Sistine on Skin (Sam/Dean, 2042 words, R)
Sistine on Skin
(Sam/Dean, 2042 words, R, for stephanometra who is made of awesome)
You asked for porn, but despite much prodding, Dean and Sam kind of resisted. However, this has both ink and scars.
There's no romance or teasing coyness in the way Dean undresses - muscles in his belly shifting as he peels his t-shirt off, sliding his shorts down his thighs and shucking them off. This is business.
It doesn't stop Sam from clutching the open book tighter to his chest and watching with that same old, thick sense that this is forbidden.
Dean lies down on the bed on his stomach. He props himself up on his elbows and then peers over the tanned curve of his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow as Sam just goes on sitting, cross-legged on the other bed, wrapped about the book.
"C'mon," he says. "Do me."
Sam nods jerkily and gets to his feet. Not much of the afternoon sun, muted and orange like chewed-out bubblegum, gets through the nets at the motel windows. But what light does make it into the room slides over Dean's skin and leaves it the colour of honey, darker caramel in the sweeping line of his spine, the dips at his shoulder blades.
Grabbing his pens, Sam sits down on the bed beside him, the creaking roll of the mattress tilting them towards one another for a moment before Sam gets his balance back. Sam clears his throat and ignores the fact that if he stretches his middle finger just a little further, he'll be touching firm, warm flesh of his brother.
When he sets the book at the head of the bed from which to work, he sees Dean's chin tilt towards it. He looks at the diagram - the circles within triangles, the sigils of stars and angels - and wonders how it reads to Dean. Does Dean translate it as Sam does? Does it make him think of the smell of library vaults and of esoteric texts only available in Aramaic like it does Sam? Or does he look at it and think of horror movies from the seventies and of tattoos on girls, chosen simply for the sense they don't make?
Sam clears his throat and says,
"You're gonna have to hold real still. Art was never my strong point."
Dean laughs and the sound flutters through his skin.
"Trace it."
Sam pulls a face but smiles anyway.
"Too much like cheating."
He shifts on the bed and takes another long look at the book, before flipping the lid off one of the pens. The pen is green, but different to Dean's eyes. It's a strident green, green like you can't think of any other word for it. Not like Dean's eyes, which are a hundred different things in one second.
Sam takes a breath and runs the flat of his hand over Dean's back, smoothing out his canvas before he commits ink to paper and changes the world with a penstroke. He knows Dean's body. He knew it as being of his flesh when they were brothers and he knows it from long, languid explorations with tongue and lips and fingers.
But Dean's body is as tricky as his mind: there's always something new, something that doesn't fit with the rest.
Sam hasn't noticed this scar before. It's thin and silver with age. It sits just left of the small of his back, not round enough for a bullet hole, but too smooth and neat for teeth. He traces it with the edge of his nail and feels Dean heave beneath his hand.
"Spirit-guided skewer," says Dean. There's a catch in his voice when he speaks. "Out in Michigan. During your lost years."
Sam knows that joke. Stanford is his lost years. But he didn't feel lost back then. Maybe the joke's on Dean, because those are the years that Sam could live without Metallica in the early morning and blowjobs in the back of the Impala, those are the years that Dean lost Sam.
"Ouch," is all Sam says.
"You shoulda seen what happened to the sonofabitch who did it. Gave him one hell of a cremation. Took half the cemetery with him." Dean sighs and Sam imagines his smile, self-satisfied and content with the memory of ash and flame.
Sam brings his pen down and stops. The tip hovers over skin for a second and then Sam draws a wide curve that sweeps from the baby-smooth skin at the nape of Dean's neck, down to the dimple just above Dean's left ass cheek.
He stares at the mark he has made, the line he has drawn out on his brother, and swallows hard. Then he mirrors the curve on the other side. The long thin oval brings neatly folded wings to mind, a stronger impression if they weren't green. He's glad to recap the green and take the red instead.
