fic: Come Outside and Play the Spark
fic: (Hurts Me Mind You In the Dark) Come Outside and Play the Spark
pairing: Sam/Dean, Castiel, Samcifer
spoilers: 5.22
rating: NC-17
word count: 4000
warning: swearing, spanking, blindfolds, mud, horny angels, psychic Wincest OTP lawnsex
notes: Titles from Guided by Voices. Thanks and love (so much love) to my betas.
summary: Lucifer, the great seducer vs. Sam, the boy who seduced his own brother - it's not even a contest.
Turned out Hell wasn't so bad when you were its king. You'd been given the "All that I can handle" speech by your father, your brother - (your brother, your father) - so many times, until you started to give it yourself. There was always more to handle. They could speak to you still, the only lonely voices of truth:
The important thing to remember was that he already knew everything about you, and you knew everything about him. You have always been him, perhaps. But he has only lived you once, from the day of your birth to the day of your death in Lawrence, Kansas.
You were Sam Winchester, you were Lucifer, and there in the back of your mind, his voice, so full of the honed narcissism of the angels, speaking like your Dad's angry lazy voice. It made you want to go to church. It made you want to study disputes. It created so many Sammys. It was old hat, the same argument over and over again, like the one you had with yourself in the middle of the night, when Dean was asleep or faraway or distant or cold. The rare Dean, the cold voice. You missed even the cold voice of your brother down here in the pit.
The pit was Sam, and Lucifer, and Adam, and Michael, and no guests allowed. So this was Hell. So they spoke in lies:
"I know. I know what you're going to say, Sammy. You had Dean - he who gargled too long in the morning and slept with his jaw slack and smacked his lips when he licked his fingers and liked to talk when he was taking a shit and spoke when he was fucking and breathed too loud when he was angry and when it was the empty middle of the night or the worthless days how you had him hard in your mouth and your knees in the dirt and your clothes on the floor in the backseat and the smell of it, and the sweat, was like breathing. Ah, and yet you don't speak of him wanting to lose the burden of you, of lunching with Death, not to have to know your name. Him human like you and I never were."
"Stop." Sam had to listen to the voice in his head talk and talk and talk - the dialogue between the hot heart and the cold comet, the chase of cat and mouse - both with tails, always with tales. Lucifer knew Sam's favorite tale was always about Dean. Funny, how he found himself having the same weak spot as the devil.
"All bad, all wrong - I remember how you think. They're all out to get you still, Sammy. Every story has a villain, someone to be blamed. You cannot be two opposites simultaneously. But you can have it all being one thing well. See how our mind cracks with the loss, still. See him weep for you, even as he smiles at the new boy who is not even his own."
The cage they were in was not a solid object, like the car, like flesh. It was darkness, and they were starlight, and all else was the universe. Up there, above, Dean would never let starlight ride his body. Lucifer would never have Dean and still be Lucifer. It was Sam's only equation, his only conceit. Down here, there would be no room for empathy.
So Sam handled it. He defended Dean with what the angels could not understand. Told stories of the car groaning and shaking beneath them, so close to coming, becoming something else. "You don't know what it feels like," he would say. "What it really feels like. I could show you." Knowing that Lucifer does not truly have this body here that still leaks for him, the way that Dean could leak clear and sticky through his fingers. He touches himself, and the devil is numb.
"You think you're being cruel." The voice in his head huffed and huffed.
"I'm being fair," Sam reasoned. "I'm always fair to you." If Lucifer could truly be Sam, he would know how Dean was wild and he would take no one but he takes you, until your body screams itself dry. His tongue finds your every hole, every crack, all your spaces, little screams. No control. All alive when you find him again, when you fall all over him. You never forget this. This is Dean's voice to you, saying your name.
"What?" The devil interrupted. "The slap of flesh to flesh again? Always with this story," from the back of his mind, back in the cage. "I defiled him on his love altar, his precious machine. Pushed him around like a bag, broke his face. Nothing - mine - nothing." So cliche, so predictable. Lucifer didn't much care, except that he did. He had this curiosity about carnal flesh. Silly it was, yes, but still, but still. Sam's body felt like a body here, and Sam could touch it, and Adam could touch it, but Lucifer could not. He was in a cage within a cage inside of nothing.
Michael could try - in this body of Adam, a young blond man with freckles, long lashes, wide eyes, no good memories - reaching out to Sam and Lucifer - brothers - not really touching either, never blinking. Lucifer bored him in this place, and he was so disappointed after so long. But Sam was his tall novel brother with muscles for an ass and a dick big enough to distract. Human in a way he'd never noticed. When he looked at Sam, all he could see was regret for what Heaven couldn't give.
So, "Are you enjoying your freedom?" Sam would ask Michael, all angelic hands, eyes never blinking.
