Fic: "Give Me What I Want" Sam/Dean, Supernatural, PG-13
Look! I wrote fic! I know, I'm amazed too....
Give Me What I Want
by bionic
rating: PG-13
pairing: Sam/Dean
length: 2,233
notes: Set sometime in season 1 or 2, you know, simpler times. Quiet and maybe schmoopy. Dean has wanted for a long time. Sam is ready to give.
They hit Arizona in no time, and even at the fringes of spring the sun is beating down on their backs, relentlessly baking the cracked, dry earth. He’d hate to be there during the middle of summer, shoveling dirt and knee deep in it.
Sam is beside him, doing the same, and perspiration soaks his t-shirt through in the shape of a v around his neck and chest, and when he bends down to shovel more dirt, Dean can see where the sweat is sticking the shirt to his shoulder blades.
“I’d rather be doing this in the rain,” Sam bitches, voice low and dry.
Dean is okay with the sun and the heat, so long as Sam keeps his shirt on. If not, he knows it will be very hard not to stare, and digging is a mindless task, all motion and no real thought, so it’d be easy for Dean to look at Sam and forget to look away.
“At least it’s ‘dry’ heat,” Dean says, though he doesn’t sound convinced himself. He might even sound bitchy, if he didn’t think that word was only ever reserved for Sam alone.
Sam snorts and straightens to wipe his face with his shoulder. “When you’re digging up graves, it’s just fucking hot.” Sam’s shirt pulls up just slightly, and Dean can see his boxers are navy blue-and-white plaid today.
Dean licks his lips, glancing up at him quickly before he looks back down and nods. He lets the nonchalance take over, denial so steadily there under the surface of his skin he can feel it practically burning. “Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” he quips, smirk firmly in place.
Sam ignores him and they continue digging in silence for what feels like ages, stopping every once in a while to drink from their water bottles. Dean’s just waiting for the slow-mo moment of Sam twisting off the cap and dousing his head with water, but thankfully it never comes. Sam never takes off his shirt, either, which makes this a good day, one that Dean can check off the remaining calendar of his life where he Does Not Touch Sammy.
When they see the top of the coffin, Dean hunkers down and breaks open the lid with his shovel, and the flesh on the corpse’s bones is long gone, which makes it easier to bear when they actually burn it. Burning flesh smells a thousand times worse than the meanest skunk ever could.
They crawl out of the grave, clumps of dirt settling inside Dean’s shoes. Sam pours the lighter fluid then hands Dean the matchbook, and his fingers brush Dean’s knuckles for the briefest of moments, but Dean pretends not to notice. He chalks the nervous knot in his belly up to exhaustion and doesn’t blink an eye when Sam puts a firm hand on his shoulder, tugging him back from the rising flames.
By the time they’ve salted and burned the bones, laid the spirit to rest, they’ve gone through six water bottles between the two of them, scattered around the grave. Sam picks these up while Dean loads everything back into the trunk. They haven’t spoken since Dean’s comment, but it doesn’t mean anything because they know the process by rote now. Sam always thought it was better that way. Grave desecration is a solemn affair.
When they hit the nearest motel, they haven’t slept in 24 hours, and they’ve gone longer before, but the heat and digging must really have sucked them dry because neither of them calls dibs on the shower. Dean gets to the bathroom first though and takes a long piss, washes his hands, and gets most of the grime off his face before he’s back in the room. He’s taking off his shirt and jeans when Sam disappears into the bathroom, and then Dean’s sprawled on top of the covers and asleep before he can say I want you, the words sitting there on the tip of his tongue.
It’s good. It’s better that way.
* * *
After looking into a possible haunting, only to find a false alarm, Sam and Dean are out of Arizona in a few days. They stayed maybe longer than they should have, but there didn’t seem to be any reason to hurry. They were getting used to the heat, how it slowed the days from passing quickly and made the world bright hot
Dean would forever remember Arizona for many reasons, most of all because it was the state in which Sam kissed him.
* * *
The first thing Dean sees when he wakes is an arm, an arm with a really nice tan and bent in too awkward of an angle to be his. The second thing he sees as he shifts his head is Sam’s face on the pillow next to him, and the sound of his deep, even breathing is suddenly very loud in the quiet morning.
He considers moving for a second, slipping out and grabbing a much needed shower, but the solid weight of Sam’s leg has his own pinned to the mattress. If he attempts to leave, Sam will wake up, and awkward non-conversation will follow. That’s what Dean thinks, anyway, since they’ve never been in this predicament before, not since they were kids and bedtime was whenever Dad said it would be and sleeping in the same bed was normal.
