fic: when we kissed, you rained stars into my mouth (SPN, Sam/Dean; pg)
when we kissed, you rained stars into my mouth
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg; 1,605 words
There's a moment--there's always a moment--where things could go a different way, a hundred different ways, but the moment passes, the choice is made, and they're one more step down the road that's led them here.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.
~*~
when we kissed, you rained stars into my mouth
The girl--Carrie or Cory or something like that--is talking about the end of the world, her hands fluttering and her bright pink mouth only stopping long enough to take a sip of her piña colada. Dean leans against the bar, only half-listening as she babbles on about fire and ice, entropy and inertia. He's lived through his own private apocalypse, has an appointment for the end of the world scribbled in ink in his date book. Well, if he had a date book, he would. Instead, he has a well-worn black leather hunter's journal, now being filled with pages of instructions for Sam--how to take care of the car, which contacts they can still trust not to turn on them or turn them in, a list of aliases and PO boxes the FBI shouldn't know about yet--in handwriting as small and neat as he can make it, black letters crawling over the page like an army of demons, inexorable and unavoidable.
He believes in Sam--he always has--but he's his father's son, preparing for the worst in any situation, and as much as he's allowed himself a small measure of hope, he can't let it blind him to what needs to be done, what preparations have to be made, just in case. He'll take care of Sam for as long as he can, and this is a way he can do it after he's gone.
Sam is sitting at a table in the back, always in Dean's line of sight, but he's finished with his beer and is shoving his stuff into his bag now, ready to head back to the motel. Dean watches him, caught by the practiced ease of his movements, in contrast to the tight line of tension in his shoulders.
Candy--or is it Chrissy?--puts a hand on his arm, and any other night, he'd smile down at her, seal the deal with a kiss and a compliment, and cajole her into taking him back to her place. But tonight it feels wrong. He doesn't want to waste time anymore with people who don't know him, who can't know him in the time he has left. He thinks of all the lives he's brushed against in the course of his own, all the little ripples and eddies into the unknown, chances he didn't take, opportunities that were taken from him, and God, he needs to get the hell out of here now, because he's thinking too damn much and he can't afford the amount of alcohol he'd need to make it stop.
He does smile, a weak apology for leading her on and then bailing, and then he's at the door when Sam arrives, jacket skewed awkwardly and collar tucked under by the way his laptop bag hangs off his shoulder. Sometimes, Dean still has trouble seeing him as an adult, still sees the five-year-old holding out the toy from the box of Lucky Charms, bright smile on his face. Then he has to reach up to straighten Sam's collar, and he remembers. His fingers brush the warm skin of Sam's neck, his thumb sliding over the solid strength of his collarbone, and Sam freezes.
Dean opens his mouth to say something--anything--an apology, an excuse, some kind of smart remark to break the tension, but then he catches the look in Sam's eyes--heat and need and something Dean's seen in the eyes of too many girls not to recognize, though he's never expected to see it in Sam's, not directed at him, anyway--and it makes answering heat uncoil low in his belly. Dean swallows hard and tries to pull his hand away smoothly, but Sam wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist, holds him there for another second that feels like forever.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips instead, aware of the predatory way Sam is watching his mouth, which feels swollen from that stare.
"Let's go," he manages, his voice rough and low.
Sam follows him out into the night, half a step behind and to the right, always at his side, and Dean likes that, likes that it's changed, that it's not Dean out in front to protect Sam, that it's Sam shoulder-to-shoulder with him, ready for any bad shit that goes down.
He's only sorry it took so long to get them there; he's just gotten used to it, would like it to last a long time. He can't think about the ending, the clock ticking down while Sam wrestles demons, and Dean wrestles himself.
They slide into the car and pull the doors closed, and Sam says, "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Sam shakes his head, looks away.
The air is thick with tension; the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickles. He glances over at Sam, who's still staring out the window, shoulders stiff and hunched.
"Check the EMF," Dean says, though he knows before he even says it that there's nothing for it to pick up, nothing causing this sensation except the look in Sam's eyes, the memory of Sam's fingers against his wrist, phantom touch he can still feel.
Sam does what he's told for once, his face a mask in the darkness. The meter stays quiet, and Sam shoves it back into the glove compartment.
"Dean," he says again, not a question this time, though Dean can hear the question behind it, the one he can't answer.
Dean rolls down the window, needs the brush of cool night air against his skin, which feels too tight from the tension thrumming between them. He's afraid he'll burst like overripe fruit, spill hot mess all over both of them, sticky and entangling in the only way they haven't yet, as his last line of defense slowly but surely gives way.
He drives past the motel, keeps going, the road an endless ribbon rolling out ahead of them, yellow line splitting the blacktop the way Sam's voice splits the night, breaks him open. This is the answer he has to give, the only answer he's ever known.
He pulls off a few miles down the road. The pale yellow lights overhead don't do much to keep the darkness away, but with the car's high beams on, he can see the creek they passed on the way into town, running low, cold and sluggish, waiting for the spring rains to make it swell again.
