Birthday Fic: You Pull Me In (Sam/Dean R)
For
zooey_glass04 and
parenthetical--Happy Early-Birthday and Happy Late-Birthday! :D
Title: You Pull Me In
Author:
aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,900
Beta: Thank you
annkiri.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: post AHBL
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, and no profit is being made.
Summary: With so few hunters left, they’re all sticking close together.
Notes: Birthday fic written for
zooey_glass04 and
parenthetical, the awesome nearly-twin duo, who make killer lasagna. ;)
Title taken from Daylight, by Better Than Ezra
You Pull Me In
Sam can tell something’s wrong from the way Dean’s shoulders hunch as he shifts his cell phone to the other ear, from the way he mutters goddammit under his breath.
He watches Dean brace himself against the countertop, bowing his head before looking up. “A demon attacked Ellen, and it’s pretty bad.”
“Jesus.” Sam gets up from the table and stands next to him, moving closer until the fabric of his sleeve brushes Dean’s shoulder. “Did Bobby say what happened?”
“No. He was trying to deal with the crowd-apparently every hunter who’s ever heard of the Roadhouse showed up.”
Sam nods-he figured as much. With so few hunters left, they’re all sticking close together. “We should take some food over.”
Dean’s mouth twists into a scowl. “We’ve got seventy demons circling through South Dakota and Nebraska, not to mention Wyoming, and you want to cook? These people need to be out wasting those bastards, not sitting around on their asses eating.”
“It’s just-“ Sam knows Dean’s upset, he knows he respects Ellen, that he doesn’t want to lose her. “It’s a gesture. It’s what people do.”
Dean sighs, the irritation fading away as quickly as it came. “Fine.”
***
“We should make lasagna.”
“Right. With this state of the art kitchen,” Dean gestures toward Bobby’s dirt-caked cabinets. “And our superior cooking skills.”
Sam shrugs. “We can figure it out. Jess always made it for people.”
Dean opens one of the drawers, riffling through a set of knives, his back to Sam. “Mom used to make it too.”
Sam’s never heard this story, and he moves closer to Dean. “She did?”
“Yeah. The summer after you were born, she made it for the neighbors. I wanted to carry it over, but she said it was too heavy. So I pushed you in the stroller.” Dean’s shoulders relax. “You cried the whole time.”
Sam smiles.
***
“Yo, Sammy,” Dean calls out, pointing at the laptop. “I Googled ‘easy lasagna recipe’ and bingo, instant results. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
Sam peers over Dean’s shoulder at the screen. “That calls for hamburger meat.”
“Yeah. That’s the general idea.”
“Jo’s a vegetarian.”
“So she can pick it out.”
Sam sighs. “That’s not how it works.”
“Jesus,” Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“We can use spinach,” Sam says, stifling a laugh. He thinks that using hamburger meat is probably a better option since Jo won’t be the only hunter around, but the look on Dean’s face is worth the suggestion.
***
Bobby’s kitchen is more equipped for spell work than cooking, but it’s their only option.
“Have you cooked in the last few years?” Sam asks while Dean places the pre-cooked lasagna noodles across the bottom of the glass pan.
“Yeah,” Dean says as he opens the Mozzarella cheese and dumps it onto the noodles. The cheese sticks together, landing on the noodles in one big pile. “I tried to, once, with Cassie. But I laid some chicken on the wrong cutting board, apparently, and she freaked. Started yelling about salmonella and how it gets in the grooves.”
Sam thinks that maybe they should’ve poured the meat sauce on first, no matter what the internet instructions say, but it’s too late now. “Didn’t Oprah do a show on that topic?” he asks, spreading the cheese over the noodles with his hand, trying to make it look even.
“How would I know, you freak?” Dean flicks a stray piece of shredded cheese at him and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t cook with her after that. She also poured Clorox down the drain about every five minutes. Fucking stunk,” Dean adds, scooping the meat sauce onto the cheese until it’s saturated.
Sam nods as he digs three more of the noodles out of the box, remembering Cassie. “She seemed the type,” he says, carefully arranging them on top of the sauce, frowning when they slide into each other.
Dean laughs as he dumps the second bag of Mozzarella out, shaking it until the last little shred falls onto the noodles. “Yeah, I guess she kinda gives off that vibe.”
