Fic: When I Fall Asleep It Is Your Eyes That Close
Title: When I Fall Asleep It Is Your Eyes That Close
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~2000
Notes: Because it's still girlmostlikely's birthday in some time zone: schmoop! Beta'd by kyokomurasaki.
Summary: Post-S2. Dean is happy.
Blood and dirt go down the drain, their colors fading out, diluting, until the water runs clear. Maybe that's what living is-it all comes down to blood and earth. There's mud on Dean's knees, where it soaked through his jeans. He scrubs at his skin to wash it away.
Dean thinks living might be the spatter of warm drops of water on his back-the sound and feel and function of them. Filling his lungs with air-ribs expand, ribs contract, keep going even when he's not thinking about it. Running a soapy washcloth over Sam's shoulders. Washing behind Sammy's ears like when he used to give him baths, and Sam closing his eyes for a moment, leaning into Dean's hand. Sam ducking his head to get under the stream of water, long hair plastered down in his eyes.
Cold, slippery tile under Dean's feet, and his body's minute compensations to keep its balance. Carpet that he can curl his toes in. The feeling of clean skin. Sam's fingers gentle on Dean's forehead, checking the gash, applying two butterfly strips.
Maybe living is even Sam's red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face-even Sam hurting, because pain means you're still breathing. Tonight, Dean will pretend that he's fixing Sam's hurt, not causing it. So he inspects Sam's bruises and scrapes in the dark room, turning him this way and that, hands tracing over his skin. Dean brushes his fingers over the scar that should not be a scar, and Sam hisses a breath.
"It hurts," Dean says. He rests his palm over the rough line of skin and tries not to tremble. The scar is part of Sam now, and Dean can't hate anything that's part of Sam.
A scar is just healed skin, holding Sam's blood inside so it can't leak out all over Dean's hand. Dean grips tighter and feels Sam tense.
"Yeah," Sam says. "It hurts a little."
Sam's head hangs low, shoulders sloped-exhaustion like a toddler worn out after a tantrum, crying-tired.
"Lie down," Dean says, working the knotted muscle beside Sam's shoulder blade with his thumb. Dean has wide strong hands, gives bruising backrubs that turn Sammy into a puddle of relaxed, happy little brother.
When Dean's put away the first aid kit and flicked off the light, Sam's curled on his side in the bed, like he's trying to be small, which of course he can't be. And that's pretty fucking wonderful. Sam's big, solid, warm, anything but fragile when Dean spoons up behind him.
Dean presses his mouth to a broad shoulder and feels it hitch. Sam's trying not to cry again. Dean can feel him shaking with the effort, and he should probably feel bad, but he can only smile against Sam's skin.
Somewhere, the creeping horror is crawling about in Dean's brain, prowling and sniffing and settling in to live there, making itself a nest. Soon it will begin howling and gnashing its teeth. But not tonight. Tonight Dean is all fierce joy and giddy dizziness, like the first gasp of air when you've held your breath for too long, when the world that faded out rushes back in. Dean smiles wider as he rests a finger against the pulse in Sam's neck.
"Sammy," he says, and opens his mouth on Sam's shoulder, a wet kiss this time. "Sam."
"Dean-" Sam begins, voice telling Dean that Sam is ready to spend the night in despair, waste hours of his life worrying about the future when twenty-four hours ago, Sam was much too dead to worry.
So Dean just says, "I've got you." And he does, he does, he didn't and now he does again. "Sammy," Dean says and buries his nose in Sam's stupid mop of hair, kissing the nape of his neck, breathing him in. Never been so grateful for how Sam can't stay clean after a shower, sweats and smells like a grown man, overpowers the scent of soap. Dean hides his face in Sam's neck, his armpit, the crease of his thigh, reacquaints himself.
Dean lays a hand over Sam's dick, just touching, and feels it begin to rise and respond.
The radiator bangs and clatters, waking up. It's a cold clear night outside, no clouds to blanket them. The faucet drips steadily. Somewhere, a door opens and shuts.