"Come on," he says, leaning forward to take his boots off and roll up the cuffs of his jeans.
Sam stares at him for a long time; it feels like a weight on Dean's shoulders, and he forces himself not to twitch, not to throw it off. He doesn't sit up again until Sam moves, though, toeing his sneakers off and cuffing his jeans in silence.
They walk down to the creek in the darkness, rocks smooth and cool and a little painful against Dean's soles. The night is clear and crisp and lit by stars and a waxing moon, the low, heavy overcast that marred the day blown away by the March winds, which have calmed for the moment, though there's still a bite in the air. The water is cold and not as slow as he'd expected, a slippery rush against his ankles that tickles, sends a chill down his spine.
"Dean." It's a demand this time, accompanied by Sam's hand on his shoulder, thumb sliding along his collarbone in direct reflection of the way Dean had touched him in the bar. This time when Dean shivers, it has nothing to do with the weather.
Sam's other hand comes up to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing Dean's lower lip just as Dean's tongue slips out to lick at it, and he can taste salt and skin--familiar and ordinary, yet anything but, all at the same time. He can hear the soft hitch of Sam's breath, smell the beer on it as Sam leans in, erasing the last boundary they've kept between them.
There's a moment--there's always a moment, Dean knows--where things could go a different way, a hundred different ways. He could turn his head, push Sam's hands away, curse or yell or laugh, and pretend this never happened, pretend he doesn't know exactly what it means.
Dean tips his head up, says, "Sam," and the moment passes, the choice is made, and they're one more step down the road that's led them here.
Sam's lips are warm and dry, soft and tentative against Dean's, and Dean laughs against them, opens himself up to Sam's kiss. Sam's mouth tastes of beer and heat, and electricity shimmers through Dean's veins, jolt of excitement right to his dick when Sam's tongue touches his. Sam laughs, too, nerves or relief or some combination of the two, breath hitching as his hands slide over Dean's jaw, fingers stroking through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean's feet are cold, and he thinks his ankles might be getting bit by some precocious mosquitoes, but he can't concentrate on anything but the slick heat of Sam's mouth, the velvet-rough curl of his tongue, the way their bodies slot together like the final pieces of a puzzle, when the picture suddenly becomes clear.
There are a billion stars overhead, and when Dean breathes Sam in, he feels like he's swallowing them, little bursts of heat and light under his skin, in his blood. He holds Sam close, fingers curled in the worn flannel of his shirt, because he never wants this feeling to end.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg; 1,605 words
There's a moment--there's always a moment--where things could go a different way, a hundred different ways, but the moment passes, the choice is made, and they're one more step down the road that's led them here.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.
~*~
when we kissed, you rained stars into my mouth
The girl--Carrie or Cory or something like that--is talking about the end of the world, her hands fluttering and her bright pink mouth only stopping long enough to take a sip of her piña colada. Dean leans against the bar, only half-listening as she babbles on about fire and ice, entropy and inertia. He's lived through his own private apocalypse, has an appointment for the end of the world scribbled in ink in his date book. Well, if he had a date book, he would. Instead, he has a well-worn black leather hunter's journal, now being filled with pages of instructions for Sam--how to take care of the car, which contacts they can still trust not to turn on them or turn them in, a list of aliases and PO boxes the FBI shouldn't know about yet--in handwriting as small and neat as he can make it, black letters crawling over the page like an army of demons, inexorable and unavoidable.
He believes in Sam--he always has--but he's his father's son, preparing for the worst in any situation, and as much as he's allowed himself a small measure of hope, he can't let it blind him to what needs to be done, what preparations have to be made, just in case. He'll take care of Sam for as long as he can, and this is a way he can do it after he's gone.
Sam is sitting at a table in the back, always in Dean's line of sight, but he's finished with his beer and is shoving his stuff into his bag now, ready to head back to the motel. Dean watches him, caught by the practiced ease of his movements, in contrast to the tight line of tension in his shoulders.
Candy--or is it Chrissy?--puts a hand on his arm, and any other night, he'd smile down at her, seal the deal with a kiss and a compliment, and cajole her into taking him back to her place. But tonight it feels wrong. He doesn't want to waste time anymore with people who don't know him, who can't know him in the time he has left. He thinks of all the lives he's brushed against in the course of his own, all the little ripples and eddies into the unknown, chances he didn't take, opportunities that were taken from him, and God, he needs to get the hell out of here now, because he's thinking too damn much and he can't afford the amount of alcohol he'd need to make it stop.
He does smile, a weak apology for leading her on and then bailing, and then he's at the door when Sam arrives, jacket skewed awkwardly and collar tucked under by the way his laptop bag hangs off his shoulder. Sometimes, Dean still has trouble seeing him as an adult, still sees the five-year-old holding out the toy from the box of Lucky Charms, bright smile on his face. Then he has to reach up to straighten Sam's collar, and he remembers. His fingers brush the warm skin of Sam's neck, his thumb sliding over the solid strength of his collarbone, and Sam freezes.