For Michael was more free in Hell than he'd ever been in Heaven. "Yes," sad-eyed Michael said, his hands roving on Sam's chest. Sam was a curiosity to him - something to touch, if not exactly feel. "Yes." Something to explore with hands and tongue - the parts of this body he could use.
So Adam - far down below nothing - finally knew what it was to be with someone who would not leave, someone sad like his mother had been, but always constant, always there. Michael had almost burned him out whole, and still, what was left of Adam's will wanted to give him what he wanted. For Michael was everything and oblivion, all at once. When Sam said 'brother', the word was a seduction for them both.
But Michael was not Dean. Not Dean for Sam. And after years, the Lucifer behind his eyes felt like glass marbles. The sky here looked like the same dusk at every hour. The violet sky. Violet hours. He missed blankets and stars, when the stars were not angels - just stars.
The dialogue continued as forty years passed by again on the underside of the world. With time, Lucifer listened. He obeyed, and shrunk down into the squeak of a mouse at the back of Sam's head. He could argue with many things, Lucifer could, but not flesh. It made him dumb.
Then, not long after, there would come the silence of the mouse with his tail forever. The great hunt for demons and pagan gods in suburbia. The boyking with catlike eyes and grace who charted a course across green lawns and false places with his brother, who had saved the world with only his human flesh, once upon a time.
It came after the angel Castiel appeared to them out of the ether. He was a star burning ever brighter and bigger in the nothingness, come with burning fire and vengeance. When they looked at him, they did not think of tears, or the moon, or lonely Thursdays anymore.
Castiel did not have to speak. He had always known. So he gave Sam three gifts to take with him: since he had visited Sam's desires as he had always visited Dean's dreams, he gave them the knowledge of both; since he had no human body to give Sam that he did not already possess, he let Sam keep his otherworldly one; since he'd always wanted to - just a little, and this here now was the closest he would get to a younger brother, his oldest brother - he touched the flesh of Sam's ass with his palm, and the shape of his hand burned there, like a spanking. He shoved Sam back to the earth, like a rising star.
Sam crawled up up. Rode the last of the devil like a star and dug up, dug up the rest of the way, as Lucifer died out - behind, underground, quaint. His human body was his own. He did not need another. He was demon within angel within human and he was finally everything - the last best perfect thing - and he had nothing to do with God.
Nothing but Castiel, the new God-thing, and his family man of a vessel, who could bear to look upon this place again - lawn and landscaped like a medieval painting - as Sam saw it now, lonely and alone.
Much like this suburbia.
Faraway, a dog was barking. The mouse squeaked in his mind. Screen doors slammed shut for dinnertime. Television sets were tuned into primetime. Three houses down, the deserted house was filled to the ceiling with pounds of marijuana. Two streets over, a couple was filming amateur porn. Across the street, a man was praying to God. When he reached the top of the world, when Sam spoke, he might well have been talking to no one.
"I hear him cry, and those times when he can't stop and he can't explain it." Sam stood on the deserted corners, the untouched centers of cul-de-sacs. He stood like a masked superhero no one could see, vigilant and alone, and spoke of Dean. "He's with the boy in the baseball game, or with her at the barbecue. He sits in the car, he explains, and doesn't drive. Just sits and talks, or doesn't talk." No one answered.
He should have found other things to do at the top of the world, he supposed. But they deserved their reward, the two of them together. No - they just wanted it. There was no deserving. Deserving was for angels, never for them.
At the top was green lawns and sidewalks cleared with leaf-blowers and lonely lampposts and curtained windows lit from within their squared houses. He had to frown. It was all so much more pathetic than he remembered. But Dean was inside that house, that one there, with the lawn manicured by someone with OCD and weedkiller. He wanted to fuck Dean on that lawn, fuck it up so very much. It wasn't Lucifer talking. It was just too much time spent leaving Dean here in this plastic place, and Sam spending too much time in the darkness between the stars.
He had to get used to this place again. The neighbors spoke, mostly about themselves or each other. Never truthfully. It was boring. If he wanted, he could tune them in like a radio, closing his eyes and tilting his head one way or the other for reception. But why would he want to? He only wanted to hear Dean and all the sounds of Dean missing him. The world was not his to save any longer.
The washing machine rocked, overfilled. And I thought laundry was boring before... Dean sighed. Giant darks. Where are the giant darks? The pop of a beer can, the spray, slurp. Not enough. Lawn sprinklers buzzed like insects. Holy water, Dean thought. Should be holy water. Get some of these fuckers. And the Impala - home, it had been - on top of wooden blocks on the front lawn of that house, flaunting all codes. It's wheels peeked out from under the tarp, and it looked like apocalypse again.
Sam smirked, his eyes still closed. "I missed you too, Dean." The evening passed into night, into day. He stood on the hot-to-melting asphalt in the middle of the road in bare feet and jeans that clung without a belt and nothing else and his hands at his waist and no one saw him there all day. Poor Dean, he smirked. Poor Dean.