Sam tugs at Dean's hair, pulls him up to kiss. He's still shaking. "Stop fucking smiling."
"I can't. God, Sammy, you're-" Dean can't even name all the things Sam is, alive chief among them, so he kisses Sam once more and goes back to seeing him, discovering him, all his parts.
He finds the insides of Sam's elbows, the soft skin there, kisses left and right. Finds the arch of Sam's foot and rubs into it with his thumb, Sam's toes curling instinctively. The hair below Sam's navel must be touched. Dean lays his head against Sam's belly and feels it rumble, his body working, going about its mundane daily functions, and Dean can hardly wrap his mind around the scope of that, how wonderful it is, how all of human history pales in comparison. He touches the wrinkle on Sam's forehead where he worries too much, and it's beautiful and sad and joyful because Sam will collect more, because Sam is growing older.
And there are things that Dean understands now for the first time, like an oracle whispering in his ear, telling him the secrets of the universe. The miracle of coarse body hair and calloused fingers and the different colors in Sam's eyes.
This is it. This is what living is. It's all Dean's got left. But it's enough. It's everything. No one's got a future, not really, not when tomorrow they could eat a bad burrito and die of salmonella-and most of them never understand that this is what it is to be alive. A cold night and a dog barking somewhere down the street and each new breath and a heartbeat to love.
Dean licks the sticky glistening spot on Sam's belly before moving on to its source, precome shining on the head of Sam's cock. He sucks at it gently, takes the tip into his mouth and loves that he has to work at it a little, stretch his mouth wide.
But Sam's choked-off gasp when he arches into Dean's touch is a little too harsh, and Dean remembers-Sam hurts. "Roll over."
"Dean-I don't-"
"On your stomach." Dean's teeth find Sam's hipbone, mark the skin gently. Dean pushes his thumb against Sam's thigh, turns the skin white, then watches the blood rush back in, pink again. "Gonna take care of you."
Sam heaves a petulant sigh as he turns over, but Dean can see his lean muscles clench and release, anticipating. Dean sighs happily, because Sam's back is a goddamn work of art, angles of bone and unapologetic curves of muscle, long stretch of golden skin that teases because Dean can't touch it all at once.
Dean starts at the knob of Sam's spine, right at the base of his neck. Dean's touch to Sam's skin, through his nerves and up his spine to that big brain of his, and Dean can appreciate that, can see how good it is. He smoothes his hands over the width of Sam's shoulders as his mouth moves down, kissing between Sam's shoulder blades and sucking a bruise right there, where Sam won't be able to see it but Dean will.
Dean moves further, and there it is. Red and angry and unnatural, a wound that should never have healed. He touches the scar carefully, like an animal that might be wild. "Does this hurt?"
No response from Sam, so Dean looks up and sees Sam nodding into the pillow, clutching it with both hands.
So Dean puts his hands to work on the pain-stiff muscles of Sam's lower back, kneads and presses and laughs when Sam's body jerks, ticklish. Dean stares down the scar, like it will go away if he doesn't blink. It doesn't go away, so he lowers his head, presses his lips against it.
"Dean." Sam's pillow-muffled voice is uncertain. Dean runs his tongue over the scar to shut Sam up, a wet line up Sam's spine. Sam shivers. Dean goes back to light kisses, one after another along the length of the raised pink skin. He smoothes his hands along the expanse of Sam's back, over the curve of his ass, clutches at his hips while he licks and sucks at the scar, soothing it with broad strokes and gentle pressure from his mouth. Sam's voice shakes when he says, "Dean, it's scar tissue. You know I can't even feel it."
"Oh yeah?" Dean's voice drops low. "Can't feel anything, huh?" He works a hand between Sam's body and the mattress, wraps his fingers around Sam's dick and feels how desperately hard he is. Sam squirms, trying to get away or trying to fuck Dean's hand or just too worked up to hold still. Dean plants his other hand between Sam's shoulder blades and pushes all careful and firm, holds him down against the bed. Sam shudders and goes still beneath him, and Sam's compliance makes Dean want to pin him down and fuck him till their hearts give out, till the sun goes supernova.
