You Speak My Language (Sam/Dean, Rish, 1539 words)
You Speak My Language
(Sam/Dean, R, 1539 words)
Good as the Night Before might be, the Morning After always sucks.
When Sam wakes up, he has a sloppy mouthful of Dean's shoulder and his leg is draped over Dean's hip in a way that makes it immediately apparent that they are both naked. Excessively naked, even.
They are in bed, naked and entwined.
From the steady rise and fall of Dean's chest - which is bare and right underneath Sam's palm, damn it - it seems Sam is the first to regain consciousness and he decides to keep it like that until he can figure out what in the name of Almighty Fuck is going on.
The problem with moving is that it will wake Dean up and then Sam will have to look Dean in the eyes and neither of them will want that right now. The problem with not moving is that Dean remains naked and curled snug and warm against Sam.
Sam tries to detach himself from his body for the time being and rifles frantically through whatever brain cells are operating for some clue as to how the hell he got here.
As it is, Dean gives a small, snuffly sigh and shifts, which isn't much of a movement but is enough to have Sam's cock twitch against his ass, and that goes a long way to reminding Sam what happened last night. Not that he's exactly struggling to come up with a theory. Stanford doesn't let in any old moron, after all.
There was something about a curse and a broken bottle with something sticky inside and some old lady wearing a lot of purple make-up shrieking with laughter and pointing at Dean. And then there was the drive back to the motel where Sam noticed just how inexplicably pretty his brother is. Sam thinks there might have been some clumsy attempt on his part to kiss Dean, before Dean cut to the chase and told him to freaking well fuck him already.
It's at that point that Sam has to cut his recall process right off because he cannot be thinking about that. So, leaving aside everything up until this minute, Sam sets about figuring out his next step. Most important thing is to find out whether Dean is still asleep.
He lets his gaze wander in Dean's direction, careful and ready to snap to the ceiling at the first hint that it should be necessary. In the warm, muted light of dawn, Sam can see that the motel room has been trashed. The TV's been smashed and Dean's jeans are hanging from the bedside lamp. And then Sam reaches Dean.
Dean has also been trashed. Moreover, he has clearly been thoroughly fucked. Sam can see the marks he's left all over Dean, including a horribly noticeable hickey on his neck which Dean is going to kick his ass for, supposing he can bear to be in the same room as Sam ever again.
It's not like Sam to do something as juvenile as leave a lovebite somewhere so obvious. He ponders whether perhaps this is a conspiracy to play with his head and maybe someone else did it instead. Unfortunately, even if Sam didn't vividly remember sinking his teeth into Dean's throat and sucking while Dean snarled and thrashed beneath him, he finds he doesn't much like the idea of someone else being the one to touch Dean like that and so the theory has to be abandoned before Sam gets too irate about it.
Dean clears his throat in the silence and Sam's feels every muscle in his body go taut.
"Uh… I'm gonna… gonna go take a shower," says Dean.
Sam nods and wets his lips.
"Yeah. You should do that."
They lie there for a moment longer and Sam is acutely conscious of every inch of Dean's naked body being wrapped up in his own. And then they both move at once: Sam releasing Dean and Dean slipping from the bed. Sam does not - does not - watch Dean - naked, fucked and dishevelled Dean - cross the room to the bathroom.
The door to the bathroom shuts and shortly after the shower starts up. Sam rolls onto his back, ignoring the protest of muscles that have recently some strenuous exercise, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.
It's a very bad morning. Very very bad. It has no business being cheery and bright outside because Sam fucked his brother last night and it doesn't matter that it was all that perverted old witch's fault because it doesn't change the fact that Sam had his cock up his brother's ass last night and they both enjoyed it.
Suddenly, Sam decides he needs to get out of the room. He definitely needs to get off the bed he was pounding Dean into last night. The only thing he does before leaving the room, other than throwing on some clothes, is to pull the cover up to hide the wet spot on the sheet.
:::
It's not that he's hiding in the diner. Hiding is such a derogatory way to describe what Sam's doing. Sam is… Sam is maintaining his position at the diner until he feels the atmosphere will have cleared enough in the motel room for him to go back. If that means he doesn't go back until his hundred-and-tenth birthday, that's fine by him.
He's on his fourth black coffee. He's drinking them hot and without sugar because he thinks it's the best way to burn the taste of Dean out of his mouth. If there were a sensitive, non-creepy way to suggest the remedy to Dean he would, because he seems to remember Dean sucking his cock sometime between the second and third time Sam fucked him.
Not that Sam's thinking about it, of course.
He's just drinking his coffee, watching the birds drift across the sky and listening to the rumble of trucks on the road outside. It's a good way to not-think about things. Or it would be if Dean didn't seem to have the same plan.