Sam contemplated. He would have work to do, with the demons still left here from the opened devil's gate - the earlier, lesser Apocalypse. More of his family's dirty work. He remembered the day when Dean was hero, striking Azazel between the eyes. Triumphant he was. They'd all had sins to atone for. Sam didn't care much about that. But the work, the dirty work of the world.
Faraway, a dog was barking. The mouse squeaked in his mind. Screen doors slammed shut for dinnertime. Television sets were tuned into primetime. Three blocks over, a man was crying with a gun in his hands, shaking. Two houses down, a couple was fighting in front of their children. Across the street, a man was praying to God. The sky grew purple after 8pm. Night fell. He shook his head free. When Sam spoke, he might as well have been talking to no one. "Now, about fucking Dean on that lawn," Sam said again, and the mouse never peeped.
It had always been about mutual motivation. Sam wanted Dean there and Dean wanted Sam there and so they would do what they had to and that's how it had to be if anything was to be done. The world still had to run. The cosmos and all. Sam knew all about the cosmos. All that violet. He could have had anything. He only wanted Dean.
Dean who slept on the back porch enclosed in mosquito screens, who soaked all night in sweat. He had a pocket knife in his jeans, obviously not giving a fuck. His hair was longer than it used to be, his clothes were tighter, his bottles empty under the bed, his face tight. Sam's hands shook. No one could see him, the darkness between the stars. Oh but he was Dean's already, he was. The night was hot, close to steam.
It was too quiet, the way Dad had liked it. It pissed Sam off. He missed something vital, and searched for it, searched. Water from the hose on a night like this with no relief. He found it coiled like a green snake on the side of the house, on the grass, between the beige siding and the wooden fence of the backyard. The squeal of the knob. Then he bent and let it soak his face, spraying a little up his nose, into his mouth, wetting his hair to his shoulders, his back and shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the neighbor's security lights, color the spray silver. Water - water was sweet, pulling his wet jeans down over his hips, soaking the grass between his toes to mud.
He squished them together, dirty and rich. He'd missed this. He closed his eyes again, reached out to Dean. Is this what Cas used to do? Visit Dean in his sleep, poke around in there for little golden mushroom dreams, digging in the dirt, until Dean replaced every itch of uncomfortability with the familiar horny urge to be fucked? Woke up sudden and hard and desperate?
Sam closed his eyes, tilted his head in tune with Dean's radio. Water dropped from his hair, the ends of his fingers.
Sam wanted to TP the trees with Dean - no, climb them. Peek into the neighbors' windows to steal their secrets. Swim across all the pools in the neighborhood on a dare. Dare to do it naked. Dare to steal liquor from the barbecue bars - unopened bottles of Midori and Malibu. Make out in the shadows on the lawns in the middle of the night, like they did that one August - Florida croc monster that just turned out to be a croc, the grass cutting into their backs, until that night they found the golf course, tried to suck each other off at the same time, nothing but grass and stars - back when the world was huge enough for them not to care.
"Sawgrass Pines," Dean said.
Sam knew that, eyes closed, his back to his brother. "The golf course."
Dean almost smiled. "You said the stars were speckled like my dick."
"I was trying to be poetic. Jerk."
"Well, it is pretty, I know."
Sam turned to him, dropped the hose and let it fall against Dean's leg, rest at their feet. By then, Dean's hands were clenched in his jeans and he didn't care. Sweaty palms were on the planes of his back, across his hair, grabbing at his sides. Perfection, Dean, perfection. Dean heard every thought, which he heard back. It was easy. No need to think. Dean wanted neighborhood pranks too. He wanted fucking and forgetting, no hesitation like last time, with cracks for snakes and demons and doubt to break through from the very beginning.
"You blessed the water." Sam stated a fact. "You can take the man from hunting -"
"Does that matter to you?" Dean raised his eyebrows, tilted his head up. "Didn't think so. So, what's first? What are Sammy's big plans?"
"Can't you guess?" Sam wrestled him to the ground, leg wrapped around Dean's bowed thigh, his knee, lifting up and towards himself, dick to dick. "Can't you feel?" Then Dean was down, backwards and on the soaked grass. "Damn, that was easy. You're getting rusty, you know that? Rusty and flabby."
"Fuck that," Dean's arms chopping at his legs, pulling his wet jeans half off and grabbing at his back and failing. "Jesus, your back is like wet marble." Pawing at his chest too tight to hold. Pawing downward. "What the - hell is -"
Sam hissed as water and air and Dean's calloused fingers brushed across the welt where it was pink and puffy. He loved it.
"Some spanking, Sammy." Dean's fingers traced over the curve and dimple of his ass, the raised skin there.
"Cas says hello, by the way," Sam smiled tightly.
