PixCT: 10-4
Oct. 4th, 2007 03:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pixel_0It's a double win this week! New SPN and Cock! \o/
Fic:
Slash (Dean/Sam)
Adult
Mentions of preseries Wincest
1596 words
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
September 07
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 10-4
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
Mentions of preseries Wincest
1596 words
- - - - -
Dru's Pic Pick
- - - -
He walks away from the car, away from where Dean is swearing and sputtering over a tire gone flat, and Sam walks into the sun. He squints, golden hot light paining him as he shuffles through the blistered, parched soil, letting the dust nibble at the bottoms of his jeans, but he doesn’t raise his hand to shield his eyes. Merely bends his head in prayer to the earth, and he keeps walking.
The buildings around him are ghost-town houses and barns, hollow witnesses stripped of their identities, and they stare at him through blank glassless windows and gape soundlessly with doors on broken hinges. Paint, bubbled in the desert’s heat, is peeling in little curls off the weathered gray wood, and Sam tears away a sea foam green piece as he slips inside an ajar door to escape into the shadowed cool.
In the room that might have been a shed, maybe a home, there is an overturned table with three good legs and one bad, and a rusty frame of bedsprings where people once made love, once laughed and cried together, rests against the opposite wall. Rocks and sticks, forgotten pieces of the land’s eroded handiwork, lie jumbled around the edges of the room.
Sam sighs, crosses the area, and his boots echo, scritch-scratch over the dirty planked floor, and he goes to stand at the window opposite the door he entered. He gazes out over the land of rippled sand and proud cacti, and he grips the dusty windowpane in his hands. Thinks of how the memory of school is fading away, taking all he had with it, swallowing Jessica and leaving her as just another granite headstone in his wake. He bitterly wonders if they’ll ever find Dad or if they’re chasing something impossible. Something useless yet again.
He brings a hand to his face, cups his mouth and can’t help but smell greasy diner food still clinging to his hands and the fainter scent of cheap pink liquid soap. His mind, bounce-bouncing from memory to memory, from Dad to Jess, Stanford to the Impala, always comes back to one thing—one person—and Sam knows he can’t keep lying, can’t keep shoving away and building walls for much longer.
“Sam?”
The sound of his name makes him turn, and Dean is standing in the entranceway, pushing the door back to come inside. Dean, too big to fit through the slice of white desert light, too big for Sam’s boxed and regulated wished life. Too big, too bright, too much for Stanford and Californian dreams on the horizon.
“The tire’s changed,” Dean tells him. “We can leave when you’re ready.”
Sam nods, hair too long, unkempt mop falling in his eyes, hasn’t cut it since Jess’ funeral months ago, and he says, “Okay. Yeah, okay.”
Light behind him to illuminate his steps, Dean approaches, and he stands in front of Sam. Still too far, still so separate, but closer all the same.
“You all right?” he asks. Because he’s concerned. Because he’s Dean, Sam’s big brother. Because he still cares about Sam—them—even now.
Sam swallows, remembers final words spoken in desperation and blind confusion, and says, “I wouldn’t let you stay.” It’s a confession. An apology.
Narrowed eyebrows and pinched mouth, Dean stares at him quizzically. “When? What are you talking about?”
“When I went away. California. I wouldn’t let you stay with me. I told you—” Falters, scratches the back of his head viciously. His sigh is ragged and heavy. “I said you didn’t belong.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Dean shrugs absently. “It’s water under the bridge, mkay? Done and over with.” He makes a quick, dismissive gesture to cut off the subject, decapitate its little head, and he turns away.
Sam can’t blame him. Sam wants to turn away also, but he can’t. Not with the ache, this need and this want churning a raw pain in his belly for too long now.
“What if,” Sam begins hesitantly, shoulders bent inward, fingers searching endlessly in empty pockets, feeling stupid, feeling childish and awkward, “what if I…I don’t want it to be over?”
And Dean. Dean turns around and lifts his eyes to Sam’s face.
“Sam,” he says, and perhaps it’s supposed to be a question, but it lands on the breeze and is lifted from his lips as an airy sigh.
Sam nods silently, an admission, an agreement, and he fights back the smile grabbing, pinching at the corners of his mouth.