Sam freezes, coffee cup halfway to his mouth, when he hears the bell at the door give a cheerful chirrup, looks up and sees Dean. For his part, Dean is also looking wide-eyed and cornered. He's also looking disgustingly fresh and glowing. Sam realises the better plan would have been to stake his claim on the shower first. Of course, that would have left Dean looking freshly-fucked, which is no alternative at all.
It's no doubt because Dean is a big, brave demon-hunter that he doesn't shy away from coming over and taking a seat opposite Sam. Dad would be proud of him. Well, less proud considering Dean had only hours earlier been begging for Sam's cock so fervently it would have put a whore to shame.
He doesn't meet Sam's eyes, just picks up the menu and pretends to study it like choosing what to have for breakfast is the most important decision he's going to make all year. In all fairness, Sam approves of the absence of eye-contact.
In the end, Dean ends up ordering coffee, just as Sam had. Sam listens to the clink of his spoon against the side of the cup as Dean stirs in his sugar. It's just them in the diner, them and the tiny chatter of morning-radio. There's no one to hear them, no one to interrupt them.
"Uh…" says Dean.
Sam looks up, meets Dean's eyes for a second, chickens out and looks away. Looks away again because he's looking at the mark his - lips teeth tongue - mouth left on Dean's throat. Settles finally for looking at the smiley face someone's drawn in the grime on the side of a delivery van parked outside.
"So I was looking at the paper earlier and there have been some suspicious deaths in Munford," says Sam. He's amazed how regular his voice sounds. Amazed and grateful. "If we hit the road now, we can make it by lunchtime."
Dean lets out a breath and Sam sneaks a glance at him from under his eyelashes. He sees the tension seep out of Dean, his shoulders sagging a little and the lines on his face smoothing out. Dean risks a glance back at him and nods, looks away again quickly.
"I'll get the Impala loaded up," he says, pushing away his untouched coffee and standing up.
Sam watches him walk to the door, safe when Dean's looking the other way.
It wasn't our fault, it wasn't deliberate, it doesn't mean anything, there's nothing to feel guilty about, she made us do it.
This is one of those things they should talk about. This has huge significance. This hints at lots of very important things lurking beneath the surface of his relationship with his brother. If something this monumentally meaningful had happened with him and Jess, they'd've sat down and discussed it. For hours if need be. They'd've been open and sincere and analytical. They'd've talked until they knew precisely how the other felt about it, how they were going to handle it.
The bell at the door rings again as Dean walks out and Sam keeps quiet. It's taken him a while, but he finally gets how to speak Winchester.
~end
"We could not talk or talk forever and still find things to not talk about…"
Sheri Ann Cabot, 'Best in Show'
(Sam/Dean, R, 1539 words)
Good as the Night Before might be, the Morning After always sucks.
When Sam wakes up, he has a sloppy mouthful of Dean's shoulder and his leg is draped over Dean's hip in a way that makes it immediately apparent that they are both naked. Excessively naked, even.
They are in bed, naked and entwined.
From the steady rise and fall of Dean's chest - which is bare and right underneath Sam's palm, damn it - it seems Sam is the first to regain consciousness and he decides to keep it like that until he can figure out what in the name of Almighty Fuck is going on.
The problem with moving is that it will wake Dean up and then Sam will have to look Dean in the eyes and neither of them will want that right now. The problem with not moving is that Dean remains naked and curled snug and warm against Sam.
Sam tries to detach himself from his body for the time being and rifles frantically through whatever brain cells are operating for some clue as to how the hell he got here.
As it is, Dean gives a small, snuffly sigh and shifts, which isn't much of a movement but is enough to have Sam's cock twitch against his ass, and that goes a long way to reminding Sam what happened last night. Not that he's exactly struggling to come up with a theory. Stanford doesn't let in any old moron, after all.
There was something about a curse and a broken bottle with something sticky inside and some old lady wearing a lot of purple make-up shrieking with laughter and pointing at Dean. And then there was the drive back to the motel where Sam noticed just how inexplicably pretty his brother is. Sam thinks there might have been some clumsy attempt on his part to kiss Dean, before Dean cut to the chase and told him to freaking well fuck him already.
It's at that point that Sam has to cut his recall process right off because he cannot be thinking about that. So, leaving aside everything up until this minute, Sam sets about figuring out his next step. Most important thing is to find out whether Dean is still asleep.
He lets his gaze wander in Dean's direction, careful and ready to snap to the ceiling at the first hint that it should be necessary. In the warm, muted light of dawn, Sam can see that the motel room has been trashed. The TV's been smashed and Dean's jeans are hanging from the bedside lamp. And then Sam reaches Dean.
Dean has also been trashed. Moreover, he has clearly been thoroughly fucked. Sam can see the marks he's left all over Dean, including a horribly noticeable hickey on his neck which Dean is going to kick his ass for, supposing he can bear to be in the same room as Sam ever again.
