FIC: Art Lover
I seem to have a bit of a history of writing fic under the influence of medicine.
Title: Art Lover
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, implied Sam/Jess
Rating: R to NC-17 (I can't tell)
Word Count: 2,844
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, wish it was, blah blah.
Warnings: Stanford-era fic, wincest, improper use of acrylic gloss
Notes: Beta'd/coaxed out by my brain twin, dark_reaction who I LUFF a whole lot. LUFFY LUFF. *draws hearts*
Summary: One summer, Jess tricks Sam into taking an art class with the promise of naked people. Sam enjoys drawing naked people. However, there's always a catch.
Art Lover:
I've learned to appreciate you
The way art lovers do,
And I only want to look at you.
It's mid-July when Jess marches into University Coffee Café, smelling of chlorine and frustration, and declares that they're wasting the summer away.
"I'm just saying, we're not doing anything."
Sam looks up from the espresso machine. "Really? Then why do my hands smell like French Roast?"
"Sam…"
"I'm serious, smell!" He shoves his hand in her face, she kisses his palm. "Fifteen minutes Jess, then I'm off and we can do stuff." He says going back to the oversized mugs in the sink.
"What I meant is, there's a difference between you slinging coffee all day and me yelling at kids trying to swim in the deep end. Those are jobs, what are we doing for fun?"
Sam smiles and waggles his eyebrow. "Gimme a few more minutes and I'll show you what we can do for fun."
Jess sighs. "My point is, Sam, honey, I think we should take an art class."
"I thought summer session was over?"
"My friend told me she took a class at the Art Student's League last year for cheap, and Stanford counted it as a core credit. We can knock out a requirement for graduation, and look at naked people."
"I dunno."
"Naked people…" Jess sing-songs.
***
Class was actually really fun. He and Jess met some cool people, got to spend more time together, and the naked people were fun to draw. His teacher was always on him about his drawing being flat. He'd gotten really good at shadows and anatomical details, but his professor said they ultimately fell flat.
"There's an emotional connection you're missing out on, Sam. The models are real people, not just mannequins. You've got to let yourself connect, especially in the eyes."
Jess just patted his arm and said, "Can't be the best at everything, baby."
Sam didn't really care that much, it was just for fun, a B wasn't gonna kill his GPA.
It's all good until the 5th model switch of the class. Jess walks in to the room first, and coos at the new model, sitting in the center of the room, "Ooooh, he's cute." He's still wearing a black silk robe, sitting on the fainting couch they've set up, sipping coffee.
Sam starts coughing.
She turns and pats him on the arm, "Sam, I didn't mean anything by it- Sam? You okay?" Sam's really turning red, unable to breathe.
"Fine, 'm fine." He shakes her off and they take their seats. His mind is spinning.
Sam's always had odd jobs, anything to pick up some extra cash on the road. Mowing lawns, short-term paper routes, babysitting, stacking books at a library, washing dishes, minor waiting gigs, temping even. Dean was more adventurous. He couldn't stand sitting still behind a desk or a counter, hated retail and service jobs. He'd hustle pool, gamble, pick up some hours at a garage or bar. Anything that kept him occupied late at night so he could sleep through the day.
He hadn't known, until now, that Dean would ever decide to model for a figure drawing class.
***
God is testing him.
After the mini-lesson on lines and shading and capturing mobility on faces, they start sketching his first pose. It's simple, Dean's just standing there, eyes facing forward, not looking at Sam. But he has to have noticed him, between his coughing fit in the beginning of the class, and him tripping over his chair when he finally tried to sit down. Sam's entire body is wobbly, unsteady and his hands shake his charcoal pencil against the paper. Everything coming out in jagged lines.
Jess peers over at him, makes a small worried noise. "Sam honey, are you okay?"
Sam rubs his face, getting black marks everywhere, "I dunno."
"You need to go home? Baby, are you sick?"
Sam takes a deep breath. "No, no I'll be fine."
He looks up and there's Dean, naked as the day he was born. He's leaner, maybe, like when they go through dry spells and the jobs get slimmer and the money harder to come by. So it makes sense. There's a lack of dark circles under his eyes, so he's sleeping, or using make-up so the professor won't think he's some starving heroin addict. Dean's spent years of his life in guidance counselor's offices, trying to explain away his gaunt appearance.