Dean opens his mouth to say something--anything--an apology, an excuse, some kind of smart remark to break the tension, but then he catches the look in Sam's eyes--heat and need and something Dean's seen in the eyes of too many girls not to recognize, though he's never expected to see it in Sam's, not directed at him, anyway--and it makes answering heat uncoil low in his belly. Dean swallows hard and tries to pull his hand away smoothly, but Sam wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist, holds him there for another second that feels like forever.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips instead, aware of the predatory way Sam is watching his mouth, which feels swollen from that stare.
"Let's go," he manages, his voice rough and low.
Sam follows him out into the night, half a step behind and to the right, always at his side, and Dean likes that, likes that it's changed, that it's not Dean out in front to protect Sam, that it's Sam shoulder-to-shoulder with him, ready for any bad shit that goes down.
He's only sorry it took so long to get them there; he's just gotten used to it, would like it to last a long time. He can't think about the ending, the clock ticking down while Sam wrestles demons, and Dean wrestles himself.
They slide into the car and pull the doors closed, and Sam says, "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Sam shakes his head, looks away.
The air is thick with tension; the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickles. He glances over at Sam, who's still staring out the window, shoulders stiff and hunched.
"Check the EMF," Dean says, though he knows before he even says it that there's nothing for it to pick up, nothing causing this sensation except the look in Sam's eyes, the memory of Sam's fingers against his wrist, phantom touch he can still feel.
Sam does what he's told for once, his face a mask in the darkness. The meter stays quiet, and Sam shoves it back into the glove compartment.
"Dean," he says again, not a question this time, though Dean can hear the question behind it, the one he can't answer.
Dean rolls down the window, needs the brush of cool night air against his skin, which feels too tight from the tension thrumming between them. He's afraid he'll burst like overripe fruit, spill hot mess all over both of them, sticky and entangling in the only way they haven't yet, as his last line of defense slowly but surely gives way.
He drives past the motel, keeps going, the road an endless ribbon rolling out ahead of them, yellow line splitting the blacktop the way Sam's voice splits the night, breaks him open. This is the answer he has to give, the only answer he's ever known.
He pulls off a few miles down the road. The pale yellow lights overhead don't do much to keep the darkness away, but with the car's high beams on, he can see the creek they passed on the way into town, running low, cold and sluggish, waiting for the spring rains to make it swell again.
"Come on," he says, leaning forward to take his boots off and roll up the cuffs of his jeans.
Sam stares at him for a long time; it feels like a weight on Dean's shoulders, and he forces himself not to twitch, not to throw it off. He doesn't sit up again until Sam moves, though, toeing his sneakers off and cuffing his jeans in silence.
They walk down to the creek in the darkness, rocks smooth and cool and a little painful against Dean's soles. The night is clear and crisp and lit by stars and a waxing moon, the low, heavy overcast that marred the day blown away by the March winds, which have calmed for the moment, though there's still a bite in the air. The water is cold and not as slow as he'd expected, a slippery rush against his ankles that tickles, sends a chill down his spine.
"Dean." It's a demand this time, accompanied by Sam's hand on his shoulder, thumb sliding along his collarbone in direct reflection of the way Dean had touched him in the bar. This time when Dean shivers, it has nothing to do with the weather.
Sam's other hand comes up to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing Dean's lower lip just as Dean's tongue slips out to lick at it, and he can taste salt and skin--familiar and ordinary, yet anything but, all at the same time. He can hear the soft hitch of Sam's breath, smell the beer on it as Sam leans in, erasing the last boundary they've kept between them.
There's a moment--there's always a moment, Dean knows--where things could go a different way, a hundred different ways. He could turn his head, push Sam's hands away, curse or yell or laugh, and pretend this never happened, pretend he doesn't know exactly what it means.
Dean tips his head up, says, "Sam," and the moment passes, the choice is made, and they're one more step down the road that's led them here.
Sam's lips are warm and dry, soft and tentative against Dean's, and Dean laughs against them, opens himself up to Sam's kiss. Sam's mouth tastes of beer and heat, and electricity shimmers through Dean's veins, jolt of excitement right to his dick when Sam's tongue touches his. Sam laughs, too, nerves or relief or some combination of the two, breath hitching as his hands slide over Dean's jaw, fingers stroking through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean's feet are cold, and he thinks his ankles might be getting bit by some precocious mosquitoes, but he can't concentrate on anything but the slick heat of Sam's mouth, the velvet-rough curl of his tongue, the way their bodies slot together like the final pieces of a puzzle, when the picture suddenly becomes clear.
There are a billion stars overhead, and when Dean breathes Sam in, he feels like he's swallowing them, little bursts of heat and light under his skin, in his blood. He holds Sam close, fingers curled in the worn flannel of his shirt, because he never wants this feeling to end.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~