Drabbles
When Sam turned on him, pushed him back with both hands, Dean put up no resistance. For a few moment there, his back against the tree, he was sure Sam would hit him. And he wanted it. Wanted to feel the pain that he deserved. More than that, he wanted Sam to be the one to inflict it. Sam deserved that much. Who else would he take it out on? Who else was there to take the blame?
“Don’t,” Sam said and Dean shuddered.
How many times had he heard that word in his nightmares?
“Don’t think about that,” Sam said.
His eyes seemed darker here, among the trees, so much like Dean’s but always different. Green and gold and brown, all the colors of the earth. Not angry. Cautious. What was there to be cautious about? Did he think Dean would try and hurt him again? Was there anything left Dean could take away from him, anything left he could hurt him with that he hadn’t already?
Sam’s hands passed over Dean’s stomach lightly, just a brush of cotton against the skin. Dean shuddered again, this time with something entirely unexpected, something that sent goosebumps rising slowly along his spine.
“Just don’t think right now, ok?” Fingertips finding their way under the shirt, skimming the skin above the belt. Such a tiny touch but it struck Dean like a lash, sharp and hot and painful.
“Sam-“
“It shouldn’t be hard for you,” Sam said, a tiny smile curving the corner of his mouth, “not thinking for a while.”
Did he just make a joke? Dean’s short laugh came out as a shaky exhale, a pitiful sound really, more anxious than anything else.
“Sammy–“
“Why can’t you be quiet for longer than two seconds, huh?”
That was a good question. Dean would have answered it, except that now Sam’s hands had somehow snuck past the belt, past the button and the zipper, one thumb grazing the skin where thigh met the hipbone and Dean vibrated, he fucking vibrated from head to toe, every muscle, every part of him suddenly straining towards Sam. How did he even do that so fast? Maybe instead of cheating at poker, they should have Sam out there picking pockets. With moves like that he could probably have his hands in and out of people’s pockets before–
“Jesus,” he hissed.
Sam’s hand, wrapped around him. Jesus fuck. His heart stopped and started up again. He couldn’t breathe. He was breathing too much. He was about to hyperventilate.
He didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes until he felt Sam press against him, felt the rub of Sam’s jean covered thigh, felt his cheek brush his own.
Sam’s breath bathed his neck, his ear, and it was like stepping into flames, like being consumed.
“Listen to me very carefully now,” his mouth formed the words so close to Dean’s skin that the contact buckled his knees.
He was supposed to listen to something? Now? Like this? Sam’s hand tightened slightly and Dean heard himself make a sound, something between a whimper and a whine, something that had never before existed in his vocabulary. Something he hadn’t known his vocal chords were capable of. All coherent thoughts left his head in a rush.
“You’re my brother. And I love you. But if you leave me too, if you get yourself killed one of these days because of this fucking guilt you have, I will hunt you down. You will never have a moment of peace, not in your afterlife, not for eternity. I can’t… I won’t lose you too. Do you understand?”
Sam telling him he loves him.
Sam touching him, Sam pressed against him, Sam’s hair against his cheek, white throat inches away, whispering in his ear, his Sam. Not a dream, not a fantasy that will eventually go wrong, not a figment of Dean’s imagination. Everything painfully real, the breeze passing through the leaves, the sun rays filtered through pine needles, the far away cry of an eagle on a hunt.
“Yes,” he heard himself say, “yes.”
Yes to everything. Yes to anything. He didn’t care what it was. It was Sam.
The pressure disappeared. He heard the pine needles crunch.
“What–“
Wet. Hot.
Lights exploded in front of his eyes. He threw his head back and it connected to the trunk of the tree hard enough to trigger more lights. His fingers dug into the bark; it crumbled in his grip. He locked his knees before they could crumble too.
Sam’s mouth.
Never. All those times with random girls in the back of the Impala, in the numerous hotel rooms, strange beds, showers, bathrooms, back alleys. Nothing had ever felt like this. It was the sweetest childhood memory, all the rare moments of joy rolled into one, a life he would never have, a future he would never dare hope for, it was a blessing, sweet and beautiful and intense. Sam. His Sam.
He fought the urge to look down, to see Sam on his knees, Sam’s mouth around him. If he looked down it would kill him, his heart would stop. He was afraid to move, to reach for Sam’s face, to do anything that would ruin this moment in time when nothing mattered any more, when it could all crumble into the deepest pits of hell and Dean would not move an inch to stop it. He would sell himself, his soul, the world, he would plunge the entire existence into the oblivion. For Sam. Everything for Sam.
Slick tongue and a scrape of the teeth, lips tightening one moment then sliding down the length of him, lightly teasing then devouring, no rhythm, no sense, no reason, just heat and pleasure building so fast, building like a lightening storm. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out, his mouth filling with blood, his fingers trying to invade the thick flesh of the tree behind him. Clenched teeth and barely breathing he still made a sound, a desperate whine traveling from someplace deep inside of his chest, from that place where every picture of Sam lay hidden. Sam at eight, his eyes larger than the rest of him, asking Dean to check for monsters under his bed. Sam at twelve, awkward and shy, stuttering whenever he had more than two pairs of eyes turned his way. Sam at eighteen, tall and magnificent, stubborn, defiant, unhappy. Hair forever in his eyes, his pants never long enough to reach the ground, every shirt stretching tight across his shoulders. Vulnerable and heartbreakingly beautiful.
The back of Sam’s throat closed around him and Dean felt him moan, a long, drawn out vibration stronger than an earthquake, more intense than an electric shock. It shattered the world. It shattered him, ripped him apart, destroyed him. It went on and on until he was sure that he would just self combust, that he would burn to cinder where he stood, that no being on earth could feel this and live to tell about it. Sam.