There's nothing there now, pale skin has finally gotten a little taste of sun, eyes green and wet and bright. God, he looks healthy, and Sam feels a little twinge of relief. Not that he thought Dean would waste away without him, but he always thought of the worst case scenario.
His eyes fall down his body, as he knows they will, to Dean's cock. It's that familiar twinge of excitement and taboo. He could just stare at it all class, and not draw a thing, just remembering Dean and him. The way Dean's cock would feel-
"Okay, let's change." The professor moves Dean to a new angle, turning his back to Sam. Most of the students shuffle around, changing seats. Jess gets up too.
"I'm gonna try sketching his face."
"Fine."
"Sam?"
"I'm fine here."
Jess nods and moves to the other side of the classroom. Sam's pretty much by himself, legs unwilling to stand. Just him, and Dean's back, the nape of his neck, his shoulderblades. Sam almost sighs.
Because, if he can sever the familiar ties, and just appraise Dean on an aesthetic level, his brother is gorgeous. That tightly muscled back, perfect fine ass, thighs and legs and ankles and suddenly his hand is still.
His cock is half-hard, mind you. But at least away from the distractions of Dean's gaze (and yes, his cock) he can start drawing.
He's furiously sketching, mouth dry and heart beating fast with the sense memory of how Dean's back would feel under his hands, the sensation of warm skin rising and falling with every breath. So he starts with his back, making sure the shoulders are perfect. The muscles and even the faint scars are details he can't miss.
Then he moves down to the legs, letting a shadow pool at Dean's feet. Powerful legs, remember how one would always be thrown over his waist while he slept. Possessive legs, wrapping around him, drawing him closer. Arms then, arms around him too, holding him tight. The bicep he would rest his head on. The arm thrown over the side of the seat in the Impala. The arm steadying him, holding the shotgun, teaching him to aim.
Dean's head, the nape now. What he'd also see at night, horizontal against a pillow. Sometimes right after a shower, how the water would make the short hairs spiky. How Dean would moan when he kissed that nape. What he would smell like when he'd bury his head-
His professor wanders by and looks at Sam's sketch. "Sam, this is really quite good."
"Yeah thanks," he mutters, shading in Dean's hips.
"But, and you know what I'm going to say, I'd like you to draw his face, and really put some feeling into it, Sam. I know you can do it."
"Mmmn."
"Look, if you could draw his face with half the attention you're giving his backside, you'd be fine."
There's a short scoff of laughter, and a whine from the other side of the room from a particularly annoying student:
"Profess-sor! He's smiling!"
***
At the halfway mark, the class breaks for 20 minutes. Most of the class goes out to smoke. He and Jess usually gab with their friends by the stairwell, or wander off for coffee. A handful of the diligent students finish up their sketches. Dean's pulled his robe closed and is discussing something with the professor.
Jess touches his shoulder, "Coffee?" Sam tries to get up, but he's rooted to the spot and shakes his head.
"Want me to bring you back something? Tea?"
Sam smiles, "I'm fine, Jess. Thanks, I think I just wanna work on this a little more."
She leans down and wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, her lips are smooth and amazing and his mood lifts. "Well it's gorgeous, baby, and I'm gonna bring you some cocoa whether you want it or not, okay?"
"Okay… Hey, love you." He says cupping the back of her head, soft curls under his hard fingers.
"Love you too!" She pats his shoulder and walks off with their friends. When Sam looks up, Dean looks away, caught.
Sam goes back to his shading, trying to will himself to get up and just, fucking talk to him. Be normal for once. Say something like, "Hey Dean! Long time no see? How's Dad? How's hunting?" Pretend their family isn't as screwball as it is for like five minutes.
Instead, Dean wanders out into the hallway, and cocks his head at him. Sam knows it's code for, "Get the hell up and follow me."
Sam sighs and gets ready to hear it. There's something with Dad, Dean's in town for a case, Dean's in town to make him come back, the Art Students League is possessed by the ghost of Andy Warhol or something and he needs Sam to go grave-digging with him.
Instead when Sam wanders out into the hall the requisite two minutes later Dean yanks him by his collar into the sink-closet, locks it. It's a small wooden closet with paint on the walls and a big sink that smells like gloss primer and cans of acrylic stacked everywhere. Sam sort of falls in the corner when Dean whips him around.
He's hard again, damn it. And he's sitting on a can of burnt sienna.