Dean comes closer now, closer than before, closer than they have been, and Sam can notice everything about him perfectly. The smell from the gasoline that Dean dribbled on his pants from their last stop, the exhaust fumes in his hair and cheap aftershave on his skin. There’s a smudge of grease next to his temple and a sheen of perspiration over the freckles cresting his nose.
He leans up, leans into his younger brother to press his lips questionably to Sam’s. It’s a dry, chaste kiss, a whisper of skin, a question of uncertainty, and he lingers for a moment, hovers on tiptoes so they share one another’s air before Sam kisses him back. Returns all that Dean has ever offered, ever given, ever promised him.
Slowly, dizzily, tongues slip into each other’s mouths, and Sam feels like he’s falling. It’s better than he ever remembered.
Dean brings a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, tugs him nearer, and Sam hooks dirty fingers into the belt loops of Dean’s sagging jeans, their hips bumping together, and it’s still one lost puzzle piece meeting another to make that picture whole just like. Just like it always was.
Dean’s hand on the side of Sam’s face is large, thick and rough, and Sam closes his eyes against it. He’s forgotten the way a man’s hand feels on his skin. The way his brother’s hand feels on him. Others since Dean, yes, but only women to assuage wanton hunger, never another. Jess who he loved, but never anyone close enough to try to serve as a replacement for Dean.
No, this. This has always been theirs alone.
Sam’s heart is thumping erratically in his ears even while the kisses are quiet and soft, and he feels the hot press of his cock against his jeans. Held so close together, he knows that Dean must feel it too, and Sam does not feel ashamed.
Soon enough, Dean answers Sam’s assumption by reaching down between them to cup Sam’s cock through his jeans. Dean rocks against his own knuckles, pressing him tighter to Sam with every languid thrust up. He’s licking at the inside of Sam’s mouth, breath hitching in pained gasps, and his hand is fumbling with the button on Sam’s pants. When his bare fingers, hard and callused, wrap around Sam’s erection, Dean is steady, even and unafraid. Fearing nothing but Sam himself.
Sam holds Dean, digs fingernails into Dean’s shoulders and cups Dean’s ass to keep them from breaking apart, and he lets Dean undo their pants, hold their naked cocks together in one sweaty fist and flick his wrist so they both whimper and moan.
It’s been years. Years since they squeezed into that single dorm bed while the other students bustled outside and hugged parents good-bye, and they huddled on a bare mattress and tried to make this work and found that it wouldn’t—couldn’t—so Sam said good-bye, Dean, and Dean threw a wad of bills on the bed and said take care of yourself, kiddo. Years since they curled into each other under the stars when Sam admitted he was leaving for a place bigger and greater than even Dean could offer him, and they cried slick hot tears they’ll never admit and whispered their secrets to the night they’ll never tell. Years since Sam kissed Dean, and Dean kissed back, and they both said yes, yes...yes this is it for me, I’ll never want anyone more than you. Years since they went from simply Sam and Dean to something else. Something more.
In this little house in the desert where the only signs of life are prickled grass sprouting from split soil, Sam doesn’t last long, and he comes with a broken cry against the bare skin of Dean’s neck. It isn’t until Dean follows him over the edge, and they’ve separated to stare at each other wordlessly that Sam notices the wetness on his cheeks.
Dean wipes his hand off on his pants before Sam pulls him so they sag against the wall together, feeling the dry wind sweep through the room and across their flushed, prickled skin. Dean’s tucking him back into his jeans, fastening the button, but all Sam senses is the steady, constant beating of his heart in his chest. When Dean is finished, he breathes softly, a warm puff of air, against Sam’s ear.
Sam sighs with Dean nestled against his chest, grease-stained fingers wrapped in the flimsy material of Sam’s t-shirt, and Sam watches the sun blaze a promise of a brilliant morning through the window. He buries his face in Dean’s hair and thinks of the years. The years that passed and kept them apart as Sam and Dean. The years that passed and brought them together to a you and a me.
An us. Us. Again.
Sam laughs quietly, a low rumble from deep inside, coming from where his belly once twisted with pain and loneliness, and when Dean lifts his head, his smile is as beautiful as it ever was.