So he nudges Sam's inner thigh, and Sam spreads his legs. Dean settles comfortably between them, keeps one hand pushing Sam into the mattress, keeping him safe and secure there, and the other on Sam's dick, feeling the tiny twitches of Sam's hips as he can't stop himself from rubbing against Dean's hand.
When Dean lowers his mouth to Sam's back again, licks over the shiny scar tissue, he thinks of it like giving Sam the best blowjob of his life, licks up and down and sucks and mouths at the underlying muscle, works Sam up until he's panting, wriggling under Dean and trying to thrust into his hand. He doesn't let up until Sam's gasping, "Dean, you fucker, god, fuck, come on, please-"
And Dean slides up Sam's body, fits his own dick against the soft skin of Sam's thighs, kisses Sam's neck and gets right in to whisper into his ear, "I gotcha," rocks against him, works his hand quick and merciless over Sam's dick, "I got you, I'm gonna take care of you," feels Sam's thighs clench tight as Sam's come coats Dean's hand, whispers "Sammy," suddenly thick-voiced with burning eyes as he comes.
There's a long stretch of this is good and no other rational thought, all the little details fading in and out of Dean's awareness, scratchy sheets beneath him, the still-dripping faucet, the smell of sweat and spunk, Sam caught between his arms, each of Sam's breaths, Sam's back against Dean's chest. This moment is all moments, here and now is all of existence.
He clutches at Sammy when he tries to move, only lets him turn around so they're face to face.
Sam's thumb swipes across Dean's cheekbone. "You okay?"
"You're okay," Dean says. Holds Sam tighter, soaks up the heat of his body.
"Yeah." Sam bumps his nose against Dean's, puts his mouth on Dean's and stays there, breathing against Dean's lips.
And Dean knows that he's the most bursting-open joyful awed peaceful grateful person that ever slept under this sky. The most alive. Doesn't know how to say that so he says "Sam," and that means the same thing.
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~2000
Notes: Because it's still girlmostlikely's birthday in some time zone: schmoop! Beta'd by kyokomurasaki.
Summary: Post-S2. Dean is happy.
Blood and dirt go down the drain, their colors fading out, diluting, until the water runs clear. Maybe that's what living is-it all comes down to blood and earth. There's mud on Dean's knees, where it soaked through his jeans. He scrubs at his skin to wash it away.
Dean thinks living might be the spatter of warm drops of water on his back-the sound and feel and function of them. Filling his lungs with air-ribs expand, ribs contract, keep going even when he's not thinking about it. Running a soapy washcloth over Sam's shoulders. Washing behind Sammy's ears like when he used to give him baths, and Sam closing his eyes for a moment, leaning into Dean's hand. Sam ducking his head to get under the stream of water, long hair plastered down in his eyes.
Cold, slippery tile under Dean's feet, and his body's minute compensations to keep its balance. Carpet that he can curl his toes in. The feeling of clean skin. Sam's fingers gentle on Dean's forehead, checking the gash, applying two butterfly strips.
Maybe living is even Sam's red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face-even Sam hurting, because pain means you're still breathing. Tonight, Dean will pretend that he's fixing Sam's hurt, not causing it. So he inspects Sam's bruises and scrapes in the dark room, turning him this way and that, hands tracing over his skin. Dean brushes his fingers over the scar that should not be a scar, and Sam hisses a breath.
"It hurts," Dean says. He rests his palm over the rough line of skin and tries not to tremble. The scar is part of Sam now, and Dean can't hate anything that's part of Sam.
A scar is just healed skin, holding Sam's blood inside so it can't leak out all over Dean's hand. Dean grips tighter and feels Sam tense.
"Yeah," Sam says. "It hurts a little."
Sam's head hangs low, shoulders sloped-exhaustion like a toddler worn out after a tantrum, crying-tired.