Dean's expression is hard to read, the one lightbulb swings back and forth, casting different shadows on his face. He doesn't say much at first, just undoes the belt of his robe and it pools at his feet like in some kind of movie.
Dean's hard too, red and swollen and his expression says he blames Sam. Sam nods, understanding, Dean just needs release, so he can go back there and pose, no problem. Sam stands up and before he can reach for it, Dean kisses him.
Everything rushes back and Jess feels very, very far away in the corner of his mind. "Do you know how fucking hard it is, to do this when you're staring at me, drawing me? Do you know what I had to think about to stop myself from fucking getting an erection and just taking you right there, in front of everyone?"
"What?"
"Bobby, in a thong, Sam. Oh god, it was horrible." Dean shivers, "And his dogs in little tutus."
"I hate it when people dress animals up like that."
"Me too!" Dean says, pulling Sam's shirt over his head. "We've got like fifteen minutes, maybe less, so if you need me to do anything you're-"
"I have a girlfriend." Sam blurts out.
"Okay…" Dean's hands stall at his fly.
"Um, she's my girlfriend, that girl."
"…This is you're way of saying 'no', isn't it?" Dean sighs.
"Actually," Sam furrows his brow, "I just, I wanted to tell you. I have a girlfriend and a 3.85 GPA and I'm pre-law and I got an academic award in May for an essay I wrote in my Philosophy of Violence class on Foucault. And I joined the soccer team but I didn't make varsity so we just play on-campus."
Sam breathes out. Dean's still frozen in place until he gets it, and smiles.
"I'm real happy for you Sammy. Proud, yeah, really proud of--I-I'll tell Dad. He'll be proud of you too."
"Thanks." Sam looks down, and touches Dean's shoulders. Rubs little circles in them with his thumbs. "We should hurry."
Dean nods and finishes undoing Sam's jeans, yanking them and his boxer-briefs down to the floor. Sam pushes him against the sink, and attacks his mouth, his throat. Then he lifts him up to the edge, and Sam's mouth comes down over his cock.
Dean doesn't know what he's more surprised by, the fact that Sam's strong enough now to lift him up, or that Sam's gotten even better at head.
It's really an art, and Sam's a diligent student, sweeping tongue like brushstrokes. But Sam likes charcoal. Hard lines you can rub into softer shadows and gradients. That's just what he does with his fingers when he lifts his mouth up. "I need to come with you, Dean." He rasps, long fingers working Dean into a frenzy.
"Then, fuck, then what can I-?"
"Acrylic gloss, it's non-toxic I swear."
Dean rolls his eyes, "Fucking do it, then! Hurry!" They've used worse.
Sam grabs a white jar and spills out the milky liquid onto his fingers. He works the two inside Dean, stretching him as fast as possible, meanwhile he feels around his jeans pocket for his wallet, pulls out his emergency condom. Tosses it to Dean.
He's writhing just so, but Dean's still the master at last-minute prep, and gets the condom around Sam, using the opportunity to stroke him like crazy. Then Sam picks Dean off the sink, presses him against the door. Presses their foreheads together, they're face-to-face, chest-to-chest, and then pushes into him without warning.
It's fast and it's messy and Sam thanks god for the sink otherwise Dean would have to walk around with lube and gloss in his ass for the rest of the night. Sam fucks him hard and Dean's biting down on his shoulder and screaming. Sam is so glad Jess does the same thing, otherwise he might be in real trouble. Dean's shoulders are rubbing against the wood and Sam remembers the class and slows down, so there's no red marks. Dean's got to look pristine, perfect, so Sam takes the brunt of it. Lets Dean run blunt nails across his back and doesn't retaliate with scratching or pulling of his own. Dean comes against his stomach and Sam fucks harder and deeper and Dean squeezes his ass and pulls his hair and Sam finally comes.
They're panting, exhausted, flaccid, wet with sweat and semen and white gloss. Sam's fingers are still charcoal black, leaving dark smudges on Dean's face and ass that they have to wash off.
It's down to the final minute to get cleaned up and Dean uses the sink and Sam dries him off with a towel they find. He checks Dean over for marks and liquids, rubs the towel against his hair to fluff it dry as much as possible.
"You go first, it's okay if I'm late, I don't want to get you in trouble with the professor." Sam says, gathering his clothes. Dean ties his robe tight, opens the door and peeks out into the hallway, then looks back at him.