End
Fic:
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
- - - - -
Today
Dru's Pic Pick
He walks away from the car, away from where Dean is swearing and sputtering over a tire gone flat, and Sam walks into the sun. He squints, golden hot light paining him as he shuffles through the blistered, parched soil, letting the dust nibble at the bottoms of his jeans, but he doesn’t raise his hand to shield his eyes. Merely bends his head in prayer to the earth, and he keeps walking.
The buildings around him are ghost-town houses and barns, hollow witnesses stripped of their identities, and they stare at him through blank glassless windows and gape soundlessly with doors on broken hinges. Paint, bubbled in the desert’s heat, is peeling in little curls off the weathered gray wood, and Sam tears away a sea foam green piece as he slips inside an ajar door to escape into the shadowed cool.
In the room that might have been a shed, maybe a home, there is an overturned table with three good legs and one bad, and a rusty frame of bedsprings where people once made love, once laughed and cried together, rests against the opposite wall. Rocks and sticks, forgotten pieces of the land’s eroded handiwork, lie jumbled around the edges of the room.
Sam sighs, crosses the area, and his boots echo, scritch-scratch over the dirty planked floor, and he goes to stand at the window opposite the door he entered. He gazes out over the land of rippled sand and proud cacti, and he grips the dusty windowpane in his hands. Thinks of how the memory of school is fading away, taking all he had with it, swallowing Jessica and leaving her as just another granite headstone in his wake. He bitterly wonders if they’ll ever find Dad or if they’re chasing something impossible. Something useless yet again.
He brings a hand to his face, cups his mouth and can’t help but smell greasy diner food still clinging to his hands and the fainter scent of cheap pink liquid soap. His mind, bounce-bouncing from memory to memory, from Dad to Jess, Stanford to the Impala, always comes back to one thing—one person—and Sam knows he can’t keep lying, can’t keep shoving away and building walls for much longer.
“Sam?”
The sound of his name makes him turn, and Dean is standing in the entranceway, pushing the door back to come inside. Dean, too big to fit through the slice of white desert light, too big for Sam’s boxed and regulated wished life. Too big, too bright, too much for Stanford and Californian dreams on the horizon.
“The tire’s changed,” Dean tells him. “We can leave when you’re ready.”
Sam nods, hair too long, unkempt mop falling in his eyes, hasn’t cut it since Jess’ funeral months ago, and he says, “Okay. Yeah, okay.”
Light behind him to illuminate his steps, Dean approaches, and he stands in front of Sam. Still too far, still so separate, but closer all the same.
“You all right?” he asks. Because he’s concerned. Because he’s Dean, Sam’s big brother. Because he still cares about Sam—them—even now.
Sam swallows, remembers final words spoken in desperation and blind confusion, and says, “I wouldn’t let you stay.” It’s a confession. An apology.
Narrowed eyebrows and pinched mouth, Dean stares at him quizzically. “When? What are you talking about?”
“When I went away. California. I wouldn’t let you stay with me. I told you—” Falters, scratches the back of his head viciously. His sigh is ragged and heavy. “I said you didn’t belong.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Dean shrugs absently. “It’s water under the bridge, mkay? Done and over with.” He makes a quick, dismissive gesture to cut off the subject, decapitate its little head, and he turns away.
Sam can’t blame him. Sam wants to turn away also, but he can’t. Not with the ache, this need and this want churning a raw pain in his belly for too long now.
“What if,” Sam begins hesitantly, shoulders bent inward, fingers searching endlessly in empty pockets, feeling stupid, feeling childish and awkward, “what if I…I don’t want it to be over?”
And Dean. Dean turns around and lifts his eyes to Sam’s face.
“Sam,” he says, and perhaps it’s supposed to be a question, but it lands on the breeze and is lifted from his lips as an airy sigh.
Sam nods silently, an admission, an agreement, and he fights back the smile grabbing, pinching at the corners of his mouth.
Dean comes closer now, closer than before, closer than they have been, and Sam can notice everything about him perfectly. The smell from the gasoline that Dean dribbled on his pants from their last stop, the exhaust fumes in his hair and cheap aftershave on his skin. There’s a smudge of grease next to his temple and a sheen of perspiration over the freckles cresting his nose.