Dean shifts just slightly, trying to pull his leg out from under Sam’s weight, but Sam makes a sleepy sound and wraps his leg tighter around him while encircling Dean’s wrist with loose fingers.
His eyes are still closed, but he’s clearly aware of what it must look like to Dean. “Don’t leave,” Sam says, his voice gravel deep and muzzy. And against the nagging voice in his head, Dean’s finding it hard to remember why he’s been fighting this for years. He’s so tempted to just give, give in, give himself over to this thing that isn’t normal, isn’t acceptable by any standards.
“You - you fell asleep in my bed, dumbass,” Dean stammers, a warm blush creeping up his cheeks. It would be so easy to move over and curl up and kiss Sam’s mouth, warm and maybe slightly chapped; Dean can imagine the sensation. What it would be like to finally kiss Sam.
Sam opens his eyes then and smiles. “You’re a cranky jerk before coffee.”
Dean makes a face, like someone just spit in his imaginary coffee. “You know what? You’re clingy when you sleep.” Sam just rolls his eyes and his smile deepens, dimples showing.
“And you smell horrible, but you’re still my brother.”
It’s like Dean woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but turns out it’s the right side, the side where Sam isn’t moody or simply tolerant, but cheerful.
If Dean refuses to name what they’re doing as flirting, it’s only because he’s never thought about flirting with a guy before. They’re just talking, pushing each other’s buttons, being brothers.
But when Sam lowers his lashes and sighs, his cool toes rubbing at the soles of Dean’s feet, he can’t deny that what they’re doing can definitely constitute as flirting. And Dean’s denial seems like it’s miles away when Sam is the one initiating everything, like that would make it okay if Sam wanted it, too. Not to mention Dean’s impending freak-out, which he’s trying not to think about with gusto.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Dean mutters and attempts to tug his arm out of Sam’s grip, but he doesn’t try very hard. He grunts when Sam just follows his arm, long fingers and warm palm cradling his wrist. “And touchy, too. What the hell have you done with my brother?”
“Sam’s not here right now,” Sam says, trying to pull his smile into a serious frown but failing horribly, looking for all the world like he wants to laugh. Normally a phrase like that would freak Dean the fuck out, especially coupled with the odd behavior out of left field, but Sam is still Sam, Dean knows that much. He’s not getting any scarily demonic vibes, just that his brother is seriously loopy right now and possibly on drugs.
“Can we sleep a few more minutes?” Sam asks quietly, looking steadily at Dean. His smile is warm, like the sheets.
Dean hesitates for a brief moment and thinks, fuck it. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
Somehow Dean falls asleep again with Sam’s hand around his forearm and a long leg draped carelessly over his thigh.
Minutes turn into a blissful, deep two hours of dreamless sleep. Dean wakes up refreshed and alone, but he can hear the shower running. He grabs a clean shirt, boxers, and a pair of ratty jeans from his duffel, and sits on the edge of the bed to wait for Sam to come out.
He has time to think. The sense-memory of that morning is hazy but there, and his skin is slightly itchy with the feeling of being touched. He hasn’t been intimate in so long with anyone. He can’t remember the last girl he picked up. He does remember Sam’s hands, though. They’ve stitched him up and held his face and cleaned his wounds. And this morning, Sam needed to touch him for some reason. Dean thinks he can understand that - the need for touch, to know that you are not alone, that skin craves skin from time to time on a purely human level for comfort.
Dean has it all rationalized in his head by the time Sam emerges from the shower. He’s wearing an old green t-shirt and dark jeans. Dean looks up and can’t recall a time when Sam’s eyes have ever been more green.
Sam smiles and his hair is damp and shiny. He takes two giant steps to the bed. Dean sits up straight and has nowhere to go when Sam bends down to kiss his slack mouth.
“All yours,” Sam says, happy and quiet.
Dean can’t do anything but blink, mouth opening because he should say something, he should act outraged. But nothing comes out and Sam just grins like he knew it all along.
* * *
They leave Arizona. Two days of driving and sleeping in the Impala because their credit cards are too hot to use and the hustled money is down to gas money only.
Dean exits and pulls over at a gas station early morning on the third day and realizes he doesn’t know where the hell they are.
“Sam.”
“Hmm?” Sam rouses from his nap and stretches.
“Get out and ask for directions.”
Sam ignores his request and unfolds a map instead. He squints and yawns while Dean closes his eyes and kills the engine. Sam hmms and Dean assumes he’s tracking out a route to their next destination. Dean busies himself by bending around his seat and rifling through the old box of cassette tapes, looking for something different.