Sam grins in agreement, recalling the rigid line of Cassie’s shoulders.
***
“Son of a bitch,” Dean yells as the oven door clangs shut. He brings his hand to his mouth, blowing over the red mark.
“Let me see,” Sam says, reaching for Dean’s arm.
Dean sighs and lets Sam squint at the burn. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll get some Neosporin.” Sam thinks it’s going to blister soon if they don’t put something on it.
“Jesus, Sam. It’s the size of dime. I’ll live.”
Sam drops his brother’s hand.
I’ll live.
Sam tries to breathe in, squeezes his eyes closed. He focuses on the woven potholder lying the floor in front of him, in the spot where Dean dropped it. It’s old, singed black around the edges, and he’s not sure it’s ever been washed.
He feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder, tentative, then sure, squeezing him, his palm steady against the bones. “Hey, Sam,” he says, and Sam knows it’s an apology. “Ellen will be fine. She’s tough.” Dean’s voice is calm, reassuring.
Sam nods, blinking, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the potholder. He knows as well as Dean does that this isn’t about Ellen, but Dean likes to pretend, always has.
Dean moves his hand, making little patting motions against Sam’s shoulder and smiles. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Sam doesn’t know why he believes Dean, he’s not even sure that he does, or that it’s possible for anything to be okay for them, but Dean’s smile is so familiar that Sam relaxes, letting out all his breath at once. He lifts his own hand, mirroring Dean’s, but he lets his fingers sweep up the side of Dean’s face.
Dean’s eyes go wide, but they’re still soft, and there are no jokes or cracks, no pissy shoves or posturing.
Sam can’t resist. He leans in and kisses his brother, right against his smile.
Dean doesn’t fight him, he keeps on smiling against Sam’s lips, his hand still firm on Sam’s shoulder, but when Sam tugs Dean to him, and licks into his mouth, Dean goes rigid, the quiet moment fading as he jerks away. He coughs, tries to hide the expression of want that crosses his face. “Dude, I know I’m hot as Betty Crocker, but-“
Sam’s always gone after what he wants, Dad said it plenty of times, and Dean’s said it before too, and right now, Sam’s glad that he’s selfish and stubborn, because he’s not letting this go, not when he’s felt Dean’s lips against his, not when he’s seen the flash of longing in his eyes. He presses his palm flat against the front of Dean’s jeans; he slides his hand up, smooth against the worn denim, feeling the heat of his brother’s erection underneath.
Dean stumbles backward, hitting his hip on the edge of the counter, knocking into the oven door. “Better watch it Sammy, you’ll ruin our masterpiece,” he says, and Sam can hear the shake in his voice, can hear the casual way he’s trying to cover his anxiety.
Sam doesn’t answer. He watches Dean instead, looks at his face-he can tell that Dean’s not really trying to say no, that he’s giving Sam an extra out, an extra chance to laugh and brush this off as a fluke. That’s all Sam needs to know, and he grabs Dean and yanks him away from the counter, tugging him into the den. He shoves Dean onto the couch, lies down on top of him, kisses him. Sam opens his mouth, pushing his tongue into Dean’s, discovering that Dean tastes like Mozzarella cheese and tomatoes.
Sam can’t get enough.
The scent of the lasagna cooking is at the edge of Sam’s mind, and the aroma intensifies as Sam settles deeper on the sofa. He’s too long for the couch-he’s got one leg hanging off the edge and his other knee on the floor, but he keeps going, working his hand in between them, desperate to feel Dean’s skin. It’s been a long time since he angled his arm like this, but his body remembers the awkward fumbling that comes with making out while fully dressed.
The waistband of Dean’s jeans scratch across the inside of his wrist and Sam undoes the button, giving him room to get his hand inside Dean’s boxers. He ducks his head as his hand closes around Dean’s cock, sucks in a deep breath, because his palm is full of Dean-Dean who’s hard, just for Sam.
Sam wants to talk, wants to curse and yell and tell Dean how good this is, but when he opens his mouth nothing happens but a loud moan, and then he’s floating, savoring the warm length of his brother underneath him, movements wild, frantic, like Dean’s been storing all this desire inside.