Dean was mesmerized by Sam's ears, hsi hair the shade between silver and bronze, weird somehow. His hand fit into Castiel's branded angel space, all of their tattoos matching now. "Is it wrong that I want to spank you?" Complete. Twins.
Sam wasn't surprised when his cock jumped towards the meeting of Dean's hand. "Beats me. I don't think we have any rules to follow here. But do we ever?" Sam breathed against his face, as close as he could stand without losing it. He couldn't help it, this was Dean. Dean's whole body. And Dean could kiss him back. It hurt to breathe when he could be kissing Dean instead.
"What's that thing? I feel it in the back of your mind. What is it?" Dean was kissing him too so he forgot to answer. "Sammy?"
"That's a tiny mouse. A rat. He doesn't have any say anymore."
"The devil? In your head? Sammy -"
"Shhh," He fit two clawed hands over Dean's shoulders. "He's just a squeak. But I'm powerful." Brought them down, scraping over wet flesh and nipples down, down, until he hit thighs. "But I'm a cat." Then he kept going, licking with giant wet tongue after claw, smoothing over scrapes.
Dean groaned, arched, writhed against the grass. "I always wanted to spank the devil." Dean's clothes wrecked on the lawn, his flesh in mud, his head tilted back.
"So come on then," Sam teased from above, hair dripping down. "Come on."
Wrestling. Lots and lots of wrestling. Dean sitting on Sam's back and squeezing with his knees, grabbing the back of Sam's thigh with one hand and striking the fleshiest part with his other hand and keeping Sam too surprised for coordinated kicks. "Come here. Come here."
Sam flipping Dean over and so Dean flips him back and ties up his ankles in one of their ruined shirts. "Come on. Come on." Blindfolds him with the other. Hoists his ankles above them both and licks Sam from his ass to the tip of his dick. Again. Again. His tongue stopping to linger on textures for awhile, on memories. Sometimes watches Sam's hair come loose from under the muddy wet cotton.
When Dean let him go, it was leaning in for a scrape of his teeth over Sam's nipples, wet and hard from the cold. "Got you," Sam's legs crossed at the ankle with Dean trapped in between his thighs, squeezing, Dean's ribcage expanding at his thighs as he felt him breathe. Dean's fists pounding his chest and lower uselessly.
Sam could hold him there, trapped, and laugh breathlessly. But the mud, and he would fuck him on the lawn, he would. He let Dean go. So they slid, and slid around some more, against the mud and the wrecked grass and each other, tearing clothes that were rags and scraping wet skin, feeling it under their nails, feeling bones knocking and bouncing off muscle without even feeling it. Slipping against and into each other. Just like always.
Then Sam's, "Wait. Wait." Pushing Dean's face, his knees, into the mud, the scent of wet grass everywhere. "I need this. Just."
"Okay," Dean breathed and waited for him.
It was so hard not to moan at the smell of him, the taste of his hole winking around his tongue, the suck and slurp of his skin wet from hose and spit and sleep sweat, and maybe he was moaning a lot, non-stop, whatever, but it was Dean and 40 years of waiting and this place needed some waking up. Dean added to it, his embarrassed 'oh God's and 'm gonna kick your ass'es and 'fucking please'es all leading to nothing but his come all over the grass and mud and dogs barking and lights going on from houses down the street and Sam turning him over and trying to suck his brain out through his wrung-dry dick, holding him down and wringing embarrassing moans from the both of them. Sam's little picnic on the lawn.
"Jesus Christ, fuck me," Dean said when Sam was certain Lisa was going to appear any minute in some worn down Mickey Mouse University shirt, or that PINK crap they sold at the mall. It would serve Dean right, it would. But they would not wake up - nothing would spoil this tonight. So Sam hauled Dean across the grass and fucked him under the window at the side of the house, figured maybe it was Lisa's bedroom, or maybe the kid's, he couldn't tell their dreams apart. Parents and children so often had the same weird dreams. Tonight, they would not dream of Dean, or think of him, or remember his name.
Sam was king of dreams, of demons, of Hell, the space between the stars. He knew these things. And here was Dean, beneath him, breathing like the earth, smelling of it, tasting of it, reminding him always. His brother - king of the earth.
He didn't need for the others to know, not the seeming innocent. He just needed for his brother to feel the grass at his back and think of Florida, and stay in the shadows long enough to see the stars. He fucked into Dean's spit-slicked hole and it was like crawling back to the world.
See this? he says inside his head to no one, used to talking. See this now, here? The taste of him more real than Heaven or Hell, the human taste we never were. Now we're howling through him, stepping up Dean's spine, foothold true, with our screwing. The truth is it started when we used to cry in Dean's arms, babylike, manlike, growing up, fucking our way up his spine, never talking about it afterwords. Shhh, shhh, no need to be afraid. He's here now, he's here now, here.
"Who are you talking to?" Dean says low, his eyes closed and his hands jerking through his brother's hair.