When he turns back around, Sam has folded up the map and his face is far too close. Dean resists the urge to flinch back and swallows the sudden hard thumping in his chest, his throat gone dry. He pushes Rolling Stones into the tape deck wordlessly.
Sam’s smile is small and sure, but as he leans in slowly, to give Dean a choice, to kiss him - his lips are much more hesitant. For a split second Dean panics, but then he makes the choice, the one he’s wanted to make for so long, and kisses Sam back, hard and harder, cracks his lips open a little to taste Sam’s lips, then his tongue, the hot taste of his mouth.
It only lasts a dozen, slow, heart-stopping seconds, but the effect is devastating. Dean knows he will want this for a long time, maybe forever.
“Sammy,” Dean begins, but Sam just shakes his head and Dean quiets. He has no idea what he planned to say.
Sam looks okay, though his cheeks are a little flushed. His eyes are clear and his mouth pink.
Dean can’t help it - he leans in and steals another quick kiss, a brief but hard press of lips.
Sam snickers when Dean pulls back and Dean feels his chest expand from relief.
“Um,” Sam blushes a little more. “We can talk about this later, but right now I’d really like to get to a motel.”
Dean quirks an eyebrow and can’t help the smirk.
“To sleep!” Sam nearly yells and looks embarrassed. “My legs are starting to cramp,” he explains.
Dean feels like he’s grabbing at threads, hoping one holds and everything doesn’t all unravel at once if he breathes the wrong way, if he says the wrong thing or cracks the wrong joke.
So he doesn’t say anything, just sits still and watches Sam watching him until Sam’s smile grows so wide and infectious it spreads to Dean’s face and he can feel it, unable to stop, sure that he must look like a fool.
He nods and turns the key in the ignition.
“Next town is fifty miles.” Sam says, and Dean ruffles his hair and punches the gas, and they’re off, soaring, and everything is beautifully fine.
end
more notes: I actually started this fic years ago. I wrote most of this years ago. I only took it out and finished it tonight, because I had the sudden urge to write again. Which explains why this is set before the impending apocalypse and etc.. I apologize if the ending is rushed or not enough. I only wanted this story to be light and happy and warm. (Hmm, I'm sensing a theme.....)
Give Me What I Want
by bionic
rating: PG-13
pairing: Sam/Dean
length: 2,233
notes: Set sometime in season 1 or 2, you know, simpler times. Quiet and maybe schmoopy. Dean has wanted for a long time. Sam is ready to give.
They hit Arizona in no time, and even at the fringes of spring the sun is beating down on their backs, relentlessly baking the cracked, dry earth. He’d hate to be there during the middle of summer, shoveling dirt and knee deep in it.
Sam is beside him, doing the same, and perspiration soaks his t-shirt through in the shape of a v around his neck and chest, and when he bends down to shovel more dirt, Dean can see where the sweat is sticking the shirt to his shoulder blades.
“I’d rather be doing this in the rain,” Sam bitches, voice low and dry.
Dean is okay with the sun and the heat, so long as Sam keeps his shirt on. If not, he knows it will be very hard not to stare, and digging is a mindless task, all motion and no real thought, so it’d be easy for Dean to look at Sam and forget to look away.
“At least it’s ‘dry’ heat,” Dean says, though he doesn’t sound convinced himself. He might even sound bitchy, if he didn’t think that word was only ever reserved for Sam alone.
Sam snorts and straightens to wipe his face with his shoulder. “When you’re digging up graves, it’s just fucking hot.” Sam’s shirt pulls up just slightly, and Dean can see his boxers are navy blue-and-white plaid today.
Dean licks his lips, glancing up at him quickly before he looks back down and nods. He lets the nonchalance take over, denial so steadily there under the surface of his skin he can feel it practically burning. “Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” he quips, smirk firmly in place.
Sam ignores him and they continue digging in silence for what feels like ages, stopping every once in a while to drink from their water bottles. Dean’s just waiting for the slow-mo moment of Sam twisting off the cap and dousing his head with water, but thankfully it never comes. Sam never takes off his shirt, either, which makes this a good day, one that Dean can check off the remaining calendar of his life where he Does Not Touch Sammy.
When they see the top of the coffin, Dean hunkers down and breaks open the lid with his shovel, and the flesh on the corpse’s bones is long gone, which makes it easier to bear when they actually burn it. Burning flesh smells a thousand times worse than the meanest skunk ever could.
