FIC: There Should have Been (1/1)
Title: There Should have Been, 1/1
Author: blankversesfic
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: none save wincest
Summary: it should have been harder
It should have been hard, but it wasn't -- what it was was an easy rhythm, unbreakable, unshakable, unchangeable. Morning and noon and dusk and night, day after day after week after year, until they could feel each other’s breaths from across the room, sense the tide of emotion stemming from the other before he felt it himself, whittled themselves from two separate beings to their true core, until the counterpoint of each others’ heartbeats smoothed, blended, became one. It was a gradual thing, something neither noticed until it became almost logical, reasonable to be touching, to be brushing hands over skin that was as familiar as his own, to comfort with touch the inner scars as they soothed the outer. To find it unsettling when one was gone for long, and that period shrunk, until they knew nothing of normal, for what that word was still worth, unless the other were there, closer and closer still each moment until there was no more closer to be had.
Hands began to linger, to creep -- Dean’s fingers turning an assessing hold into a caress, Sam’s palm resting on Dean's thigh while drinking beer during research, Sam's brother’s breath hot on his neck while pressed tight against each other in the shadows on a hunt. When a motel in Takoma Park was out of doubles and had only a king they shrugged and accepted it, and with silent accord nestled themselves together as they had in childhood, Sam pressed against Dean’s bare back, his long arm draped over his brother protectively. At the next town, after the wounds were stitched and the memories blotted with liquor, they didn’t even ask, just took the one bed as though they always had.
It should have been a surprise, and yet it wasn’t, when they began to linger longer together, to rest their heads closer, to taste each other’s breath as it ghosted over skin, Dean’s eyelashes lowered, seeing only the glint of the moon on Sam’s collarbone as their arms wrapped around each other, Sam’s eyes trained in quiet fascination on Dean’s full, pale lips. It should have been a surprise when what little distance there was between them closed of its own accord, as their hands skimmed lightly over skin they knew as well as their own, the only difference now from every other night intent. There should have been something, a voice or a cry from somewhere deep down inside, that said it was wrong, that protested, when that final inch was overcome and their mouths met, something like electricity and something like home passing between them as lips parted, breath quickened.
It shouldn’t have felt so good, so easy to slide their hands downward, for Sam's fingers to circle Dean’s cock and begin to move, to respond to Dean’s moans as though they were a part of himself -- Dean’s head falling back on the pillows, lashes dark as soot against his skin as his eyes flickered closed, his hand weakly rising to take Sam’s cock, matching his strokes with hitched breath to his brother’s. There was nothing there, nothing inside that quivered or broke when Dean slid down Sam’s body, slid his lips over Sam and took him in deep, eyes locked on Sam’s as he moved, so slowly, so slowly, so aching slowly up and down the length of him, tasting him as though not for the first time but as though remembering, watching Sam’s body tense and tighten, muscles rippling as his chest heaved, breath catching.
There should have been shame when Sam pulled him up, crushed his lips to Dean’s before pressing him down into the bed, covering him with his body and sliding arms under his legs, Dean making soft, pleading sounds that were for no one else but him as Sam leaned, brushing himself over the spot, Dean’s fingers slipping down to guide him there. And when there was the first moment, when they became the one creature they had felt themselves for so long, when the initial shock of it throbbed through their bodies -- in that moment before the moment took them, before Sam thrust and Dean rocked up to meet him -- before they began to move as though they had done this a thousand times before -- before they realized that there was no beginning and no end to themselves unless it was in each other -- before Sam’s cries were buried in Dean’s neck, skin slick with sweat, Dean’s breath ragged sobs of pleasure urging him on -- there should have been, if nothing else, the voice of their father telling them that this was no way to be and no way to live.
There should have been, but there wasn’t.
Author: blankversesfic
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: none save wincest
Summary: it should have been harder
It should have been hard, but it wasn't -- what it was was an easy rhythm, unbreakable, unshakable, unchangeable. Morning and noon and dusk and night, day after day after week after year, until they could feel each other’s breaths from across the room, sense the tide of emotion stemming from the other before he felt it himself, whittled themselves from two separate beings to their true core, until the counterpoint of each others’ heartbeats smoothed, blended, became one. It was a gradual thing, something neither noticed until it became almost logical, reasonable to be touching, to be brushing hands over skin that was as familiar as his own, to comfort with touch the inner scars as they soothed the outer. To find it unsettling when one was gone for long, and that period shrunk, until they knew nothing of normal, for what that word was still worth, unless the other were there, closer and closer still each moment until there was no more closer to be had.
Hands began to linger, to creep -- Dean’s fingers turning an assessing hold into a caress, Sam’s palm resting on Dean's thigh while drinking beer during research, Sam's brother’s breath hot on his neck while pressed tight against each other in the shadows on a hunt. When a motel in Takoma Park was out of doubles and had only a king they shrugged and accepted it, and with silent accord nestled themselves together as they had in childhood, Sam pressed against Dean’s bare back, his long arm draped over his brother protectively. At the next town, after the wounds were stitched and the memories blotted with liquor, they didn’t even ask, just took the one bed as though they always had.
It should have been a surprise, and yet it wasn’t, when they began to linger longer together, to rest their heads closer, to taste each other’s breath as it ghosted over skin, Dean’s eyelashes lowered, seeing only the glint of the moon on Sam’s collarbone as their arms wrapped around each other, Sam’s eyes trained in quiet fascination on Dean’s full, pale lips. It should have been a surprise when what little distance there was between them closed of its own accord, as their hands skimmed lightly over skin they knew as well as their own, the only difference now from every other night intent. There should have been something, a voice or a cry from somewhere deep down inside, that said it was wrong, that protested, when that final inch was overcome and their mouths met, something like electricity and something like home passing between them as lips parted, breath quickened.
It shouldn’t have felt so good, so easy to slide their hands downward, for Sam's fingers to circle Dean’s cock and begin to move, to respond to Dean’s moans as though they were a part of himself -- Dean’s head falling back on the pillows, lashes dark as soot against his skin as his eyes flickered closed, his hand weakly rising to take Sam’s cock, matching his strokes with hitched breath to his brother’s. There was nothing there, nothing inside that quivered or broke when Dean slid down Sam’s body, slid his lips over Sam and took him in deep, eyes locked on Sam’s as he moved, so slowly, so slowly, so aching slowly up and down the length of him, tasting him as though not for the first time but as though remembering, watching Sam’s body tense and tighten, muscles rippling as his chest heaved, breath catching.
There should have been shame when Sam pulled him up, crushed his lips to Dean’s before pressing him down into the bed, covering him with his body and sliding arms under his legs, Dean making soft, pleading sounds that were for no one else but him as Sam leaned, brushing himself over the spot, Dean’s fingers slipping down to guide him there. And when there was the first moment, when they became the one creature they had felt themselves for so long, when the initial shock of it throbbed through their bodies -- in that moment before the moment took them, before Sam thrust and Dean rocked up to meet him -- before they began to move as though they had done this a thousand times before -- before they realized that there was no beginning and no end to themselves unless it was in each other -- before Sam’s cries were buried in Dean’s neck, skin slick with sweat, Dean’s breath ragged sobs of pleasure urging him on -- there should have been, if nothing else, the voice of their father telling them that this was no way to be and no way to live.
There should have been, but there wasn’t.