"See you, Sammy."
***
When they re-assemble, Sam has cocoa to sip on thanks to Jess, and he must seem more relaxed because her concern has melted away. "Glad you're feeling better, Sam." She says touching his shoulder.
"Miracle cocoa," Sam says.
The professor asks Dean to lie on the fainting couch, draping it with sheets in a classical style. He complies, leaning into the pose gracefully. Sam notices the earlier tension of his muscles is also gone.
The professor asks him to arrange himself comfortably, and use the face they were talking about during the break.
"Really focus on the face, students. The emotion." He directs a raised eyebrow at Sam.
Sam's in front this time, has the perfect view of Dean's face, and Dean's looking right at him, dreamy expression. Only Sam knows there's more behind that.
He picks up his hard charcoal and begins sketching slowly, growing more frantically as his eyes narrow. Jess leans over and smiles at his drawing, even his professor gives him a pat on the shoulder and a quiet, "Good job!"
Dean can't see what he's drawing, all he can tell is from the people around him, that Sam's doing a better job than he had before.
The class is dismissed, and Sam leaves with his girlfriend and college pals, chatting and laughing animatedly.
***
Dean walks out to the Impala, nice fresh wad of cash in his jeans pocket. The parking lot is mostly empty, and he sighs when he sees the damn flyer in his windshield.
"God damn college brats and their pep rallies," he says pulling it out, only it's much bigger that a flyer, and upon closer inspection, it's folded in half. He opens it up.
It's a charcoal drawing of him, reclining on the fainting couch, with a dreamy, satisfied expression on his face. It's beautiful, but the closer he looks, he realizes there's this sadness there. It's a longing in his eyes, in the curl of his hand. Like he's reaching for something that's no longer there.
At the bottom, in the left-hand corner, it reads: Sam Winchester, 2004.
***
end.
You also get a mini-soundtrack:
CSS - Art Bitch
Talking Heads - Artists Only
Lambchop - Art Lover (Kinks cover)
And now, I go back to my cough syrup-induced BMW!J2 delusions... There was a lot of kissing last night betwixt Shawn!Jensen and Cory!Jared.
Title: Art Lover
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, implied Sam/Jess
Rating: R to NC-17 (I can't tell)
Word Count: 2,844
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, wish it was, blah blah.
Warnings: Stanford-era fic, wincest, improper use of acrylic gloss
Notes: Beta'd/coaxed out by my brain twin, dark_reaction who I LUFF a whole lot. LUFFY LUFF. *draws hearts*
Summary: One summer, Jess tricks Sam into taking an art class with the promise of naked people. Sam enjoys drawing naked people. However, there's always a catch.
Art Lover:
I've learned to appreciate you
The way art lovers do,
And I only want to look at you.
It's mid-July when Jess marches into University Coffee Café, smelling of chlorine and frustration, and declares that they're wasting the summer away.
"I'm just saying, we're not doing anything."
Sam looks up from the espresso machine. "Really? Then why do my hands smell like French Roast?"
"Sam…"
"I'm serious, smell!" He shoves his hand in her face, she kisses his palm. "Fifteen minutes Jess, then I'm off and we can do stuff." He says going back to the oversized mugs in the sink.
"What I meant is, there's a difference between you slinging coffee all day and me yelling at kids trying to swim in the deep end. Those are jobs, what are we doing for fun?"
Sam smiles and waggles his eyebrow. "Gimme a few more minutes and I'll show you what we can do for fun."
Jess sighs. "My point is, Sam, honey, I think we should take an art class."
"I thought summer session was over?"
"My friend told me she took a class at the Art Student's League last year for cheap, and Stanford counted it as a core credit. We can knock out a requirement for graduation, and look at naked people."
"I dunno."
"Naked people…" Jess sing-songs.
***
Class was actually really fun. He and Jess met some cool people, got to spend more time together, and the naked people were fun to draw. His teacher was always on him about his drawing being flat. He'd gotten really good at shadows and anatomical details, but his professor said they ultimately fell flat.
"There's an emotional connection you're missing out on, Sam. The models are real people, not just mannequins. You've got to let yourself connect, especially in the eyes."
Jess just patted his arm and said, "Can't be the best at everything, baby."
