the ache for either of them, but they needed it like this, needed to feel each other, friction and flesh, needed to throb from the pain as much as the pleasure, needed to shudder, already so close, when that final ring of muscle gave and there was nothing between them anymore.
The rhythm he set was only slow enough to make this count, to make this last not just for now, but until whenever the next time might be, which always seemed potentially to be never. His hands were at the front of Dean's thigh and the top of Dean's shoulder, eight and one, steering their fuck wordlessly as he ground down and into Dean's ass with the full force of his hips.
The sounds he heard were stuttered, his voice shook up and his brother's damn near broken, and it was so impossibly hot and getting hotter. His sweat boiled, creeping up his skin as he fucked them down into sleek black metal until he was sure there would be a boy-on-boy-sized dent come daylight. Then he felt a shiver rattle his spine and his cock jerked, spitting come warm and deep into his brother as Dean grunted under him, his jizz hitting the hood like heavy rain drops.
Then they were breathing hard, lungs not quite big enough to hold all the air they needed, yet puffing what little air they had out into the dark like a gift, but it was good. Their muscles were exhausted, too tense and too relaxed, and all at once unable to move, but it was good. They were brothers dick-deep into each other, their love and need buried so far down inside that nothing could ever really exorcise it, but it was good.
Fucked, really, they were fucked, but somehow it was all still so damn good.
It wasn't any wonder, then, that he was addicted and couldn't ever seem to get clean. He could try to learn the steps to some new dance, so he could be just like the others, but he'd always trip, in the end, and reach for the safety of that old familiar swing-twist combination.
Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam. To touch and turn and shift and switch, to bend and sweat and breathe. It didn't matter where or when or how it happened.
This was just the only dance that he ever really knew.