Sam would introduce them, just for spite, and for his old friend pride.
But the devil is gone.
The End
pairing: Sam/Dean, Castiel, Samcifer
spoilers: 5.22
rating: NC-17
word count: 4000
warning: swearing, spanking, blindfolds, mud, horny angels, psychic Wincest OTP lawnsex
notes: Titles from Guided by Voices. Thanks and love (so much love) to my betas.
summary: Lucifer, the great seducer vs. Sam, the boy who seduced his own brother - it's not even a contest.
Turned out Hell wasn't so bad when you were its king. You'd been given the "All that I can handle" speech by your father, your brother - (your brother, your father) - so many times, until you started to give it yourself. There was always more to handle. They could speak to you still, the only lonely voices of truth:
The important thing to remember was that he already knew everything about you, and you knew everything about him. You have always been him, perhaps. But he has only lived you once, from the day of your birth to the day of your death in Lawrence, Kansas.
You were Sam Winchester, you were Lucifer, and there in the back of your mind, his voice, so full of the honed narcissism of the angels, speaking like your Dad's angry lazy voice. It made you want to go to church. It made you want to study disputes. It created so many Sammys. It was old hat, the same argument over and over again, like the one you had with yourself in the middle of the night, when Dean was asleep or faraway or distant or cold. The rare Dean, the cold voice. You missed even the cold voice of your brother down here in the pit.
The pit was Sam, and Lucifer, and Adam, and Michael, and no guests allowed. So this was Hell. So they spoke in lies:
"I know. I know what you're going to say, Sammy. You had Dean - he who gargled too long in the morning and slept with his jaw slack and smacked his lips when he licked his fingers and liked to talk when he was taking a shit and spoke when he was fucking and breathed too loud when he was angry and when it was the empty middle of the night or the worthless days how you had him hard in your mouth and your knees in the dirt and your clothes on the floor in the backseat and the smell of it, and the sweat, was like breathing. Ah, and yet you don't speak of him wanting to lose the burden of you, of lunching with Death, not to have to know your name. Him human like you and I never were."
"Stop." Sam had to listen to the voice in his head talk and talk and talk - the dialogue between the hot heart and the cold comet, the chase of cat and mouse - both with tails, always with tales. Lucifer knew Sam's favorite tale was always about Dean. Funny, how he found himself having the same weak spot as the devil.
"All bad, all wrong - I remember how you think. They're all out to get you still, Sammy. Every story has a villain, someone to be blamed. You cannot be two opposites simultaneously. But you can have it all being one thing well. See how our mind cracks with the loss, still. See him weep for you, even as he smiles at the new boy who is not even his own."
The cage they were in was not a solid object, like the car, like flesh. It was darkness, and they were starlight, and all else was the universe. Up there, above, Dean would never let starlight ride his body. Lucifer would never have Dean and still be Lucifer. It was Sam's only equation, his only conceit. Down here, there would be no room for empathy.
So Sam handled it. He defended Dean with what the angels could not understand. Told stories of the car groaning and shaking beneath them, so close to coming, becoming something else. "You don't know what it feels like," he would say. "What it really feels like. I could show you." Knowing that Lucifer does not truly have this body here that still leaks for him, the way that Dean could leak clear and sticky through his fingers. He touches himself, and the devil is numb.
"You think you're being cruel." The voice in his head huffed and huffed.
"I'm being fair," Sam reasoned. "I'm always fair to you." If Lucifer could truly be Sam, he would know how Dean was wild and he would take no one but he takes you, until your body screams itself dry. His tongue finds your every hole, every crack, all your spaces, little screams. No control. All alive when you find him again, when you fall all over him. You never forget this. This is Dean's voice to you, saying your name.
"What?" The devil interrupted. "The slap of flesh to flesh again? Always with this story," from the back of his mind, back in the cage. "I defiled him on his love altar, his precious machine. Pushed him around like a bag, broke his face. Nothing - mine - nothing." So cliche, so predictable. Lucifer didn't much care, except that he did. He had this curiosity about carnal flesh. Silly it was, yes, but still, but still. Sam's body felt like a body here, and Sam could touch it, and Adam could touch it, but Lucifer could not. He was in a cage within a cage inside of nothing.
Michael could try - in this body of Adam, a young blond man with freckles, long lashes, wide eyes, no good memories - reaching out to Sam and Lucifer - brothers - not really touching either, never blinking. Lucifer bored him in this place, and he was so disappointed after so long. But Sam was his tall novel brother with muscles for an ass and a dick big enough to distract. Human in a way he'd never noticed. When he looked at Sam, all he could see was regret for what Heaven couldn't give.
So, "Are you enjoying your freedom?" Sam would ask Michael, all angelic hands, eyes never blinking.
For Michael was more free in Hell than he'd ever been in Heaven. "Yes," sad-eyed Michael said, his hands roving on Sam's chest. Sam was a curiosity to him - something to touch, if not exactly feel. "Yes." Something to explore with hands and tongue - the parts of this body he could use.