Dean bucks up, hard, when Sam twists his wrists and strokes up, and Sam loses his balance. They struggle, but Sam can’t keep them upright and they roll, toppling onto the floor. Sam feels one of his shoes collide with a pile of Bobby’s stacked books, hears them spill and scatter across the floor.
Sam usually doesn’t even walk barefoot over Bobby’s floor, but right now he’s got his head right against the grimy wood, and he doesn’t care, because he’s underneath Dean. He’s underneath Dean, who’s grinding down against him, biting Sam’s ear and licking the outside of it, muttering against his jaw, “Jesus, Sammy, don’t stop.”
Sam doesn’t stop; he grabs Dean’s ass through his jeans with his other hand, pulling him tight against his body. Sam grabs his brother’s hair, tugging his head back so he can suck on his neck until Dean’s shuddering above him.
“Fuck, Dean, I want you naked next time,” Sam says, and as soon as the words are out, Dean gasps and goes still.
Sam feels him finish, feels the hot rush of come spill through his fingers and spread out across the top of Dean’s boxers, wet against Sam’s shirt as Dean sags against him. “God,” Sam pants, and he flips Dean over, taking a second to look at his brother, his face peaceful at last, his eyes fluttering shut as he sighs and leans up to kiss Sam on the mouth.
Sam groans, pushing his weight down onto Dean, grinding his cock against his brother’s hip. His elbows ache from holding himself up, but he thinks he’s found just the right position, until Dean shifts, bringing his hips up to meet Sam’s, and the friction of his cock rubbing against Dean gets even sweeter.
“Just like that,” Sam whispers, biting down the side of Dean’s jaw as he comes.
He collapses sideways, taking most of his weight off his brother, but he doesn’t roll away. Sam lies still, his head resting on Dean’s chest until he hears the ping of the timer he sat next to the oven, smells the sharp scent of the cooked Parmesan.
He sneaks a glance up at Dean. His brother’s cheeks are flushed red and he’s staring at the ceiling, but he’s not running or shoving Sam away, and Sam hopes that maybe Dean’s right, even if he was just humoring his little brother when he said that everything was going to be okay.
zooey_glass04 and
parenthetical--Happy Early-Birthday and Happy Late-Birthday! :D
Title: You Pull Me In
Author:
aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,900
Beta: Thank you
annkiri.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: post AHBL
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, and no profit is being made.
Summary: With so few hunters left, they’re all sticking close together.
Notes: Birthday fic written for
zooey_glass04 and
parenthetical, the awesome nearly-twin duo, who make killer lasagna. ;)
Title taken from Daylight, by Better Than Ezra
You Pull Me In
Sam can tell something’s wrong from the way Dean’s shoulders hunch as he shifts his cell phone to the other ear, from the way he mutters goddammit under his breath.
He watches Dean brace himself against the countertop, bowing his head before looking up. “A demon attacked Ellen, and it’s pretty bad.”
“Jesus.” Sam gets up from the table and stands next to him, moving closer until the fabric of his sleeve brushes Dean’s shoulder. “Did Bobby say what happened?”
“No. He was trying to deal with the crowd-apparently every hunter who’s ever heard of the Roadhouse showed up.”
Sam nods-he figured as much. With so few hunters left, they’re all sticking close together. “We should take some food over.”
Dean’s mouth twists into a scowl. “We’ve got seventy demons circling through South Dakota and Nebraska, not to mention Wyoming, and you want to cook? These people need to be out wasting those bastards, not sitting around on their asses eating.”
“It’s just-“ Sam knows Dean’s upset, he knows he respects Ellen, that he doesn’t want to lose her. “It’s a gesture. It’s what people do.”
Dean sighs, the irritation fading away as quickly as it came. “Fine.”
***
“We should make lasagna.”
“Right. With this state of the art kitchen,” Dean gestures toward Bobby’s dirt-caked cabinets. “And our superior cooking skills.”
Sam shrugs. “We can figure it out. Jess always made it for people.”
Dean opens one of the drawers, riffling through a set of knives, his back to Sam. “Mom used to make it too.”
Sam’s never heard this story, and he moves closer to Dean. “She did?”
