Friday's Child is loving and giving
Well, the last day of the week. I've had an incredible time trying to think of your gifts this week, and I hope you have enjoyed them too! You're an incredible person, and you'll always be my Little. ♥
So, what better way of celebrating this day than with some Wincest? Especially having Supernatural back in action (ah, if only for a night). *g*
Go With the Flow ----- SPN, Sam/Dean, PG-13, 1200 words.
i
In the beginning, there was only Sam and Dean, laughing in the Impala’s backseat, joking, teasing each other, bleeding together after a hunt. Brothers, close as twins, as partners in crime.
Sam used to think nothing could ever break them apart.
ii
Sam climbs into Dean’s bed at 4:52 in the morning, biting his lip nervously. It’s already Friday as he touches the knobs of Dean’s spine, softly, fingers hovering over skin that looks red with the glow of the hotel sign outside their room, scars looking pale in the lighting.
Sam wants to trace them with his tongue.
Dean throws Sam off the bed, still asleep, not being used to share the space. Sam groans as his head hits the ugly, wine-colored carpet, but he stays put, not knowing exactly why, curious to see if the noise woke Dean up.
Sam wakes up in the morning still lying in the space between the beds, his hair on his face and a crick on his neck. As he yawns he can see Dean looking down at him, head tilted, the rest of him still wrapped in blankets on the bed.
“Dude, what are you doing in there?” He asks, and Sam can’t help but laugh a little.
“Rolled over in my sleep. I must’ve fallen down.”
It’s almost true. Most of what Sam tells Dean is.
iii
There’s a troll in Connecticut, and Dean ends up bleeding all over Sam’s shirt as he drag him back to the motel, all pale flesh under his freckles. They’ve run out of morphine, so Sam gets Dean mildly drunk before he even thinks of using needle and thread on him. He ignores Dean’s grunting that he can take it like a man, thank you very much.
He still grabs Sam’s shoulders too tightly as Sam starts sewing the wound on his thigh, fabric bunching beneath his bloody fingers. Sam’s kneeling on the floor between Dean’s legs, who’s sitting on Sam’s bed. Dean’s breathing sounds too loud in the room.
Dean rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder as soon as the last stitch is in place. “You okay, man?” Sam asks, and he can feel Dean nod. The stay like that, braced on each other, for a while, even when Sam’s legs are cramping and the position must put a strain on Dean’s already tender injuries. Dean’s breathing leaves a damp spot on Sam’s shirt when he moves away to bury his nose on Sam’s neck. Sam goes tense immediately.
“‘M still drunk, Sammy,” Dean slurs, sounding half asleep. He places a soft kiss just behind Sam’s ear, and Sam stops breathing.
By the time he pulls away slightly, Dean’s already snoring lightly, a dead weight against him. Sam tucks him in, tangles his limbs with Dean’s, and says nothing at all when he wakes up alone the next morning.
iv
Sam drags Dean away from his latest conquest in a seedy bar at the border with Canada, pushes him against a wall outside, the snow up to his ankles, and kisses him, making it as violently angry as he feels.
Dean shoves him hard and Sam trips, falls down. He lies for a moment on the snow, arms outstretched and eyes on the dark sky. From the corner of his eyes he can see Dean wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breath fast and face flushed but eyes furious. Sam makes a snow angel as he hears Dean walking away.
Dean doesn’t talk to him for three days.
v
Dean seems happy enough pretending nothing has happened, so Sam humors him, knowing he’ll eventually get his way because it’s all he’s ever known - Sam asking for something and Dean giving it whatever the price might be, and yeah, Sam knows he’s a selfish bastard, but it doesn’t keep him awake at night.
But then there’s Dean jumping him outside a McDonalds during a particularly difficult gig, and Sam ends up pressed against the Impala, mouth under Dean’s, his head almost resting on the roof, Dean trying to cover him with his body even when he knows Sam’s height makes it nearly impossible. Sam kisses back, holds Dean’s shirt and drags him close, his back doing a painful ‘pop’ sound as Dean presses him against the car even harder.
Dean’s thigh ends up between Sam’s legs and he moans, mouth still pressed to Dean’s. It was the wrong thing to do, apparently, because Dean’s eyes snap open and he lets go of Sam, walks a few steps backwards with his hands raking his hair. Sam groans in frustration.
“Jesus, Dean, could you make up your mind already?” he says, mouth pressed into a straight line.