They crawl out of the grave, clumps of dirt settling inside Dean’s shoes. Sam pours the lighter fluid then hands Dean the matchbook, and his fingers brush Dean’s knuckles for the briefest of moments, but Dean pretends not to notice. He chalks the nervous knot in his belly up to exhaustion and doesn’t blink an eye when Sam puts a firm hand on his shoulder, tugging him back from the rising flames.
By the time they’ve salted and burned the bones, laid the spirit to rest, they’ve gone through six water bottles between the two of them, scattered around the grave. Sam picks these up while Dean loads everything back into the trunk. They haven’t spoken since Dean’s comment, but it doesn’t mean anything because they know the process by rote now. Sam always thought it was better that way. Grave desecration is a solemn affair.
When they hit the nearest motel, they haven’t slept in 24 hours, and they’ve gone longer before, but the heat and digging must really have sucked them dry because neither of them calls dibs on the shower. Dean gets to the bathroom first though and takes a long piss, washes his hands, and gets most of the grime off his face before he’s back in the room. He’s taking off his shirt and jeans when Sam disappears into the bathroom, and then Dean’s sprawled on top of the covers and asleep before he can say I want you, the words sitting there on the tip of his tongue.
It’s good. It’s better that way.
* * *
After looking into a possible haunting, only to find a false alarm, Sam and Dean are out of Arizona in a few days. They stayed maybe longer than they should have, but there didn’t seem to be any reason to hurry. They were getting used to the heat, how it slowed the days from passing quickly and made the world bright hot
Dean would forever remember Arizona for many reasons, most of all because it was the state in which Sam kissed him.
* * *
The first thing Dean sees when he wakes is an arm, an arm with a really nice tan and bent in too awkward of an angle to be his. The second thing he sees as he shifts his head is Sam’s face on the pillow next to him, and the sound of his deep, even breathing is suddenly very loud in the quiet morning.
He considers moving for a second, slipping out and grabbing a much needed shower, but the solid weight of Sam’s leg has his own pinned to the mattress. If he attempts to leave, Sam will wake up, and awkward non-conversation will follow. That’s what Dean thinks, anyway, since they’ve never been in this predicament before, not since they were kids and bedtime was whenever Dad said it would be and sleeping in the same bed was normal.
Dean shifts just slightly, trying to pull his leg out from under Sam’s weight, but Sam makes a sleepy sound and wraps his leg tighter around him while encircling Dean’s wrist with loose fingers.
His eyes are still closed, but he’s clearly aware of what it must look like to Dean. “Don’t leave,” Sam says, his voice gravel deep and muzzy. And against the nagging voice in his head, Dean’s finding it hard to remember why he’s been fighting this for years. He’s so tempted to just give, give in, give himself over to this thing that isn’t normal, isn’t acceptable by any standards.
“You - you fell asleep in my bed, dumbass,” Dean stammers, a warm blush creeping up his cheeks. It would be so easy to move over and curl up and kiss Sam’s mouth, warm and maybe slightly chapped; Dean can imagine the sensation. What it would be like to finally kiss Sam.
Sam opens his eyes then and smiles. “You’re a cranky jerk before coffee.”
Dean makes a face, like someone just spit in his imaginary coffee. “You know what? You’re clingy when you sleep.” Sam just rolls his eyes and his smile deepens, dimples showing.
“And you smell horrible, but you’re still my brother.”
It’s like Dean woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but turns out it’s the right side, the side where Sam isn’t moody or simply tolerant, but cheerful.
If Dean refuses to name what they’re doing as flirting, it’s only because he’s never thought about flirting with a guy before. They’re just talking, pushing each other’s buttons, being brothers.
But when Sam lowers his lashes and sighs, his cool toes rubbing at the soles of Dean’s feet, he can’t deny that what they’re doing can definitely constitute as flirting. And Dean’s denial seems like it’s miles away when Sam is the one initiating everything, like that would make it okay if Sam wanted it, too. Not to mention Dean’s impending freak-out, which he’s trying not to think about with gusto.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Dean mutters and attempts to tug his arm out of Sam’s grip, but he doesn’t try very hard. He grunts when Sam just follows his arm, long fingers and warm palm cradling his wrist. “And touchy, too. What the hell have you done with my brother?”
“Sam’s not here right now,” Sam says, trying to pull his smile into a serious frown but failing horribly, looking for all the world like he wants to laugh. Normally a phrase like that would freak Dean the fuck out, especially coupled with the odd behavior out of left field, but Sam is still Sam, Dean knows that much. He’s not getting any scarily demonic vibes, just that his brother is seriously loopy right now and possibly on drugs.