When he leans closer to the book, taking care to memorise the exact angle of the lines where they intersect the oval, there is nothing but a sliver of static air between his chest and Dean's back. If he doesn't look at the page, there are the old-gold tips of Dean's hair, right in front of him. There's a moment when he thinks he'd like to bury his face in Dean's hair and breathe in nothing but his brother, maybe for ever and ever.
Then he remembers what's happening tonight and that Dean never turns down a date with a demon, not even for a limpet of a younger brother.
So instead, he settles for ducking his head and pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Dean's shoulder. He starts with the red pen before Dean has chance to turn around, but he doesn't miss the bitten-back moan.
"The green is protective, should ward off possession. The red," says Sam, sounding surprisingly unaffected by the tanned expanse of supple body stretched out beside him, "is for strength. There's yellow too, which 'allows one to pass unseen beneath the eye of the Beast' which is probably pushing our luck, but can't hurt."
Red is always blood, to Sam, first and foremost. The book would have him dipping his thumb in the blood of a freshly killed cow and swiping it all over Dean. He doesn't think too much about that, that's the Yellow-Eyed Demon whispering just behind him, Wouldn't that look pretty, Sam? Wouldn't Dean look pretty like that, warm skin painted with warmer blood?
Red felt tip does the job. It's clean and precise, like a blade. He frowns at the red triangle he's drawn, point to point to point over Dean's back, an edge along the broad line of his shoulders, and the apex resting directly on the small of his back. It's like a great big frickin' arrow at his ass.
Sam huffs out a breath and rocks back.
"No blue?"
He doesn't get what Dean's asking at first, too busy staring at the red arrow directing him to the tight curves of Dean's buttocks. Then he forces his gaze to the diagram once more.
"Yeah. Yeah, there's blue."
His lips tighten and he leans closer to draw the smaller triangle within the first. He stretches over Dean and finds the only way he can balance is if he plants his palm on the other side of him. Something tugs in his lower belly and he lets out a breath - and like an echo, Dean shivers.
There's that breathless quality to Dean's voice again when he speaks.
"What's the blue for?"
"Calling down the angels," says Sam.
He leans in even further, so close his mouth is just inches away from Dean and his eternally kissable, lickable skin. Finally, he realises there's nothing for it but to straddle Dean; it's the only way he can angle his hand right for the interlocking shapes.
He clambers onto him, wedging Dean's narrow hips between his thighs, feeling the play of powerful muscle even through the stiff denim of his jeans. Dean's head falls forward and his spine arches. Sam can feel him rise up against him and all he wants to do is push back, grind against him.
"You're gonna make me smudge this," he snaps instead.
He swaps back to the green in order to draw the spiral within the triangle, taking care to fit the seven circles in, counting under his breath as he does so.
"I don't wanna call down any goddamn angels," says Dean.
"Fuck you. You're calling down the angels."
"Sam-"
Sam lifts his pen off Dean's back and cuts him off with an unmoveable Dean. There's silence between them. The door to the next room slams and Sam glances out through the haze of the net, watching a trucker cross the parking lot to his semi. It's not dark yet, but that watchful stillness is hanging in the air, like the peach-tinted clouds of coming dusk.
Maybe it's because Dean can't fail to have registered the bulge of Sam's cock resting against the curve of his ass that he doesn't fight the angels thing anymore. Sam knows he must be able to feel it. He's been getting harder with every second that Dean is wedged, naked and docile, between his legs. And now he's got an erection pressed against Dean and still several more steps of the damn symbol to draw. Every line covers a stretch of skin that Sam can't put his fingers on anymore.
It's time for the yellow. It's not a very nice shade of yellow. In fact, it's the colour of rancid butter but it's the only yellow in the pack, and the gas station hadn't had much of a selection in the first place.
Sam leans down to draw on the back of Dean's neck, where the hairs are short and downy. The skin's paler too and Sam imagines a Dean who hasn't spent his life on the road, who hasn't been toughened like old leather. It's a curiosity, but it's not his Dean. Just like the Sam who went to classes and used salt for his meals and nothing else wasn’t Dean's Sam. This is who they are, how they are, this is how they fit.