“Fuck you, Sam, it ain’t exactly an easy decision to make, okay?” Dean snaps, but hey, he’s still talking to Sam. That’s definitely a good sign.
“‘Course it is. You either fuck me or not,” Sam says, and Dean groans and looks at him as if he wanted to murder him. He finally shakes his head.
“Get in the car,” he says, and Sam sighs.
Just another thing for the Winchester ‘Not to Be Mentioned Ever Again’ list.
vi
They’re on a beach in Florida, sitting on the sand with their shoes off. Sam moves his toes experimentally, watches as the sand trickles from between them. He’s always liked the ocean, and for all that he spent his childhood all over the country, his father had never been a sea person. It’s not even April yet, but it feels like summer already, and Sam wipes sweat from his forehead every few minutes, eyes fixed on the water, grays and blues going up and down, over and over again.
Dean’s fidgeting by his side, like he’s been doing for two days already. Sam hopes it’s just a phase, because Dean’s always been an active person, but all of that movement is starting to make him dizzy.
Suddenly, Dean grabs his chin in a steely grip, turns Sam’s head around and kisses him softly; eyes open as wide as Sam’s. It only lasts a second, and then Dean’s breaking apart and saying “All right, you win - I give up,” hand still keeping Sam’s chin still. Sam blinks at him, stays silent for a moment until Dean’s words actually reach his (upstairs) brain, and then he smiles.
“Aw, man, don’t you try and pull that shit on me. I know you want it as much as I do,” he says, and Dean - Sam’s childhood hero Dean, larger-than-life Dean, blushes.
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, and then it doesn’t matter anymore because Dean’s pushing him down onto the sand, tongue inside Sam’s mouth, and it’s scratchy and there’s sand in his ass and Dean’s kinda sweaty, but Sam still loves every minute of it.
“Knew you’d cave eventually,” Sam mutters.
“Shut up,” says Dean.
Then there’s Dean’s hand down Sam’s pants, and he thinks no more.
vii
In the end, there’s only Sam and Dean, breathing together on top of the covers, mouths almost touching. Closer than anything either of them has experienced, still partners in crime in the most literal of ways.
Sometimes, Sam wonders if it could have ended in any other way, but in any possible scenario it’s still them, still together.
He knows nothing will ever break them apart.
So, what better way of celebrating this day than with some Wincest? Especially having Supernatural back in action (ah, if only for a night). *g*
Go With the Flow ----- SPN, Sam/Dean, PG-13, 1200 words.
i
In the beginning, there was only Sam and Dean, laughing in the Impala’s backseat, joking, teasing each other, bleeding together after a hunt. Brothers, close as twins, as partners in crime.
Sam used to think nothing could ever break them apart.
ii
Sam climbs into Dean’s bed at 4:52 in the morning, biting his lip nervously. It’s already Friday as he touches the knobs of Dean’s spine, softly, fingers hovering over skin that looks red with the glow of the hotel sign outside their room, scars looking pale in the lighting.
Sam wants to trace them with his tongue.
Dean throws Sam off the bed, still asleep, not being used to share the space. Sam groans as his head hits the ugly, wine-colored carpet, but he stays put, not knowing exactly why, curious to see if the noise woke Dean up.
Sam wakes up in the morning still lying in the space between the beds, his hair on his face and a crick on his neck. As he yawns he can see Dean looking down at him, head tilted, the rest of him still wrapped in blankets on the bed.
“Dude, what are you doing in there?” He asks, and Sam can’t help but laugh a little.
“Rolled over in my sleep. I must’ve fallen down.”
It’s almost true. Most of what Sam tells Dean is.
iii
There’s a troll in Connecticut, and Dean ends up bleeding all over Sam’s shirt as he drag him back to the motel, all pale flesh under his freckles. They’ve run out of morphine, so Sam gets Dean mildly drunk before he even thinks of using needle and thread on him. He ignores Dean’s grunting that he can take it like a man, thank you very much.
He still grabs Sam’s shoulders too tightly as Sam starts sewing the wound on his thigh, fabric bunching beneath his bloody fingers. Sam’s kneeling on the floor between Dean’s legs, who’s sitting on Sam’s bed. Dean’s breathing sounds too loud in the room.