“Yeah. The summer after you were born, she made it for the neighbors. I wanted to carry it over, but she said it was too heavy. So I pushed you in the stroller.” Dean’s shoulders relax. “You cried the whole time.”
Sam smiles.
***
“Yo, Sammy,” Dean calls out, pointing at the laptop. “I Googled ‘easy lasagna recipe’ and bingo, instant results. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
Sam peers over Dean’s shoulder at the screen. “That calls for hamburger meat.”
“Yeah. That’s the general idea.”
“Jo’s a vegetarian.”
“So she can pick it out.”
Sam sighs. “That’s not how it works.”
“Jesus,” Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“We can use spinach,” Sam says, stifling a laugh. He thinks that using hamburger meat is probably a better option since Jo won’t be the only hunter around, but the look on Dean’s face is worth the suggestion.
***
Bobby’s kitchen is more equipped for spell work than cooking, but it’s their only option.
“Have you cooked in the last few years?” Sam asks while Dean places the pre-cooked lasagna noodles across the bottom of the glass pan.
“Yeah,” Dean says as he opens the Mozzarella cheese and dumps it onto the noodles. The cheese sticks together, landing on the noodles in one big pile. “I tried to, once, with Cassie. But I laid some chicken on the wrong cutting board, apparently, and she freaked. Started yelling about salmonella and how it gets in the grooves.”
Sam thinks that maybe they should’ve poured the meat sauce on first, no matter what the internet instructions say, but it’s too late now. “Didn’t Oprah do a show on that topic?” he asks, spreading the cheese over the noodles with his hand, trying to make it look even.
“How would I know, you freak?” Dean flicks a stray piece of shredded cheese at him and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t cook with her after that. She also poured Clorox down the drain about every five minutes. Fucking stunk,” Dean adds, scooping the meat sauce onto the cheese until it’s saturated.
Sam nods as he digs three more of the noodles out of the box, remembering Cassie. “She seemed the type,” he says, carefully arranging them on top of the sauce, frowning when they slide into each other.
Dean laughs as he dumps the second bag of Mozzarella out, shaking it until the last little shred falls onto the noodles. “Yeah, I guess she kinda gives off that vibe.”
Sam grins in agreement, recalling the rigid line of Cassie’s shoulders.
***
“Son of a bitch,” Dean yells as the oven door clangs shut. He brings his hand to his mouth, blowing over the red mark.
“Let me see,” Sam says, reaching for Dean’s arm.
Dean sighs and lets Sam squint at the burn. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll get some Neosporin.” Sam thinks it’s going to blister soon if they don’t put something on it.
“Jesus, Sam. It’s the size of dime. I’ll live.”
Sam drops his brother’s hand.
I’ll live.
Sam tries to breathe in, squeezes his eyes closed. He focuses on the woven potholder lying the floor in front of him, in the spot where Dean dropped it. It’s old, singed black around the edges, and he’s not sure it’s ever been washed.
He feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder, tentative, then sure, squeezing him, his palm steady against the bones. “Hey, Sam,” he says, and Sam knows it’s an apology. “Ellen will be fine. She’s tough.” Dean’s voice is calm, reassuring.
Sam nods, blinking, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the potholder. He knows as well as Dean does that this isn’t about Ellen, but Dean likes to pretend, always has.
Dean moves his hand, making little patting motions against Sam’s shoulder and smiles. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Sam doesn’t know why he believes Dean, he’s not even sure that he does, or that it’s possible for anything to be okay for them, but Dean’s smile is so familiar that Sam relaxes, letting out all his breath at once. He lifts his own hand, mirroring Dean’s, but he lets his fingers sweep up the side of Dean’s face.
Dean’s eyes go wide, but they’re still soft, and there are no jokes or cracks, no pissy shoves or posturing.
Sam can’t resist. He leans in and kisses his brother, right against his smile.
Dean doesn’t fight him, he keeps on smiling against Sam’s lips, his hand still firm on Sam’s shoulder, but when Sam tugs Dean to him, and licks into his mouth, Dean goes rigid, the quiet moment fading as he jerks away. He coughs, tries to hide the expression of want that crosses his face. “Dude, I know I’m hot as Betty Crocker, but-“
Sam’s always gone after what he wants, Dad said it plenty of times, and Dean’s said it before too, and right now, Sam’s glad that he’s selfish and stubborn, because he’s not letting this go, not when he’s felt Dean’s lips against his, not when he’s seen the flash of longing in his eyes. He presses his palm flat against the front of Dean’s jeans; he slides his hand up, smooth against the worn denim, feeling the heat of his brother’s erection underneath.