It's not like Sam to do something as juvenile as leave a lovebite somewhere so obvious. He ponders whether perhaps this is a conspiracy to play with his head and maybe someone else did it instead. Unfortunately, even if Sam didn't vividly remember sinking his teeth into Dean's throat and sucking while Dean snarled and thrashed beneath him, he finds he doesn't much like the idea of someone else being the one to touch Dean like that and so the theory has to be abandoned before Sam gets too irate about it.
Dean clears his throat in the silence and Sam's feels every muscle in his body go taut.
"Uh… I'm gonna… gonna go take a shower," says Dean.
Sam nods and wets his lips.
"Yeah. You should do that."
They lie there for a moment longer and Sam is acutely conscious of every inch of Dean's naked body being wrapped up in his own. And then they both move at once: Sam releasing Dean and Dean slipping from the bed. Sam does not - does not - watch Dean - naked, fucked and dishevelled Dean - cross the room to the bathroom.
The door to the bathroom shuts and shortly after the shower starts up. Sam rolls onto his back, ignoring the protest of muscles that have recently some strenuous exercise, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.
It's a very bad morning. Very very bad. It has no business being cheery and bright outside because Sam fucked his brother last night and it doesn't matter that it was all that perverted old witch's fault because it doesn't change the fact that Sam had his cock up his brother's ass last night and they both enjoyed it.
Suddenly, Sam decides he needs to get out of the room. He definitely needs to get off the bed he was pounding Dean into last night. The only thing he does before leaving the room, other than throwing on some clothes, is to pull the cover up to hide the wet spot on the sheet.
:::
It's not that he's hiding in the diner. Hiding is such a derogatory way to describe what Sam's doing. Sam is… Sam is maintaining his position at the diner until he feels the atmosphere will have cleared enough in the motel room for him to go back. If that means he doesn't go back until his hundred-and-tenth birthday, that's fine by him.
He's on his fourth black coffee. He's drinking them hot and without sugar because he thinks it's the best way to burn the taste of Dean out of his mouth. If there were a sensitive, non-creepy way to suggest the remedy to Dean he would, because he seems to remember Dean sucking his cock sometime between the second and third time Sam fucked him.
Not that Sam's thinking about it, of course.
He's just drinking his coffee, watching the birds drift across the sky and listening to the rumble of trucks on the road outside. It's a good way to not-think about things. Or it would be if Dean didn't seem to have the same plan.
Sam freezes, coffee cup halfway to his mouth, when he hears the bell at the door give a cheerful chirrup, looks up and sees Dean. For his part, Dean is also looking wide-eyed and cornered. He's also looking disgustingly fresh and glowing. Sam realises the better plan would have been to stake his claim on the shower first. Of course, that would have left Dean looking freshly-fucked, which is no alternative at all.
It's no doubt because Dean is a big, brave demon-hunter that he doesn't shy away from coming over and taking a seat opposite Sam. Dad would be proud of him. Well, less proud considering Dean had only hours earlier been begging for Sam's cock so fervently it would have put a whore to shame.
He doesn't meet Sam's eyes, just picks up the menu and pretends to study it like choosing what to have for breakfast is the most important decision he's going to make all year. In all fairness, Sam approves of the absence of eye-contact.
In the end, Dean ends up ordering coffee, just as Sam had. Sam listens to the clink of his spoon against the side of the cup as Dean stirs in his sugar. It's just them in the diner, them and the tiny chatter of morning-radio. There's no one to hear them, no one to interrupt them.
"Uh…" says Dean.
Sam looks up, meets Dean's eyes for a second, chickens out and looks away. Looks away again because he's looking at the mark his - lips teeth tongue - mouth left on Dean's throat. Settles finally for looking at the smiley face someone's drawn in the grime on the side of a delivery van parked outside.
"So I was looking at the paper earlier and there have been some suspicious deaths in Munford," says Sam. He's amazed how regular his voice sounds. Amazed and grateful. "If we hit the road now, we can make it by lunchtime."
Dean lets out a breath and Sam sneaks a glance at him from under his eyelashes. He sees the tension seep out of Dean, his shoulders sagging a little and the lines on his face smoothing out. Dean risks a glance back at him and nods, looks away again quickly.
"I'll get the Impala loaded up," he says, pushing away his untouched coffee and standing up.
Sam watches him walk to the door, safe when Dean's looking the other way.
It wasn't our fault, it wasn't deliberate, it doesn't mean anything, there's nothing to feel guilty about, she made us do it.
This is one of those things they should talk about. This has huge significance. This hints at lots of very important things lurking beneath the surface of his relationship with his brother. If something this monumentally meaningful had happened with him and Jess, they'd've sat down and discussed it. For hours if need be. They'd've been open and sincere and analytical. They'd've talked until they knew precisely how the other felt about it, how they were going to handle it.
The bell at the door rings again as Dean walks out and Sam keeps quiet. It's taken him a while, but he finally gets how to speak Winchester.
~end
"We could not talk or talk forever and still find things to not talk about…"
Sheri Ann Cabot, 'Best in Show'