Dean rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder as soon as the last stitch is in place. “You okay, man?” Sam asks, and he can feel Dean nod. The stay like that, braced on each other, for a while, even when Sam’s legs are cramping and the position must put a strain on Dean’s already tender injuries. Dean’s breathing leaves a damp spot on Sam’s shirt when he moves away to bury his nose on Sam’s neck. Sam goes tense immediately.
“‘M still drunk, Sammy,” Dean slurs, sounding half asleep. He places a soft kiss just behind Sam’s ear, and Sam stops breathing.
By the time he pulls away slightly, Dean’s already snoring lightly, a dead weight against him. Sam tucks him in, tangles his limbs with Dean’s, and says nothing at all when he wakes up alone the next morning.
iv
Sam drags Dean away from his latest conquest in a seedy bar at the border with Canada, pushes him against a wall outside, the snow up to his ankles, and kisses him, making it as violently angry as he feels.
Dean shoves him hard and Sam trips, falls down. He lies for a moment on the snow, arms outstretched and eyes on the dark sky. From the corner of his eyes he can see Dean wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breath fast and face flushed but eyes furious. Sam makes a snow angel as he hears Dean walking away.
Dean doesn’t talk to him for three days.
v
Dean seems happy enough pretending nothing has happened, so Sam humors him, knowing he’ll eventually get his way because it’s all he’s ever known - Sam asking for something and Dean giving it whatever the price might be, and yeah, Sam knows he’s a selfish bastard, but it doesn’t keep him awake at night.
But then there’s Dean jumping him outside a McDonalds during a particularly difficult gig, and Sam ends up pressed against the Impala, mouth under Dean’s, his head almost resting on the roof, Dean trying to cover him with his body even when he knows Sam’s height makes it nearly impossible. Sam kisses back, holds Dean’s shirt and drags him close, his back doing a painful ‘pop’ sound as Dean presses him against the car even harder.
Dean’s thigh ends up between Sam’s legs and he moans, mouth still pressed to Dean’s. It was the wrong thing to do, apparently, because Dean’s eyes snap open and he lets go of Sam, walks a few steps backwards with his hands raking his hair. Sam groans in frustration.
“Jesus, Dean, could you make up your mind already?” he says, mouth pressed into a straight line.
“Fuck you, Sam, it ain’t exactly an easy decision to make, okay?” Dean snaps, but hey, he’s still talking to Sam. That’s definitely a good sign.
“‘Course it is. You either fuck me or not,” Sam says, and Dean groans and looks at him as if he wanted to murder him. He finally shakes his head.
“Get in the car,” he says, and Sam sighs.
Just another thing for the Winchester ‘Not to Be Mentioned Ever Again’ list.
vi
They’re on a beach in Florida, sitting on the sand with their shoes off. Sam moves his toes experimentally, watches as the sand trickles from between them. He’s always liked the ocean, and for all that he spent his childhood all over the country, his father had never been a sea person. It’s not even April yet, but it feels like summer already, and Sam wipes sweat from his forehead every few minutes, eyes fixed on the water, grays and blues going up and down, over and over again.
Dean’s fidgeting by his side, like he’s been doing for two days already. Sam hopes it’s just a phase, because Dean’s always been an active person, but all of that movement is starting to make him dizzy.
Suddenly, Dean grabs his chin in a steely grip, turns Sam’s head around and kisses him softly; eyes open as wide as Sam’s. It only lasts a second, and then Dean’s breaking apart and saying “All right, you win - I give up,” hand still keeping Sam’s chin still. Sam blinks at him, stays silent for a moment until Dean’s words actually reach his (upstairs) brain, and then he smiles.
“Aw, man, don’t you try and pull that shit on me. I know you want it as much as I do,” he says, and Dean - Sam’s childhood hero Dean, larger-than-life Dean, blushes.
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, and then it doesn’t matter anymore because Dean’s pushing him down onto the sand, tongue inside Sam’s mouth, and it’s scratchy and there’s sand in his ass and Dean’s kinda sweaty, but Sam still loves every minute of it.
“Knew you’d cave eventually,” Sam mutters.
“Shut up,” says Dean.
Then there’s Dean’s hand down Sam’s pants, and he thinks no more.
vii
In the end, there’s only Sam and Dean, breathing together on top of the covers, mouths almost touching. Closer than anything either of them has experienced, still partners in crime in the most literal of ways.
Sometimes, Sam wonders if it could have ended in any other way, but in any possible scenario it’s still them, still together.
He knows nothing will ever break them apart.