So Adam - far down below nothing - finally knew what it was to be with someone who would not leave, someone sad like his mother had been, but always constant, always there. Michael had almost burned him out whole, and still, what was left of Adam's will wanted to give him what he wanted. For Michael was everything and oblivion, all at once. When Sam said 'brother', the word was a seduction for them both.
But Michael was not Dean. Not Dean for Sam. And after years, the Lucifer behind his eyes felt like glass marbles. The sky here looked like the same dusk at every hour. The violet sky. Violet hours. He missed blankets and stars, when the stars were not angels - just stars.
The dialogue continued as forty years passed by again on the underside of the world. With time, Lucifer listened. He obeyed, and shrunk down into the squeak of a mouse at the back of Sam's head. He could argue with many things, Lucifer could, but not flesh. It made him dumb.
Then, not long after, there would come the silence of the mouse with his tail forever. The great hunt for demons and pagan gods in suburbia. The boyking with catlike eyes and grace who charted a course across green lawns and false places with his brother, who had saved the world with only his human flesh, once upon a time.
It came after the angel Castiel appeared to them out of the ether. He was a star burning ever brighter and bigger in the nothingness, come with burning fire and vengeance. When they looked at him, they did not think of tears, or the moon, or lonely Thursdays anymore.
Castiel did not have to speak. He had always known. So he gave Sam three gifts to take with him: since he had visited Sam's desires as he had always visited Dean's dreams, he gave them the knowledge of both; since he had no human body to give Sam that he did not already possess, he let Sam keep his otherworldly one; since he'd always wanted to - just a little, and this here now was the closest he would get to a younger brother, his oldest brother - he touched the flesh of Sam's ass with his palm, and the shape of his hand burned there, like a spanking. He shoved Sam back to the earth, like a rising star.
Sam crawled up up. Rode the last of the devil like a star and dug up, dug up the rest of the way, as Lucifer died out - behind, underground, quaint. His human body was his own. He did not need another. He was demon within angel within human and he was finally everything - the last best perfect thing - and he had nothing to do with God.
Nothing but Castiel, the new God-thing, and his family man of a vessel, who could bear to look upon this place again - lawn and landscaped like a medieval painting - as Sam saw it now, lonely and alone.
Much like this suburbia.
Faraway, a dog was barking. The mouse squeaked in his mind. Screen doors slammed shut for dinnertime. Television sets were tuned into primetime. Three houses down, the deserted house was filled to the ceiling with pounds of marijuana. Two streets over, a couple was filming amateur porn. Across the street, a man was praying to God. When he reached the top of the world, when Sam spoke, he might well have been talking to no one.
"I hear him cry, and those times when he can't stop and he can't explain it." Sam stood on the deserted corners, the untouched centers of cul-de-sacs. He stood like a masked superhero no one could see, vigilant and alone, and spoke of Dean. "He's with the boy in the baseball game, or with her at the barbecue. He sits in the car, he explains, and doesn't drive. Just sits and talks, or doesn't talk." No one answered.
He should have found other things to do at the top of the world, he supposed. But they deserved their reward, the two of them together. No - they just wanted it. There was no deserving. Deserving was for angels, never for them.
At the top was green lawns and sidewalks cleared with leaf-blowers and lonely lampposts and curtained windows lit from within their squared houses. He had to frown. It was all so much more pathetic than he remembered. But Dean was inside that house, that one there, with the lawn manicured by someone with OCD and weedkiller. He wanted to fuck Dean on that lawn, fuck it up so very much. It wasn't Lucifer talking. It was just too much time spent leaving Dean here in this plastic place, and Sam spending too much time in the darkness between the stars.
He had to get used to this place again. The neighbors spoke, mostly about themselves or each other. Never truthfully. It was boring. If he wanted, he could tune them in like a radio, closing his eyes and tilting his head one way or the other for reception. But why would he want to? He only wanted to hear Dean and all the sounds of Dean missing him. The world was not his to save any longer.
The washing machine rocked, overfilled. And I thought laundry was boring before... Dean sighed. Giant darks. Where are the giant darks? The pop of a beer can, the spray, slurp. Not enough. Lawn sprinklers buzzed like insects. Holy water, Dean thought. Should be holy water. Get some of these fuckers. And the Impala - home, it had been - on top of wooden blocks on the front lawn of that house, flaunting all codes. It's wheels peeked out from under the tarp, and it looked like apocalypse again.
Sam smirked, his eyes still closed. "I missed you too, Dean." The evening passed into night, into day. He stood on the hot-to-melting asphalt in the middle of the road in bare feet and jeans that clung without a belt and nothing else and his hands at his waist and no one saw him there all day. Poor Dean, he smirked. Poor Dean.