Sam didn't really care that much, it was just for fun, a B wasn't gonna kill his GPA.
It's all good until the 5th model switch of the class. Jess walks in to the room first, and coos at the new model, sitting in the center of the room, "Ooooh, he's cute." He's still wearing a black silk robe, sitting on the fainting couch they've set up, sipping coffee.
Sam starts coughing.
She turns and pats him on the arm, "Sam, I didn't mean anything by it- Sam? You okay?" Sam's really turning red, unable to breathe.
"Fine, 'm fine." He shakes her off and they take their seats. His mind is spinning.
Sam's always had odd jobs, anything to pick up some extra cash on the road. Mowing lawns, short-term paper routes, babysitting, stacking books at a library, washing dishes, minor waiting gigs, temping even. Dean was more adventurous. He couldn't stand sitting still behind a desk or a counter, hated retail and service jobs. He'd hustle pool, gamble, pick up some hours at a garage or bar. Anything that kept him occupied late at night so he could sleep through the day.
He hadn't known, until now, that Dean would ever decide to model for a figure drawing class.
***
God is testing him.
After the mini-lesson on lines and shading and capturing mobility on faces, they start sketching his first pose. It's simple, Dean's just standing there, eyes facing forward, not looking at Sam. But he has to have noticed him, between his coughing fit in the beginning of the class, and him tripping over his chair when he finally tried to sit down. Sam's entire body is wobbly, unsteady and his hands shake his charcoal pencil against the paper. Everything coming out in jagged lines.
Jess peers over at him, makes a small worried noise. "Sam honey, are you okay?"
Sam rubs his face, getting black marks everywhere, "I dunno."
"You need to go home? Baby, are you sick?"
Sam takes a deep breath. "No, no I'll be fine."
He looks up and there's Dean, naked as the day he was born. He's leaner, maybe, like when they go through dry spells and the jobs get slimmer and the money harder to come by. So it makes sense. There's a lack of dark circles under his eyes, so he's sleeping, or using make-up so the professor won't think he's some starving heroin addict. Dean's spent years of his life in guidance counselor's offices, trying to explain away his gaunt appearance.
There's nothing there now, pale skin has finally gotten a little taste of sun, eyes green and wet and bright. God, he looks healthy, and Sam feels a little twinge of relief. Not that he thought Dean would waste away without him, but he always thought of the worst case scenario.
His eyes fall down his body, as he knows they will, to Dean's cock. It's that familiar twinge of excitement and taboo. He could just stare at it all class, and not draw a thing, just remembering Dean and him. The way Dean's cock would feel-
"Okay, let's change." The professor moves Dean to a new angle, turning his back to Sam. Most of the students shuffle around, changing seats. Jess gets up too.
"I'm gonna try sketching his face."
"Fine."
"Sam?"
"I'm fine here."
Jess nods and moves to the other side of the classroom. Sam's pretty much by himself, legs unwilling to stand. Just him, and Dean's back, the nape of his neck, his shoulderblades. Sam almost sighs.
Because, if he can sever the familiar ties, and just appraise Dean on an aesthetic level, his brother is gorgeous. That tightly muscled back, perfect fine ass, thighs and legs and ankles and suddenly his hand is still.
His cock is half-hard, mind you. But at least away from the distractions of Dean's gaze (and yes, his cock) he can start drawing.
He's furiously sketching, mouth dry and heart beating fast with the sense memory of how Dean's back would feel under his hands, the sensation of warm skin rising and falling with every breath. So he starts with his back, making sure the shoulders are perfect. The muscles and even the faint scars are details he can't miss.
Then he moves down to the legs, letting a shadow pool at Dean's feet. Powerful legs, remember how one would always be thrown over his waist while he slept. Possessive legs, wrapping around him, drawing him closer. Arms then, arms around him too, holding him tight. The bicep he would rest his head on. The arm thrown over the side of the seat in the Impala. The arm steadying him, holding the shotgun, teaching him to aim.
Dean's head, the nape now. What he'd also see at night, horizontal against a pillow. Sometimes right after a shower, how the water would make the short hairs spiky. How Dean would moan when he kissed that nape. What he would smell like when he'd bury his head-
His professor wanders by and looks at Sam's sketch. "Sam, this is really quite good."
"Yeah thanks," he mutters, shading in Dean's hips.
