(no subject)
Title: Like a Fine Wine
Author: captainswank
Pairing: wincest
Rating: PG
Words: ~600
Summary: Tiny cute old man lovin' ficlet. I have a serious problem.
Their lips slide together a little slower than usual these days. They take it easier now; it’s not like they don’t have all the time in the world.
Dean’s got both palms warm against his brother’s face, fingers sliding through hair that’s as long and thick as it ever was. He gathers it up where it’s been touched with gray and twists it between his fingers. At that tiny tug Sammy moans and Dean gets to swallow it deep down like it’s been done so many dozens of times before.
Dean’s solace lies in those tiny wisps of gray, and in the persistent lines of his forehead, though what’s buried there is every single torment that Dean could never chase away. But those are tempered by the lines from his lips that say that Sam has smiled, that there’s a happiness buried deep down in that face too.
But it’s the gray and the lines that comfort Dean those times when he sees himself, ‘cause he can always turn around and it’ll be Sam there, old man, creaky joints and stiff long legs, you’re over the hill, Sammy.
But in the end it doesn’t matter, ‘cause at the end of the day Dean’s the brother whose hair’s all gone to gray, eye clutched by crow’s feet, whose knee is out of whack and who is chilled and achey and crotchety and old.
All while his boy still looks good, damned good.
So they kiss and they kiss and by now Dean’s almost certain Sam can read his thoughts, ‘cause why else would he have manoeuvred them over to the aged and imposing mirror in the centre of the room? (Not that hard, Dean, to read what’s on your face. You think that frown’s helping your forehead any?)
And Dean can see his own old fucker’s face and his eyes go wide as Sam goes for his buttons. He tries to lean away towards the light switch, because a man still has his pride, damnit, but Sam won’t let go, gets Dean’s overshirt off in the struggle, manhandles them until they face the mirror, Dean up front.
Sam’s fingers go to the hem of the soft cotton of the shirt Dean’s been wearing for a million years and his mouth goes to the shell of his brother’s perfect pointed ears. Dean doesn’t have to see this shit, who wants to see the soft old body of a fading man? That’s why his face ends up hidden in his brother’s shoulder when those long fingers start to slide his shirt up, that’s why his eyes are shut tight.
Shh, Dean. Which makes him laugh a little. Which makes him snort into Sam’s warm shoulder. C’mon, Dean. Which makes him go a little red, a little hot when Sam’s fingers rub the belly he swears to fuck wasn’t there the day before yesterday.
A little shake of his head, a soft sound no, but Sammy doesn’t care, lifts the shirt up and over and tosses it to the floor.
Dean, Dean. Gotta look, Sam whispers into Dean’s ears, little lick here, little bite there. God, Dean, gotta see this. Runs those hands, huge hands, hot hands, all over Dean like it’s the best feeling in the world, presses his hips against Dean, rock-hard.
How could Dean want to look in the mirror and see what the years have stolen, even though Sam’s moaning against his neck, sucking hot marks onto that favourite freckle. How could he want to look out there and see so much loss, though Sam's stroking him and squeezing him like he’s starved for Dean.
Sam gives up quick and there’re fingers in Dean’s hair now, gently pulling, gently guiding and now Dean’s got no choice, he looks up and then he gasps because what’s in the mirror-
-what’s in the mirror is Sammy’s face, Sammy’s perfect old man face, and the rapture and the awe he finds there tells him every single godamned thing he needs to know.