Sam contemplated. He would have work to do, with the demons still left here from the opened devil's gate - the earlier, lesser Apocalypse. More of his family's dirty work. He remembered the day when Dean was hero, striking Azazel between the eyes. Triumphant he was. They'd all had sins to atone for. Sam didn't care much about that. But the work, the dirty work of the world.
Faraway, a dog was barking. The mouse squeaked in his mind. Screen doors slammed shut for dinnertime. Television sets were tuned into primetime. Three blocks over, a man was crying with a gun in his hands, shaking. Two houses down, a couple was fighting in front of their children. Across the street, a man was praying to God. The sky grew purple after 8pm. Night fell. He shook his head free. When Sam spoke, he might as well have been talking to no one. "Now, about fucking Dean on that lawn," Sam said again, and the mouse never peeped.
It had always been about mutual motivation. Sam wanted Dean there and Dean wanted Sam there and so they would do what they had to and that's how it had to be if anything was to be done. The world still had to run. The cosmos and all. Sam knew all about the cosmos. All that violet. He could have had anything. He only wanted Dean.
Dean who slept on the back porch enclosed in mosquito screens, who soaked all night in sweat. He had a pocket knife in his jeans, obviously not giving a fuck. His hair was longer than it used to be, his clothes were tighter, his bottles empty under the bed, his face tight. Sam's hands shook. No one could see him, the darkness between the stars. Oh but he was Dean's already, he was. The night was hot, close to steam.
It was too quiet, the way Dad had liked it. It pissed Sam off. He missed something vital, and searched for it, searched. Water from the hose on a night like this with no relief. He found it coiled like a green snake on the side of the house, on the grass, between the beige siding and the wooden fence of the backyard. The squeal of the knob. Then he bent and let it soak his face, spraying a little up his nose, into his mouth, wetting his hair to his shoulders, his back and shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the neighbor's security lights, color the spray silver. Water - water was sweet, pulling his wet jeans down over his hips, soaking the grass between his toes to mud.
He squished them together, dirty and rich. He'd missed this. He closed his eyes again, reached out to Dean. Is this what Cas used to do? Visit Dean in his sleep, poke around in there for little golden mushroom dreams, digging in the dirt, until Dean replaced every itch of uncomfortability with the familiar horny urge to be fucked? Woke up sudden and hard and desperate?
Sam closed his eyes, tilted his head in tune with Dean's radio. Water dropped from his hair, the ends of his fingers.
Sam wanted to TP the trees with Dean - no, climb them. Peek into the neighbors' windows to steal their secrets. Swim across all the pools in the neighborhood on a dare. Dare to do it naked. Dare to steal liquor from the barbecue bars - unopened bottles of Midori and Malibu. Make out in the shadows on the lawns in the middle of the night, like they did that one August - Florida croc monster that just turned out to be a croc, the grass cutting into their backs, until that night they found the golf course, tried to suck each other off at the same time, nothing but grass and stars - back when the world was huge enough for them not to care.
"Sawgrass Pines," Dean said.
Sam knew that, eyes closed, his back to his brother. "The golf course."
Dean almost smiled. "You said the stars were speckled like my dick."
"I was trying to be poetic. Jerk."
"Well, it is pretty, I know."
Sam turned to him, dropped the hose and let it fall against Dean's leg, rest at their feet. By then, Dean's hands were clenched in his jeans and he didn't care. Sweaty palms were on the planes of his back, across his hair, grabbing at his sides. Perfection, Dean, perfection. Dean heard every thought, which he heard back. It was easy. No need to think. Dean wanted neighborhood pranks too. He wanted fucking and forgetting, no hesitation like last time, with cracks for snakes and demons and doubt to break through from the very beginning.
"You blessed the water." Sam stated a fact. "You can take the man from hunting -"
"Does that matter to you?" Dean raised his eyebrows, tilted his head up. "Didn't think so. So, what's first? What are Sammy's big plans?"
"Can't you guess?" Sam wrestled him to the ground, leg wrapped around Dean's bowed thigh, his knee, lifting up and towards himself, dick to dick. "Can't you feel?" Then Dean was down, backwards and on the soaked grass. "Damn, that was easy. You're getting rusty, you know that? Rusty and flabby."
"Fuck that," Dean's arms chopping at his legs, pulling his wet jeans half off and grabbing at his back and failing. "Jesus, your back is like wet marble." Pawing at his chest too tight to hold. Pawing downward. "What the - hell is -"
Sam hissed as water and air and Dean's calloused fingers brushed across the welt where it was pink and puffy. He loved it.
"Some spanking, Sammy." Dean's fingers traced over the curve and dimple of his ass, the raised skin there.
"Cas says hello, by the way," Sam smiled tightly.
Dean was mesmerized by Sam's ears, hsi hair the shade between silver and bronze, weird somehow. His hand fit into Castiel's branded angel space, all of their tattoos matching now. "Is it wrong that I want to spank you?" Complete. Twins.
