(no subject)
So, um. For some reason inhaling Jonas Brothers porn is making me drown in ultra-schoopy Sam/Dean thoughts. Yeah, I don't know, either. I'm just going to post this before I lose my nerve, because it's ridiculously embarrassing and painfully self-indulgent and the entire reason drawer fic was invented.
This Morning I Know Who You Are
Sam/Dean, 768 words
Notes: Schmoop by the bucketful with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. DTTE-verse, set at some point well after Stumbling Across Its Bleak Ending/ Practical Men of the World. Thanks to sevenfists and balefully for reassurances and hand-holding.
It's always a shock to realize that Sam is actually happy, but sometimes it's impossible to miss. Sam laughs more than he has since he was too young to be sullen, and he actually gets excited when they kill something awesome. Sometimes he'll meet Dean's eyes, over a diner table or in the mirror of whatever crappy motel they're shacked up in or even across the body of whatever evil son of a bitch they've just annihilated, and he'll smile like his whole soul is behind it and he couldn't hold it back even if he wanted to. Like he's exactly where he wants to be, and Dean's not just the consolation prize.
It sends a sharp, hot ache through Dean's chest, every single time, and he has to jerk his eyes away, say something about the case or the tits on their last waitress to make things normal again. He thought it would piss Sam off, the first time, but Sam just laughs or rolls his eyes and usually, the next time they're alone and have the time, drags to Dean to bed for some serious marathon sex. He's predictable like that--soppy moments make him want to fuck or get fucked until he can't remember how to breathe. Not that Dean would ever complain.
But this time he didn't even remember to change the subject. There was a grave and a church and a blood-smeared crucifix that Sam torched while Dean played bait for a ghost that never stood a chance once the Winchesters got him in their sights, and Sam just looked at him as it howled its rage and sparked out of existence, grinning like he was having the time of his life, joy and pride and something so much deeper in his face. Dean grinned back, helpless to do anything else, and they barely made it back to the motel.
And now they're stretched out on the wreck of the bed, sated and sticky and half-asleep as the sun comes up, spilling weak light through the paper-thin curtains. Dean's whole body aches, and the slow trickle of Sam's come down his thighs is going to get unpleasant soon, but he can't bring himself to move. His head is pressed against Sam's shoulder, which is way more comfortable than it should be, and his muscles feel like liquid, like that last orgasm killed the few brain cells he had left from the first two.
Sam's fingers card softly through the short hair at the base of Dean's skull, and he pushes into the touch without really meaning to. Sam hums, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and then he tangles his free hand with Dean's, rubbing his thumb absently across Dean's wrist. He says, "Dean," voice slow and sleepy, and Dean can feel the warmth in it, the words they never say wrapped around his name as only Sam can do it.
His chest aches again, a hot, heavy pressure in his lungs, and he thinks all this time with Sam is getting to him because he suddenly wants to say it, needs to. Dean's never been so good with declarations, and he's not sure he could express what he feels for Sam even if he was, but he's never said the words, never even tried, and Sam deserves to hear them.
He sits up, pulling himself out of Sam's grasping arms and ignoring his sleepy noise of protest. "Sammy," he says, and his voice sounds hoarse, as fucked out as the rest of him.
Sam blinks his eyes open and brushes the back of his hand across Dean's belly, fingers tangling lightly in his pubic hair. "Mmm?" he says.
"I--" Dean starts, and then he swallows and tries again. "Sammy, I--"
"What?" Sam says. His brow is furrowed into a small frown.
"I just," Dean tries, but he can't get the words out, and he makes a frustrated noise. "Goddammit, Sam, I--"
"Oh," Sam says, and his lips curve up, just the barest hint of a smile. Dean glares--only Sammy could make something like this even worse by being utterly annoying--but Sam's already moving, arms wrapped around Dean, pulling him down again. He thinks of fighting, for a moment, but Sam is relentless, kissing him hot and hard as if either of them could possibly go another round any time soon.