Dean stumbles backward, hitting his hip on the edge of the counter, knocking into the oven door. “Better watch it Sammy, you’ll ruin our masterpiece,” he says, and Sam can hear the shake in his voice, can hear the casual way he’s trying to cover his anxiety.
Sam doesn’t answer. He watches Dean instead, looks at his face-he can tell that Dean’s not really trying to say no, that he’s giving Sam an extra out, an extra chance to laugh and brush this off as a fluke. That’s all Sam needs to know, and he grabs Dean and yanks him away from the counter, tugging him into the den. He shoves Dean onto the couch, lies down on top of him, kisses him. Sam opens his mouth, pushing his tongue into Dean’s, discovering that Dean tastes like Mozzarella cheese and tomatoes.
Sam can’t get enough.
The scent of the lasagna cooking is at the edge of Sam’s mind, and the aroma intensifies as Sam settles deeper on the sofa. He’s too long for the couch-he’s got one leg hanging off the edge and his other knee on the floor, but he keeps going, working his hand in between them, desperate to feel Dean’s skin. It’s been a long time since he angled his arm like this, but his body remembers the awkward fumbling that comes with making out while fully dressed.
The waistband of Dean’s jeans scratch across the inside of his wrist and Sam undoes the button, giving him room to get his hand inside Dean’s boxers. He ducks his head as his hand closes around Dean’s cock, sucks in a deep breath, because his palm is full of Dean-Dean who’s hard, just for Sam.
Sam wants to talk, wants to curse and yell and tell Dean how good this is, but when he opens his mouth nothing happens but a loud moan, and then he’s floating, savoring the warm length of his brother underneath him, movements wild, frantic, like Dean’s been storing all this desire inside.
Dean bucks up, hard, when Sam twists his wrists and strokes up, and Sam loses his balance. They struggle, but Sam can’t keep them upright and they roll, toppling onto the floor. Sam feels one of his shoes collide with a pile of Bobby’s stacked books, hears them spill and scatter across the floor.
Sam usually doesn’t even walk barefoot over Bobby’s floor, but right now he’s got his head right against the grimy wood, and he doesn’t care, because he’s underneath Dean. He’s underneath Dean, who’s grinding down against him, biting Sam’s ear and licking the outside of it, muttering against his jaw, “Jesus, Sammy, don’t stop.”
Sam doesn’t stop; he grabs Dean’s ass through his jeans with his other hand, pulling him tight against his body. Sam grabs his brother’s hair, tugging his head back so he can suck on his neck until Dean’s shuddering above him.
“Fuck, Dean, I want you naked next time,” Sam says, and as soon as the words are out, Dean gasps and goes still.
Sam feels him finish, feels the hot rush of come spill through his fingers and spread out across the top of Dean’s boxers, wet against Sam’s shirt as Dean sags against him. “God,” Sam pants, and he flips Dean over, taking a second to look at his brother, his face peaceful at last, his eyes fluttering shut as he sighs and leans up to kiss Sam on the mouth.
Sam groans, pushing his weight down onto Dean, grinding his cock against his brother’s hip. His elbows ache from holding himself up, but he thinks he’s found just the right position, until Dean shifts, bringing his hips up to meet Sam’s, and the friction of his cock rubbing against Dean gets even sweeter.
“Just like that,” Sam whispers, biting down the side of Dean’s jaw as he comes.
He collapses sideways, taking most of his weight off his brother, but he doesn’t roll away. Sam lies still, his head resting on Dean’s chest until he hears the ping of the timer he sat next to the oven, smells the sharp scent of the cooked Parmesan.
He sneaks a glance up at Dean. His brother’s cheeks are flushed red and he’s staring at the ceiling, but he’s not running or shoving Sam away, and Sam hopes that maybe Dean’s right, even if he was just humoring his little brother when he said that everything was going to be okay.