Sam wasn't surprised when his cock jumped towards the meeting of Dean's hand. "Beats me. I don't think we have any rules to follow here. But do we ever?" Sam breathed against his face, as close as he could stand without losing it. He couldn't help it, this was Dean. Dean's whole body. And Dean could kiss him back. It hurt to breathe when he could be kissing Dean instead.
"What's that thing? I feel it in the back of your mind. What is it?" Dean was kissing him too so he forgot to answer. "Sammy?"
"That's a tiny mouse. A rat. He doesn't have any say anymore."
"The devil? In your head? Sammy -"
"Shhh," He fit two clawed hands over Dean's shoulders. "He's just a squeak. But I'm powerful." Brought them down, scraping over wet flesh and nipples down, down, until he hit thighs. "But I'm a cat." Then he kept going, licking with giant wet tongue after claw, smoothing over scrapes.
Dean groaned, arched, writhed against the grass. "I always wanted to spank the devil." Dean's clothes wrecked on the lawn, his flesh in mud, his head tilted back.
"So come on then," Sam teased from above, hair dripping down. "Come on."
Wrestling. Lots and lots of wrestling. Dean sitting on Sam's back and squeezing with his knees, grabbing the back of Sam's thigh with one hand and striking the fleshiest part with his other hand and keeping Sam too surprised for coordinated kicks. "Come here. Come here."
Sam flipping Dean over and so Dean flips him back and ties up his ankles in one of their ruined shirts. "Come on. Come on." Blindfolds him with the other. Hoists his ankles above them both and licks Sam from his ass to the tip of his dick. Again. Again. His tongue stopping to linger on textures for awhile, on memories. Sometimes watches Sam's hair come loose from under the muddy wet cotton.
When Dean let him go, it was leaning in for a scrape of his teeth over Sam's nipples, wet and hard from the cold. "Got you," Sam's legs crossed at the ankle with Dean trapped in between his thighs, squeezing, Dean's ribcage expanding at his thighs as he felt him breathe. Dean's fists pounding his chest and lower uselessly.
Sam could hold him there, trapped, and laugh breathlessly. But the mud, and he would fuck him on the lawn, he would. He let Dean go. So they slid, and slid around some more, against the mud and the wrecked grass and each other, tearing clothes that were rags and scraping wet skin, feeling it under their nails, feeling bones knocking and bouncing off muscle without even feeling it. Slipping against and into each other. Just like always.
Then Sam's, "Wait. Wait." Pushing Dean's face, his knees, into the mud, the scent of wet grass everywhere. "I need this. Just."
"Okay," Dean breathed and waited for him.
It was so hard not to moan at the smell of him, the taste of his hole winking around his tongue, the suck and slurp of his skin wet from hose and spit and sleep sweat, and maybe he was moaning a lot, non-stop, whatever, but it was Dean and 40 years of waiting and this place needed some waking up. Dean added to it, his embarrassed 'oh God's and 'm gonna kick your ass'es and 'fucking please'es all leading to nothing but his come all over the grass and mud and dogs barking and lights going on from houses down the street and Sam turning him over and trying to suck his brain out through his wrung-dry dick, holding him down and wringing embarrassing moans from the both of them. Sam's little picnic on the lawn.
"Jesus Christ, fuck me," Dean said when Sam was certain Lisa was going to appear any minute in some worn down Mickey Mouse University shirt, or that PINK crap they sold at the mall. It would serve Dean right, it would. But they would not wake up - nothing would spoil this tonight. So Sam hauled Dean across the grass and fucked him under the window at the side of the house, figured maybe it was Lisa's bedroom, or maybe the kid's, he couldn't tell their dreams apart. Parents and children so often had the same weird dreams. Tonight, they would not dream of Dean, or think of him, or remember his name.
Sam was king of dreams, of demons, of Hell, the space between the stars. He knew these things. And here was Dean, beneath him, breathing like the earth, smelling of it, tasting of it, reminding him always. His brother - king of the earth.
He didn't need for the others to know, not the seeming innocent. He just needed for his brother to feel the grass at his back and think of Florida, and stay in the shadows long enough to see the stars. He fucked into Dean's spit-slicked hole and it was like crawling back to the world.
See this? he says inside his head to no one, used to talking. See this now, here? The taste of him more real than Heaven or Hell, the human taste we never were. Now we're howling through him, stepping up Dean's spine, foothold true, with our screwing. The truth is it started when we used to cry in Dean's arms, babylike, manlike, growing up, fucking our way up his spine, never talking about it afterwords. Shhh, shhh, no need to be afraid. He's here now, he's here now, here.
"Who are you talking to?" Dean says low, his eyes closed and his hands jerking through his brother's hair.
Sam would introduce them, just for spite, and for his old friend pride.
But the devil is gone.
The End