"Lie down," Dean says, working the knotted muscle beside Sam's shoulder blade with his thumb. Dean has wide strong hands, gives bruising backrubs that turn Sammy into a puddle of relaxed, happy little brother.
When Dean's put away the first aid kit and flicked off the light, Sam's curled on his side in the bed, like he's trying to be small, which of course he can't be. And that's pretty fucking wonderful. Sam's big, solid, warm, anything but fragile when Dean spoons up behind him.
Dean presses his mouth to a broad shoulder and feels it hitch. Sam's trying not to cry again. Dean can feel him shaking with the effort, and he should probably feel bad, but he can only smile against Sam's skin.
Somewhere, the creeping horror is crawling about in Dean's brain, prowling and sniffing and settling in to live there, making itself a nest. Soon it will begin howling and gnashing its teeth. But not tonight. Tonight Dean is all fierce joy and giddy dizziness, like the first gasp of air when you've held your breath for too long, when the world that faded out rushes back in. Dean smiles wider as he rests a finger against the pulse in Sam's neck.
"Sammy," he says, and opens his mouth on Sam's shoulder, a wet kiss this time. "Sam."
"Dean-" Sam begins, voice telling Dean that Sam is ready to spend the night in despair, waste hours of his life worrying about the future when twenty-four hours ago, Sam was much too dead to worry.
So Dean just says, "I've got you." And he does, he does, he didn't and now he does again. "Sammy," Dean says and buries his nose in Sam's stupid mop of hair, kissing the nape of his neck, breathing him in. Never been so grateful for how Sam can't stay clean after a shower, sweats and smells like a grown man, overpowers the scent of soap. Dean hides his face in Sam's neck, his armpit, the crease of his thigh, reacquaints himself.
Dean lays a hand over Sam's dick, just touching, and feels it begin to rise and respond.
The radiator bangs and clatters, waking up. It's a cold clear night outside, no clouds to blanket them. The faucet drips steadily. Somewhere, a door opens and shuts.
Sam tugs at Dean's hair, pulls him up to kiss. He's still shaking. "Stop fucking smiling."
"I can't. God, Sammy, you're-" Dean can't even name all the things Sam is, alive chief among them, so he kisses Sam once more and goes back to seeing him, discovering him, all his parts.
He finds the insides of Sam's elbows, the soft skin there, kisses left and right. Finds the arch of Sam's foot and rubs into it with his thumb, Sam's toes curling instinctively. The hair below Sam's navel must be touched. Dean lays his head against Sam's belly and feels it rumble, his body working, going about its mundane daily functions, and Dean can hardly wrap his mind around the scope of that, how wonderful it is, how all of human history pales in comparison. He touches the wrinkle on Sam's forehead where he worries too much, and it's beautiful and sad and joyful because Sam will collect more, because Sam is growing older.
And there are things that Dean understands now for the first time, like an oracle whispering in his ear, telling him the secrets of the universe. The miracle of coarse body hair and calloused fingers and the different colors in Sam's eyes.
This is it. This is what living is. It's all Dean's got left. But it's enough. It's everything. No one's got a future, not really, not when tomorrow they could eat a bad burrito and die of salmonella-and most of them never understand that this is what it is to be alive. A cold night and a dog barking somewhere down the street and each new breath and a heartbeat to love.
Dean licks the sticky glistening spot on Sam's belly before moving on to its source, precome shining on the head of Sam's cock. He sucks at it gently, takes the tip into his mouth and loves that he has to work at it a little, stretch his mouth wide.
But Sam's choked-off gasp when he arches into Dean's touch is a little too harsh, and Dean remembers-Sam hurts. "Roll over."
"Dean-I don't-"
"On your stomach." Dean's teeth find Sam's hipbone, mark the skin gently. Dean pushes his thumb against Sam's thigh, turns the skin white, then watches the blood rush back in, pink again. "Gonna take care of you."