"Dude, cut it out," says Dean. "Or don't blame me when I get smudged."
Sam's cheeks fill with heat when he realises what Dean's referring to. Dean likes to joke that Sam's helpless when it comes to wanting him and that's why even though Sam protested how wrong it was and how they were brothers and how they shouldn't be doing this, it was him who kissed Dean and not the other way round.
He's been thrusting against Dean. In fact, his hips are still doing it, still dry-fucking him, rutting into him with mindless, oblivious need.
He stops and clears his throat. Tries to press his legs together to fight the itching, crawling want but finds that that only crushes Dean tighter to him.
"I don't want to hear it," he mutters, before throwing the yellow pen down and taking the blue.
He takes a savage pleasure in drawing out each other the archangel's sigils on Dean's body, marking out each emblem of unwanted faith with extreme diligence while Dean shifts beneath him on the bed. He finishes Michael's and starts in on Gabriel's while Dean makes small, irritable noises.
"Are you done yet?" he complains. "It's not the freaking Sistine Chapel."
"Do you want this done properly or do you want to face down a demon covered in nothing but squiggles?"
Sam thinks that's the end of it and is about to start in on Raphael's sigil when Dean squirms again and peers over his shoulder at him. He's smirking and Sam knows that whatever it is, he's already lost. It's ridiculous to resist but Sam just grits his teeth and carries on drawing.
"I think… I think I want to be smudged. Really really smudged. Three-year-old-let-loose-with-crayons smudged. C'mon, Sammy, smudge me."
Sam sits back, resting his haunches on the back of Dean's thighs, and looks at his handiwork. It's a felt tip masterpiece. The colours are almost luminous in the fading light. It's a damn near perfect copy of the fourteenth-century engraving.
He drags his thumb along Dean's side. The green's dried, but the red blurs easily.
"Guess we'll call that a rough draft," he says as he covers Dean's body with his own.
~end
(Sam/Dean, 2042 words, R, for stephanometra who is made of awesome)
You asked for porn, but despite much prodding, Dean and Sam kind of resisted. However, this has both ink and scars.
There's no romance or teasing coyness in the way Dean undresses - muscles in his belly shifting as he peels his t-shirt off, sliding his shorts down his thighs and shucking them off. This is business.
It doesn't stop Sam from clutching the open book tighter to his chest and watching with that same old, thick sense that this is forbidden.
Dean lies down on the bed on his stomach. He props himself up on his elbows and then peers over the tanned curve of his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow as Sam just goes on sitting, cross-legged on the other bed, wrapped about the book.
"C'mon," he says. "Do me."
Sam nods jerkily and gets to his feet. Not much of the afternoon sun, muted and orange like chewed-out bubblegum, gets through the nets at the motel windows. But what light does make it into the room slides over Dean's skin and leaves it the colour of honey, darker caramel in the sweeping line of his spine, the dips at his shoulder blades.
Grabbing his pens, Sam sits down on the bed beside him, the creaking roll of the mattress tilting them towards one another for a moment before Sam gets his balance back. Sam clears his throat and ignores the fact that if he stretches his middle finger just a little further, he'll be touching firm, warm flesh of his brother.
When he sets the book at the head of the bed from which to work, he sees Dean's chin tilt towards it. He looks at the diagram - the circles within triangles, the sigils of stars and angels - and wonders how it reads to Dean. Does Dean translate it as Sam does? Does it make him think of the smell of library vaults and of esoteric texts only available in Aramaic like it does Sam? Or does he look at it and think of horror movies from the seventies and of tattoos on girls, chosen simply for the sense they don't make?
Sam clears his throat and says,
"You're gonna have to hold real still. Art was never my strong point."
Dean laughs and the sound flutters through his skin.
"Trace it."
Sam pulls a face but smiles anyway.
"Too much like cheating."