His Sam.
When he could finally see again, think again, he is something else. Sam had broken him and remade him. Sam had made him his own.
--
“Don’t,” Sam said and Dean shuddered.
How many times had he heard that word in his nightmares?
“Don’t think about that,” Sam said.
His eyes seemed darker here, among the trees, so much like Dean’s but always different. Green and gold and brown, all the colors of the earth. Not angry. Cautious. What was there to be cautious about? Did he think Dean would try and hurt him again? Was there anything left Dean could take away from him, anything left he could hurt him with that he hadn’t already?
Sam’s hands passed over Dean’s stomach lightly, just a brush of cotton against the skin. Dean shuddered again, this time with something entirely unexpected, something that sent goosebumps rising slowly along his spine.
“Just don’t think right now, ok?” Fingertips finding their way under the shirt, skimming the skin above the belt. Such a tiny touch but it struck Dean like a lash, sharp and hot and painful.
“Sam-“
“It shouldn’t be hard for you,” Sam said, a tiny smile curving the corner of his mouth, “not thinking for a while.”
Did he just make a joke? Dean’s short laugh came out as a shaky exhale, a pitiful sound really, more anxious than anything else.
“Sammy–“
“Why can’t you be quiet for longer than two seconds, huh?”
That was a good question. Dean would have answered it, except that now Sam’s hands had somehow snuck past the belt, past the button and the zipper, one thumb grazing the skin where thigh met the hipbone and Dean vibrated, he fucking vibrated from head to toe, every muscle, every part of him suddenly straining towards Sam. How did he even do that so fast? Maybe instead of cheating at poker, they should have Sam out there picking pockets. With moves like that he could probably have his hands in and out of people’s pockets before–
“Jesus,” he hissed.
Sam’s hand, wrapped around him. Jesus fuck. His heart stopped and started up again. He couldn’t breathe. He was breathing too much. He was about to hyperventilate.
He didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes until he felt Sam press against him, felt the rub of Sam’s jean covered thigh, felt his cheek brush his own.
Sam’s breath bathed his neck, his ear, and it was like stepping into flames, like being consumed.
“Listen to me very carefully now,” his mouth formed the words so close to Dean’s skin that the contact buckled his knees.
He was supposed to listen to something? Now? Like this? Sam’s hand tightened slightly and Dean heard himself make a sound, something between a whimper and a whine, something that had never before existed in his vocabulary. Something he hadn’t known his vocal chords were capable of. All coherent thoughts left his head in a rush.
“You’re my brother. And I love you. But if you leave me too, if you get yourself killed one of these days because of this fucking guilt you have, I will hunt you down. You will never have a moment of peace, not in your afterlife, not for eternity. I can’t… I won’t lose you too. Do you understand?”
Sam telling him he loves him.
Sam touching him, Sam pressed against him, Sam’s hair against his cheek, white throat inches away, whispering in his ear, his Sam. Not a dream, not a fantasy that will eventually go wrong, not a figment of Dean’s imagination. Everything painfully real, the breeze passing through the leaves, the sun rays filtered through pine needles, the far away cry of an eagle on a hunt.
“Yes,” he heard himself say, “yes.”
Yes to everything. Yes to anything. He didn’t care what it was. It was Sam.
The pressure disappeared. He heard the pine needles crunch.
“What–“
Wet. Hot.
Lights exploded in front of his eyes. He threw his head back and it connected to the trunk of the tree hard enough to trigger more lights. His fingers dug into the bark; it crumbled in his grip. He locked his knees before they could crumble too.
Sam’s mouth.
Never. All those times with random girls in the back of the Impala, in the numerous hotel rooms, strange beds, showers, bathrooms, back alleys. Nothing had ever felt like this. It was the sweetest childhood memory, all the rare moments of joy rolled into one, a life he would never have, a future he would never dare hope for, it was a blessing, sweet and beautiful and intense. Sam. His Sam.
He fought the urge to look down, to see Sam on his knees, Sam’s mouth around him. If he looked down it would kill him, his heart would stop. He was afraid to move, to reach for Sam’s face, to do anything that would ruin this moment in time when nothing mattered any more, when it could all crumble into the deepest pits of hell and Dean would not move an inch to stop it. He would sell himself, his soul, the world, he would plunge the entire existence into the oblivion. For Sam. Everything for Sam.
Slick tongue and a scrape of the teeth, lips tightening one moment then sliding down the length of him, lightly teasing then devouring, no rhythm, no sense, no reason, just heat and pleasure building so fast, building like a lightening storm. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out, his mouth filling with blood, his fingers trying to invade the thick flesh of the tree behind him. Clenched teeth and barely breathing he still made a sound, a desperate whine traveling from someplace deep inside of his chest, from that place where every picture of Sam lay hidden. Sam at eight, his eyes larger than the rest of him, asking Dean to check for monsters under his bed. Sam at twelve, awkward and shy, stuttering whenever he had more than two pairs of eyes turned his way. Sam at eighteen, tall and magnificent, stubborn, defiant, unhappy. Hair forever in his eyes, his pants never long enough to reach the ground, every shirt stretching tight across his shoulders. Vulnerable and heartbreakingly beautiful.
The back of Sam’s throat closed around him and Dean felt him moan, a long, drawn out vibration stronger than an earthquake, more intense than an electric shock. It shattered the world. It shattered him, ripped him apart, destroyed him. It went on and on until he was sure that he would just self combust, that he would burn to cinder where he stood, that no being on earth could feel this and live to tell about it. Sam.
His Sam.
When he could finally see again, think again, he is something else. Sam had broken him and remade him. Sam had made him his own.
--
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