"But, and you know what I'm going to say, I'd like you to draw his face, and really put some feeling into it, Sam. I know you can do it."
"Mmmn."
"Look, if you could draw his face with half the attention you're giving his backside, you'd be fine."
There's a short scoff of laughter, and a whine from the other side of the room from a particularly annoying student:
"Profess-sor! He's smiling!"
***
At the halfway mark, the class breaks for 20 minutes. Most of the class goes out to smoke. He and Jess usually gab with their friends by the stairwell, or wander off for coffee. A handful of the diligent students finish up their sketches. Dean's pulled his robe closed and is discussing something with the professor.
Jess touches his shoulder, "Coffee?" Sam tries to get up, but he's rooted to the spot and shakes his head.
"Want me to bring you back something? Tea?"
Sam smiles, "I'm fine, Jess. Thanks, I think I just wanna work on this a little more."
She leans down and wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, her lips are smooth and amazing and his mood lifts. "Well it's gorgeous, baby, and I'm gonna bring you some cocoa whether you want it or not, okay?"
"Okay… Hey, love you." He says cupping the back of her head, soft curls under his hard fingers.
"Love you too!" She pats his shoulder and walks off with their friends. When Sam looks up, Dean looks away, caught.
Sam goes back to his shading, trying to will himself to get up and just, fucking talk to him. Be normal for once. Say something like, "Hey Dean! Long time no see? How's Dad? How's hunting?" Pretend their family isn't as screwball as it is for like five minutes.
Instead, Dean wanders out into the hallway, and cocks his head at him. Sam knows it's code for, "Get the hell up and follow me."
Sam sighs and gets ready to hear it. There's something with Dad, Dean's in town for a case, Dean's in town to make him come back, the Art Students League is possessed by the ghost of Andy Warhol or something and he needs Sam to go grave-digging with him.
Instead when Sam wanders out into the hall the requisite two minutes later Dean yanks him by his collar into the sink-closet, locks it. It's a small wooden closet with paint on the walls and a big sink that smells like gloss primer and cans of acrylic stacked everywhere. Sam sort of falls in the corner when Dean whips him around.
He's hard again, damn it. And he's sitting on a can of burnt sienna.
Dean's expression is hard to read, the one lightbulb swings back and forth, casting different shadows on his face. He doesn't say much at first, just undoes the belt of his robe and it pools at his feet like in some kind of movie.
Dean's hard too, red and swollen and his expression says he blames Sam. Sam nods, understanding, Dean just needs release, so he can go back there and pose, no problem. Sam stands up and before he can reach for it, Dean kisses him.
Everything rushes back and Jess feels very, very far away in the corner of his mind. "Do you know how fucking hard it is, to do this when you're staring at me, drawing me? Do you know what I had to think about to stop myself from fucking getting an erection and just taking you right there, in front of everyone?"
"What?"
"Bobby, in a thong, Sam. Oh god, it was horrible." Dean shivers, "And his dogs in little tutus."
"I hate it when people dress animals up like that."
"Me too!" Dean says, pulling Sam's shirt over his head. "We've got like fifteen minutes, maybe less, so if you need me to do anything you're-"
"I have a girlfriend." Sam blurts out.
"Okay…" Dean's hands stall at his fly.
"Um, she's my girlfriend, that girl."
"…This is you're way of saying 'no', isn't it?" Dean sighs.
"Actually," Sam furrows his brow, "I just, I wanted to tell you. I have a girlfriend and a 3.85 GPA and I'm pre-law and I got an academic award in May for an essay I wrote in my Philosophy of Violence class on Foucault. And I joined the soccer team but I didn't make varsity so we just play on-campus."
Sam breathes out. Dean's still frozen in place until he gets it, and smiles.
"I'm real happy for you Sammy. Proud, yeah, really proud of--I-I'll tell Dad. He'll be proud of you too."
"Thanks." Sam looks down, and touches Dean's shoulders. Rubs little circles in them with his thumbs. "We should hurry."
Dean nods and finishes undoing Sam's jeans, yanking them and his boxer-briefs down to the floor. Sam pushes him against the sink, and attacks his mouth, his throat. Then he lifts him up to the edge, and Sam's mouth comes down over his cock.
Dean doesn't know what he's more surprised by, the fact that Sam's strong enough now to lift him up, or that Sam's gotten even better at head.