He shifts on the bed and takes another long look at the book, before flipping the lid off one of the pens. The pen is green, but different to Dean's eyes. It's a strident green, green like you can't think of any other word for it. Not like Dean's eyes, which are a hundred different things in one second.
Sam takes a breath and runs the flat of his hand over Dean's back, smoothing out his canvas before he commits ink to paper and changes the world with a penstroke. He knows Dean's body. He knew it as being of his flesh when they were brothers and he knows it from long, languid explorations with tongue and lips and fingers.
But Dean's body is as tricky as his mind: there's always something new, something that doesn't fit with the rest.
Sam hasn't noticed this scar before. It's thin and silver with age. It sits just left of the small of his back, not round enough for a bullet hole, but too smooth and neat for teeth. He traces it with the edge of his nail and feels Dean heave beneath his hand.
"Spirit-guided skewer," says Dean. There's a catch in his voice when he speaks. "Out in Michigan. During your lost years."
Sam knows that joke. Stanford is his lost years. But he didn't feel lost back then. Maybe the joke's on Dean, because those are the years that Sam could live without Metallica in the early morning and blowjobs in the back of the Impala, those are the years that Dean lost Sam.
"Ouch," is all Sam says.
"You shoulda seen what happened to the sonofabitch who did it. Gave him one hell of a cremation. Took half the cemetery with him." Dean sighs and Sam imagines his smile, self-satisfied and content with the memory of ash and flame.
Sam brings his pen down and stops. The tip hovers over skin for a second and then Sam draws a wide curve that sweeps from the baby-smooth skin at the nape of Dean's neck, down to the dimple just above Dean's left ass cheek.
He stares at the mark he has made, the line he has drawn out on his brother, and swallows hard. Then he mirrors the curve on the other side. The long thin oval brings neatly folded wings to mind, a stronger impression if they weren't green. He's glad to recap the green and take the red instead.
When he leans closer to the book, taking care to memorise the exact angle of the lines where they intersect the oval, there is nothing but a sliver of static air between his chest and Dean's back. If he doesn't look at the page, there are the old-gold tips of Dean's hair, right in front of him. There's a moment when he thinks he'd like to bury his face in Dean's hair and breathe in nothing but his brother, maybe for ever and ever.
Then he remembers what's happening tonight and that Dean never turns down a date with a demon, not even for a limpet of a younger brother.
So instead, he settles for ducking his head and pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Dean's shoulder. He starts with the red pen before Dean has chance to turn around, but he doesn't miss the bitten-back moan.
"The green is protective, should ward off possession. The red," says Sam, sounding surprisingly unaffected by the tanned expanse of supple body stretched out beside him, "is for strength. There's yellow too, which 'allows one to pass unseen beneath the eye of the Beast' which is probably pushing our luck, but can't hurt."
Red is always blood, to Sam, first and foremost. The book would have him dipping his thumb in the blood of a freshly killed cow and swiping it all over Dean. He doesn't think too much about that, that's the Yellow-Eyed Demon whispering just behind him, Wouldn't that look pretty, Sam? Wouldn't Dean look pretty like that, warm skin painted with warmer blood?
Red felt tip does the job. It's clean and precise, like a blade. He frowns at the red triangle he's drawn, point to point to point over Dean's back, an edge along the broad line of his shoulders, and the apex resting directly on the small of his back. It's like a great big frickin' arrow at his ass.
Sam huffs out a breath and rocks back.
"No blue?"
He doesn't get what Dean's asking at first, too busy staring at the red arrow directing him to the tight curves of Dean's buttocks. Then he forces his gaze to the diagram once more.
"Yeah. Yeah, there's blue."
His lips tighten and he leans closer to draw the smaller triangle within the first. He stretches over Dean and finds the only way he can balance is if he plants his palm on the other side of him. Something tugs in his lower belly and he lets out a breath - and like an echo, Dean shivers.
There's that breathless quality to Dean's voice again when he speaks.
"What's the blue for?"