When he finally breaks away to breathe, Sam's smiling at him again, and Dean can feel himself flush. "What?" he says. It comes out angrier than he'd meant it to, but Sam just smiles wider.
"I love you too," he says.
This Morning I Know Who You Are
Sam/Dean, 768 words
Notes: Schmoop by the bucketful with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. DTTE-verse, set at some point well after Stumbling Across Its Bleak Ending/ Practical Men of the World. Thanks to sevenfists and balefully for reassurances and hand-holding.
It's always a shock to realize that Sam is actually happy, but sometimes it's impossible to miss. Sam laughs more than he has since he was too young to be sullen, and he actually gets excited when they kill something awesome. Sometimes he'll meet Dean's eyes, over a diner table or in the mirror of whatever crappy motel they're shacked up in or even across the body of whatever evil son of a bitch they've just annihilated, and he'll smile like his whole soul is behind it and he couldn't hold it back even if he wanted to. Like he's exactly where he wants to be, and Dean's not just the consolation prize.
It sends a sharp, hot ache through Dean's chest, every single time, and he has to jerk his eyes away, say something about the case or the tits on their last waitress to make things normal again. He thought it would piss Sam off, the first time, but Sam just laughs or rolls his eyes and usually, the next time they're alone and have the time, drags to Dean to bed for some serious marathon sex. He's predictable like that--soppy moments make him want to fuck or get fucked until he can't remember how to breathe. Not that Dean would ever complain.
But this time he didn't even remember to change the subject. There was a grave and a church and a blood-smeared crucifix that Sam torched while Dean played bait for a ghost that never stood a chance once the Winchesters got him in their sights, and Sam just looked at him as it howled its rage and sparked out of existence, grinning like he was having the time of his life, joy and pride and something so much deeper in his face. Dean grinned back, helpless to do anything else, and they barely made it back to the motel.
And now they're stretched out on the wreck of the bed, sated and sticky and half-asleep as the sun comes up, spilling weak light through the paper-thin curtains. Dean's whole body aches, and the slow trickle of Sam's come down his thighs is going to get unpleasant soon, but he can't bring himself to move. His head is pressed against Sam's shoulder, which is way more comfortable than it should be, and his muscles feel like liquid, like that last orgasm killed the few brain cells he had left from the first two.
Sam's fingers card softly through the short hair at the base of Dean's skull, and he pushes into the touch without really meaning to. Sam hums, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and then he tangles his free hand with Dean's, rubbing his thumb absently across Dean's wrist. He says, "Dean," voice slow and sleepy, and Dean can feel the warmth in it, the words they never say wrapped around his name as only Sam can do it.
His chest aches again, a hot, heavy pressure in his lungs, and he thinks all this time with Sam is getting to him because he suddenly wants to say it, needs to. Dean's never been so good with declarations, and he's not sure he could express what he feels for Sam even if he was, but he's never said the words, never even tried, and Sam deserves to hear them.
He sits up, pulling himself out of Sam's grasping arms and ignoring his sleepy noise of protest. "Sammy," he says, and his voice sounds hoarse, as fucked out as the rest of him.
Sam blinks his eyes open and brushes the back of his hand across Dean's belly, fingers tangling lightly in his pubic hair. "Mmm?" he says.
"I--" Dean starts, and then he swallows and tries again. "Sammy, I--"
"What?" Sam says. His brow is furrowed into a small frown.
"I just," Dean tries, but he can't get the words out, and he makes a frustrated noise. "Goddammit, Sam, I--"
"Oh," Sam says, and his lips curve up, just the barest hint of a smile. Dean glares--only Sammy could make something like this even worse by being utterly annoying--but Sam's already moving, arms wrapped around Dean, pulling him down again. He thinks of fighting, for a moment, but Sam is relentless, kissing him hot and hard as if either of them could possibly go another round any time soon.
When he finally breaks away to breathe, Sam's smiling at him again, and Dean can feel himself flush. "What?" he says. It comes out angrier than he'd meant it to, but Sam just smiles wider.
"I love you too," he says.