It's really an art, and Sam's a diligent student, sweeping tongue like brushstrokes. But Sam likes charcoal. Hard lines you can rub into softer shadows and gradients. That's just what he does with his fingers when he lifts his mouth up. "I need to come with you, Dean." He rasps, long fingers working Dean into a frenzy.
"Then, fuck, then what can I-?"
"Acrylic gloss, it's non-toxic I swear."
Dean rolls his eyes, "Fucking do it, then! Hurry!" They've used worse.
Sam grabs a white jar and spills out the milky liquid onto his fingers. He works the two inside Dean, stretching him as fast as possible, meanwhile he feels around his jeans pocket for his wallet, pulls out his emergency condom. Tosses it to Dean.
He's writhing just so, but Dean's still the master at last-minute prep, and gets the condom around Sam, using the opportunity to stroke him like crazy. Then Sam picks Dean off the sink, presses him against the door. Presses their foreheads together, they're face-to-face, chest-to-chest, and then pushes into him without warning.
It's fast and it's messy and Sam thanks god for the sink otherwise Dean would have to walk around with lube and gloss in his ass for the rest of the night. Sam fucks him hard and Dean's biting down on his shoulder and screaming. Sam is so glad Jess does the same thing, otherwise he might be in real trouble. Dean's shoulders are rubbing against the wood and Sam remembers the class and slows down, so there's no red marks. Dean's got to look pristine, perfect, so Sam takes the brunt of it. Lets Dean run blunt nails across his back and doesn't retaliate with scratching or pulling of his own. Dean comes against his stomach and Sam fucks harder and deeper and Dean squeezes his ass and pulls his hair and Sam finally comes.
They're panting, exhausted, flaccid, wet with sweat and semen and white gloss. Sam's fingers are still charcoal black, leaving dark smudges on Dean's face and ass that they have to wash off.
It's down to the final minute to get cleaned up and Dean uses the sink and Sam dries him off with a towel they find. He checks Dean over for marks and liquids, rubs the towel against his hair to fluff it dry as much as possible.
"You go first, it's okay if I'm late, I don't want to get you in trouble with the professor." Sam says, gathering his clothes. Dean ties his robe tight, opens the door and peeks out into the hallway, then looks back at him.
"See you, Sammy."
***
When they re-assemble, Sam has cocoa to sip on thanks to Jess, and he must seem more relaxed because her concern has melted away. "Glad you're feeling better, Sam." She says touching his shoulder.
"Miracle cocoa," Sam says.
The professor asks Dean to lie on the fainting couch, draping it with sheets in a classical style. He complies, leaning into the pose gracefully. Sam notices the earlier tension of his muscles is also gone.
The professor asks him to arrange himself comfortably, and use the face they were talking about during the break.
"Really focus on the face, students. The emotion." He directs a raised eyebrow at Sam.
Sam's in front this time, has the perfect view of Dean's face, and Dean's looking right at him, dreamy expression. Only Sam knows there's more behind that.
He picks up his hard charcoal and begins sketching slowly, growing more frantically as his eyes narrow. Jess leans over and smiles at his drawing, even his professor gives him a pat on the shoulder and a quiet, "Good job!"
Dean can't see what he's drawing, all he can tell is from the people around him, that Sam's doing a better job than he had before.
The class is dismissed, and Sam leaves with his girlfriend and college pals, chatting and laughing animatedly.
***
Dean walks out to the Impala, nice fresh wad of cash in his jeans pocket. The parking lot is mostly empty, and he sighs when he sees the damn flyer in his windshield.
"God damn college brats and their pep rallies," he says pulling it out, only it's much bigger that a flyer, and upon closer inspection, it's folded in half. He opens it up.
It's a charcoal drawing of him, reclining on the fainting couch, with a dreamy, satisfied expression on his face. It's beautiful, but the closer he looks, he realizes there's this sadness there. It's a longing in his eyes, in the curl of his hand. Like he's reaching for something that's no longer there.
At the bottom, in the left-hand corner, it reads: Sam Winchester, 2004.
***
end.
You also get a mini-soundtrack:
CSS - Art Bitch
Talking Heads - Artists Only
Lambchop - Art Lover (Kinks cover)
And now, I go back to my cough syrup-induced BMW!J2 delusions... There was a lot of kissing last night betwixt Shawn!Jensen and Cory!Jared.