"Calling down the angels," says Sam.
He leans in even further, so close his mouth is just inches away from Dean and his eternally kissable, lickable skin. Finally, he realises there's nothing for it but to straddle Dean; it's the only way he can angle his hand right for the interlocking shapes.
He clambers onto him, wedging Dean's narrow hips between his thighs, feeling the play of powerful muscle even through the stiff denim of his jeans. Dean's head falls forward and his spine arches. Sam can feel him rise up against him and all he wants to do is push back, grind against him.
"You're gonna make me smudge this," he snaps instead.
He swaps back to the green in order to draw the spiral within the triangle, taking care to fit the seven circles in, counting under his breath as he does so.
"I don't wanna call down any goddamn angels," says Dean.
"Fuck you. You're calling down the angels."
"Sam-"
Sam lifts his pen off Dean's back and cuts him off with an unmoveable Dean. There's silence between them. The door to the next room slams and Sam glances out through the haze of the net, watching a trucker cross the parking lot to his semi. It's not dark yet, but that watchful stillness is hanging in the air, like the peach-tinted clouds of coming dusk.
Maybe it's because Dean can't fail to have registered the bulge of Sam's cock resting against the curve of his ass that he doesn't fight the angels thing anymore. Sam knows he must be able to feel it. He's been getting harder with every second that Dean is wedged, naked and docile, between his legs. And now he's got an erection pressed against Dean and still several more steps of the damn symbol to draw. Every line covers a stretch of skin that Sam can't put his fingers on anymore.
It's time for the yellow. It's not a very nice shade of yellow. In fact, it's the colour of rancid butter but it's the only yellow in the pack, and the gas station hadn't had much of a selection in the first place.
Sam leans down to draw on the back of Dean's neck, where the hairs are short and downy. The skin's paler too and Sam imagines a Dean who hasn't spent his life on the road, who hasn't been toughened like old leather. It's a curiosity, but it's not his Dean. Just like the Sam who went to classes and used salt for his meals and nothing else wasn’t Dean's Sam. This is who they are, how they are, this is how they fit.
"Dude, cut it out," says Dean. "Or don't blame me when I get smudged."
Sam's cheeks fill with heat when he realises what Dean's referring to. Dean likes to joke that Sam's helpless when it comes to wanting him and that's why even though Sam protested how wrong it was and how they were brothers and how they shouldn't be doing this, it was him who kissed Dean and not the other way round.
He's been thrusting against Dean. In fact, his hips are still doing it, still dry-fucking him, rutting into him with mindless, oblivious need.
He stops and clears his throat. Tries to press his legs together to fight the itching, crawling want but finds that that only crushes Dean tighter to him.
"I don't want to hear it," he mutters, before throwing the yellow pen down and taking the blue.
He takes a savage pleasure in drawing out each other the archangel's sigils on Dean's body, marking out each emblem of unwanted faith with extreme diligence while Dean shifts beneath him on the bed. He finishes Michael's and starts in on Gabriel's while Dean makes small, irritable noises.
"Are you done yet?" he complains. "It's not the freaking Sistine Chapel."
"Do you want this done properly or do you want to face down a demon covered in nothing but squiggles?"
Sam thinks that's the end of it and is about to start in on Raphael's sigil when Dean squirms again and peers over his shoulder at him. He's smirking and Sam knows that whatever it is, he's already lost. It's ridiculous to resist but Sam just grits his teeth and carries on drawing.
"I think… I think I want to be smudged. Really really smudged. Three-year-old-let-loose-with-crayons smudged. C'mon, Sammy, smudge me."
Sam sits back, resting his haunches on the back of Dean's thighs, and looks at his handiwork. It's a felt tip masterpiece. The colours are almost luminous in the fading light. It's a damn near perfect copy of the fourteenth-century engraving.
He drags his thumb along Dean's side. The green's dried, but the red blurs easily.
"Guess we'll call that a rough draft," he says as he covers Dean's body with his own.
~end