Sam heaves a petulant sigh as he turns over, but Dean can see his lean muscles clench and release, anticipating. Dean sighs happily, because Sam's back is a goddamn work of art, angles of bone and unapologetic curves of muscle, long stretch of golden skin that teases because Dean can't touch it all at once.
Dean starts at the knob of Sam's spine, right at the base of his neck. Dean's touch to Sam's skin, through his nerves and up his spine to that big brain of his, and Dean can appreciate that, can see how good it is. He smoothes his hands over the width of Sam's shoulders as his mouth moves down, kissing between Sam's shoulder blades and sucking a bruise right there, where Sam won't be able to see it but Dean will.
Dean moves further, and there it is. Red and angry and unnatural, a wound that should never have healed. He touches the scar carefully, like an animal that might be wild. "Does this hurt?"
No response from Sam, so Dean looks up and sees Sam nodding into the pillow, clutching it with both hands.
So Dean puts his hands to work on the pain-stiff muscles of Sam's lower back, kneads and presses and laughs when Sam's body jerks, ticklish. Dean stares down the scar, like it will go away if he doesn't blink. It doesn't go away, so he lowers his head, presses his lips against it.
"Dean." Sam's pillow-muffled voice is uncertain. Dean runs his tongue over the scar to shut Sam up, a wet line up Sam's spine. Sam shivers. Dean goes back to light kisses, one after another along the length of the raised pink skin. He smoothes his hands along the expanse of Sam's back, over the curve of his ass, clutches at his hips while he licks and sucks at the scar, soothing it with broad strokes and gentle pressure from his mouth. Sam's voice shakes when he says, "Dean, it's scar tissue. You know I can't even feel it."
"Oh yeah?" Dean's voice drops low. "Can't feel anything, huh?" He works a hand between Sam's body and the mattress, wraps his fingers around Sam's dick and feels how desperately hard he is. Sam squirms, trying to get away or trying to fuck Dean's hand or just too worked up to hold still. Dean plants his other hand between Sam's shoulder blades and pushes all careful and firm, holds him down against the bed. Sam shudders and goes still beneath him, and Sam's compliance makes Dean want to pin him down and fuck him till their hearts give out, till the sun goes supernova.
So he nudges Sam's inner thigh, and Sam spreads his legs. Dean settles comfortably between them, keeps one hand pushing Sam into the mattress, keeping him safe and secure there, and the other on Sam's dick, feeling the tiny twitches of Sam's hips as he can't stop himself from rubbing against Dean's hand.
When Dean lowers his mouth to Sam's back again, licks over the shiny scar tissue, he thinks of it like giving Sam the best blowjob of his life, licks up and down and sucks and mouths at the underlying muscle, works Sam up until he's panting, wriggling under Dean and trying to thrust into his hand. He doesn't let up until Sam's gasping, "Dean, you fucker, god, fuck, come on, please-"
And Dean slides up Sam's body, fits his own dick against the soft skin of Sam's thighs, kisses Sam's neck and gets right in to whisper into his ear, "I gotcha," rocks against him, works his hand quick and merciless over Sam's dick, "I got you, I'm gonna take care of you," feels Sam's thighs clench tight as Sam's come coats Dean's hand, whispers "Sammy," suddenly thick-voiced with burning eyes as he comes.
There's a long stretch of this is good and no other rational thought, all the little details fading in and out of Dean's awareness, scratchy sheets beneath him, the still-dripping faucet, the smell of sweat and spunk, Sam caught between his arms, each of Sam's breaths, Sam's back against Dean's chest. This moment is all moments, here and now is all of existence.
He clutches at Sammy when he tries to move, only lets him turn around so they're face to face.
Sam's thumb swipes across Dean's cheekbone. "You okay?"
"You're okay," Dean says. Holds Sam tighter, soaks up the heat of his body.
"Yeah." Sam bumps his nose against Dean's, puts his mouth on Dean's and stays there, breathing against Dean's lips.
And Dean knows that he's the most bursting-open joyful awed peaceful grateful person that ever slept under this sky. The most alive. Doesn't know how to say that so he says "Sam," and that means the same thing.