“Can we sleep a few more minutes?” Sam asks quietly, looking steadily at Dean. His smile is warm, like the sheets.
Dean hesitates for a brief moment and thinks, fuck it. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
Somehow Dean falls asleep again with Sam’s hand around his forearm and a long leg draped carelessly over his thigh.
Minutes turn into a blissful, deep two hours of dreamless sleep. Dean wakes up refreshed and alone, but he can hear the shower running. He grabs a clean shirt, boxers, and a pair of ratty jeans from his duffel, and sits on the edge of the bed to wait for Sam to come out.
He has time to think. The sense-memory of that morning is hazy but there, and his skin is slightly itchy with the feeling of being touched. He hasn’t been intimate in so long with anyone. He can’t remember the last girl he picked up. He does remember Sam’s hands, though. They’ve stitched him up and held his face and cleaned his wounds. And this morning, Sam needed to touch him for some reason. Dean thinks he can understand that - the need for touch, to know that you are not alone, that skin craves skin from time to time on a purely human level for comfort.
Dean has it all rationalized in his head by the time Sam emerges from the shower. He’s wearing an old green t-shirt and dark jeans. Dean looks up and can’t recall a time when Sam’s eyes have ever been more green.
Sam smiles and his hair is damp and shiny. He takes two giant steps to the bed. Dean sits up straight and has nowhere to go when Sam bends down to kiss his slack mouth.
“All yours,” Sam says, happy and quiet.
Dean can’t do anything but blink, mouth opening because he should say something, he should act outraged. But nothing comes out and Sam just grins like he knew it all along.
* * *
They leave Arizona. Two days of driving and sleeping in the Impala because their credit cards are too hot to use and the hustled money is down to gas money only.
Dean exits and pulls over at a gas station early morning on the third day and realizes he doesn’t know where the hell they are.
“Sam.”
“Hmm?” Sam rouses from his nap and stretches.
“Get out and ask for directions.”
Sam ignores his request and unfolds a map instead. He squints and yawns while Dean closes his eyes and kills the engine. Sam hmms and Dean assumes he’s tracking out a route to their next destination. Dean busies himself by bending around his seat and rifling through the old box of cassette tapes, looking for something different.
When he turns back around, Sam has folded up the map and his face is far too close. Dean resists the urge to flinch back and swallows the sudden hard thumping in his chest, his throat gone dry. He pushes Rolling Stones into the tape deck wordlessly.
Sam’s smile is small and sure, but as he leans in slowly, to give Dean a choice, to kiss him - his lips are much more hesitant. For a split second Dean panics, but then he makes the choice, the one he’s wanted to make for so long, and kisses Sam back, hard and harder, cracks his lips open a little to taste Sam’s lips, then his tongue, the hot taste of his mouth.
It only lasts a dozen, slow, heart-stopping seconds, but the effect is devastating. Dean knows he will want this for a long time, maybe forever.
“Sammy,” Dean begins, but Sam just shakes his head and Dean quiets. He has no idea what he planned to say.
Sam looks okay, though his cheeks are a little flushed. His eyes are clear and his mouth pink.
Dean can’t help it - he leans in and steals another quick kiss, a brief but hard press of lips.
Sam snickers when Dean pulls back and Dean feels his chest expand from relief.
“Um,” Sam blushes a little more. “We can talk about this later, but right now I’d really like to get to a motel.”
Dean quirks an eyebrow and can’t help the smirk.
“To sleep!” Sam nearly yells and looks embarrassed. “My legs are starting to cramp,” he explains.
Dean feels like he’s grabbing at threads, hoping one holds and everything doesn’t all unravel at once if he breathes the wrong way, if he says the wrong thing or cracks the wrong joke.
So he doesn’t say anything, just sits still and watches Sam watching him until Sam’s smile grows so wide and infectious it spreads to Dean’s face and he can feel it, unable to stop, sure that he must look like a fool.
He nods and turns the key in the ignition.
“Next town is fifty miles.” Sam says, and Dean ruffles his hair and punches the gas, and they’re off, soaring, and everything is beautifully fine.
end
more notes: I actually started this fic years ago. I wrote most of this years ago. I only took it out and finished it tonight, because I had the sudden urge to write again. Which explains why this is set before the impending apocalypse and etc.. I apologize if the ending is rushed or not enough. I only wanted this story to be light and happy and warm. (Hmm, I'm sensing a theme.....)