He leans up, leans into his younger brother to press his lips questionably to Sam’s. It’s a dry, chaste kiss, a whisper of skin, a question of uncertainty, and he lingers for a moment, hovers on tiptoes so they share one another’s air before Sam kisses him back. Returns all that Dean has ever offered, ever given, ever promised him.
Slowly, dizzily, tongues slip into each other’s mouths, and Sam feels like he’s falling. It’s better than he ever remembered.
Dean brings a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, tugs him nearer, and Sam hooks dirty fingers into the belt loops of Dean’s sagging jeans, their hips bumping together, and it’s still one lost puzzle piece meeting another to make that picture whole just like. Just like it always was.
Dean’s hand on the side of Sam’s face is large, thick and rough, and Sam closes his eyes against it. He’s forgotten the way a man’s hand feels on his skin. The way his brother’s hand feels on him. Others since Dean, yes, but only women to assuage wanton hunger, never another. Jess who he loved, but never anyone close enough to try to serve as a replacement for Dean.
No, this. This has always been theirs alone.
Sam’s heart is thumping erratically in his ears even while the kisses are quiet and soft, and he feels the hot press of his cock against his jeans. Held so close together, he knows that Dean must feel it too, and Sam does not feel ashamed.
Soon enough, Dean answers Sam’s assumption by reaching down between them to cup Sam’s cock through his jeans. Dean rocks against his own knuckles, pressing him tighter to Sam with every languid thrust up. He’s licking at the inside of Sam’s mouth, breath hitching in pained gasps, and his hand is fumbling with the button on Sam’s pants. When his bare fingers, hard and callused, wrap around Sam’s erection, Dean is steady, even and unafraid. Fearing nothing but Sam himself.
Sam holds Dean, digs fingernails into Dean’s shoulders and cups Dean’s ass to keep them from breaking apart, and he lets Dean undo their pants, hold their naked cocks together in one sweaty fist and flick his wrist so they both whimper and moan.
It’s been years. Years since they squeezed into that single dorm bed while the other students bustled outside and hugged parents good-bye, and they huddled on a bare mattress and tried to make this work and found that it wouldn’t—couldn’t—so Sam said good-bye, Dean, and Dean threw a wad of bills on the bed and said take care of yourself, kiddo. Years since they curled into each other under the stars when Sam admitted he was leaving for a place bigger and greater than even Dean could offer him, and they cried slick hot tears they’ll never admit and whispered their secrets to the night they’ll never tell. Years since Sam kissed Dean, and Dean kissed back, and they both said yes, yes...yes this is it for me, I’ll never want anyone more than you. Years since they went from simply Sam and Dean to something else. Something more.
In this little house in the desert where the only signs of life are prickled grass sprouting from split soil, Sam doesn’t last long, and he comes with a broken cry against the bare skin of Dean’s neck. It isn’t until Dean follows him over the edge, and they’ve separated to stare at each other wordlessly that Sam notices the wetness on his cheeks.
Dean wipes his hand off on his pants before Sam pulls him so they sag against the wall together, feeling the dry wind sweep through the room and across their flushed, prickled skin. Dean’s tucking him back into his jeans, fastening the button, but all Sam senses is the steady, constant beating of his heart in his chest. When Dean is finished, he breathes softly, a warm puff of air, against Sam’s ear.
Sam sighs with Dean nestled against his chest, grease-stained fingers wrapped in the flimsy material of Sam’s t-shirt, and Sam watches the sun blaze a promise of a brilliant morning through the window. He buries his face in Dean’s hair and thinks of the years. The years that passed and kept them apart as Sam and Dean. The years that passed and brought them together to a you and a me.
An us. Us. Again.
Sam laughs quietly, a low rumble from deep inside, coming from where his belly once twisted with pain and loneliness, and when Dean lifts his head, his smile is as beautiful as it ever was.
End
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no subject
Date: 2008-03-26 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-26 07:36 pm (UTC)Thank you, also, for all your other comments. It was quite a surprise to find in my inbox today, but I really appreciated them all. :)