Supernatural fic: stirring of birds between my arms
stirring of birds between my arms [Supernatural, Dean/Sam, NC-17, 1,355 words. For flipmontigirl, not what you asked for, but a little gift anyway. Beta by littledrop, who is worthy of much adoration.]
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
e. e. cummings
It was Montana, Sam thinks, though it might have been Wyoming. They traveled a lot that year, up and down the country, one state blurring into the next. It was in the hills, he's sure of that, scarred blue mountains and black trees and one rattlesnake road.
The cabin looked like an accident, a meal made up of leftovers and then rejected. They didn't care. It had a lock Sam could pick easily and it was dry, all they wanted after two hours spent digging through a mudslide, rain still falling, a futile attempt.
There were candles. Sam remembers the candles: homemade ones, unknown fingerprints left in the wax, remnants of old wicks curled under the surface. Candles, and eventually a fire, once Dean had gone out grumbling and come back trailing fallen branches. The fire crackled loudly as it met damp wood, fighting the rhythm of the rain, threw the cobwebbed corners into dark shadows.
No power, not this high up in the hills. Nothing much to do, weapons still clean after an easy hunt. A pack of cards from the car, but they knew all the creased corners and little marks, the tear on the ten of hearts and the penciled dick on the back of the jack of spades. We need a new pack Dean had said and Sam said yes and took another dollar off his brother.
They sat at the table at first, rickety chairs that Dean swore had woodworm. But the wind whistled in between the cracks in the window frame, and first Dean shivered, and then Sam (though maybe Dean remembers it the other way around) and so they ended up on the floor in front of the fire. Less need for candles there, just two burning low in dusty saucers.
They didn't talk much, even after they'd put the cards down and just not bothered dealing again. They'd not spoken much for days. Not deliberate or awkward, just the silence of nothing needing to be said out loud.
They boiled water from the rainwater butt they found around back and made tea in a battered saucepan - aluminum, and Sam said it's a good thing we're not gonna live long enough to get Alzheimer's and neither of them laughed. A spider scuttled out of it when Dean picked it up - he jumped and Sam laughed. Fucker bit me Dean said, though Sam's sure it didn't. It was just a spindly long-legged thing, not the biting type. Dean wiped the saucepan around with the hem of his shirt and filled it up, and they'd drunk the tea black and thick with sugar like they did when they were kids and ran out of milk. Sam hated the taste of it then and still does, but he drank it anyway, to put warmth in his belly.
They carried an air mattress back then, in the trunk of the car above the weapons, a Salvation Army reject but it gave Sam's back and Dean's shoulder an easier night than sleeping in the car or on the floor.
They set it up in front of the fire. It wasn't that cold, not the bone-aching bitter it would be later in the year, but the rain had washed away the last of the day's warmth, and the fire was welcome now, would be needed later. Fully clothed, and they could have done with an extra blanket. Always colder when they're not moving, colder in the night. They'd tossed for the side by the fire, and Dean had lost. Claimed he'd lost. Sam didn't believe him, but Dean had pocketed the coin the second he'd called it, so no proof. He'd cheat both ways, but times like that, food or shelter or bleeding from the guts, Sam knew which way he'd go.
He called him on it. Liar, cheat, bitch, jerk, and they wrestled on the mattress for the worst position. Ended up in a pile, Dean on top, Sam sprawled out loose underneath, too lazy comfortable to move. Stayed there, fighting stopped as abrupt as the cessation of a summer thunderstorm.
Dean's hair was softer than it looked - fine and silky and shiny like fishing line. It smelled of rain and outdoors, mud, faint trace of wood smoke and shampoo. Sam remembers the smells clearer than the place or the date. Even now he only has to lean against Dean, face against his hair, catch any one of those scents, and he remembers.
They might even have slept like that, a while. Or dozed. Sam probably snored, sleeping on his back, and Dean probably drooled, mouth open. Those aren't the details he recalls.
He remembers later, last candle flickering out, the question mark curl of the wick as the last of the wax slipped away from it, the fire a dull ashy red, Dean shifting off him and breaking wood up for the fire. Trying to do it quietly, which was ridiculous, because no one can snap branches quietly. He remembers Dean's face, in silhouette against the fire, expression barely visible but clear to Sam. Remembers shifting sideways, just enough, so that Dean couldn't help but end up in his arms when he lay back down, and remembers kissing Dean to the background sound of rain and fire. Not the apocalypse, not hail and brimstone, just soft forgiving rain slip-sliding down the window, and a friendly crackle as the dried out wood caught light. He remembers the gasp Dean made against his lips, shocky sound that Sam swallowed up and hid. He remembers the way one hand - the hand that had been under him - was warm, and his other hand cold.
Sam, Sammy, Dean said and Sam had kissed the uncertainty out of him. Huge kisses, coming home kisses. End of the war kisses. Something magnificent.
Tumble of clothes on the floor, fire hot bright almost-burn on naked skin. Dean held him up, cradled in his lap, and Sam tried to remember how to breathe and Dean wouldn't shut up, mouth run away with him like Sam had let something loose inside him. Dirty mouth, fucking want your cock in me, want you to fuck me hard, wanna feel it and it had been forever, muffled handjobs under the covers and in the shower, his own hand no substitute, and he was on fire, exploding and he said yes, yes and they were fumbling and unprepared and they had nothing with them. Doesn't matter, Dean said, this'll do, rub of his cock between Sam's ass crack, do this, he said, and he let go of Sam, pushed him away, and Sam complained until he saw. Dean, on his knees, ass in the air, skin hadn't seen sunlight in months, pale round ass and Sam's dick fit between his thighs and Dean squeezed tight. The nape of his neck was warm under Sam's mouth, Dean and sweat and mud, and he closed his eyes in Dean's hair, closed his eyes and held on while he fucked the sweet crease of Dean's thighs. Reached around blind, found Dean's cock bobbing heavy against his belly, heard Dean bite back the grunt when Sam squeezed and pulled.
He remembers the twitch of Dean's cock in his hand, Dean's hand over his guiding him, up down rhythm the way he wanted it.
You and me, he'd said, just you and me, and Dean said yes and that had been it, promise sealed with a slow fuck in a broken down cabin nowhere they could ever find again. A promise they've never mentioned again, but always kept.
You and me, and there's a spunk stain still on the mattress in the trunk of the car. And Sam's still greedy for Dean's kisses, more than anything, helpless ache in his chest need for them. Grabs him now, flame-lit from the open grave, girl-ghost this second gone, and kisses him. Pushed up against an old oak tree, Dean's knee between his legs, and Dean whispers his name when Sam lets him up for breath. Kisses back like there's nothing else he can do, certain and deliberate.
End of the world kisses.
//
Prompt words from musesfool, long ago: candle, scar, rain, loose, helpless.
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
e. e. cummings
It was Montana, Sam thinks, though it might have been Wyoming. They traveled a lot that year, up and down the country, one state blurring into the next. It was in the hills, he's sure of that, scarred blue mountains and black trees and one rattlesnake road.
The cabin looked like an accident, a meal made up of leftovers and then rejected. They didn't care. It had a lock Sam could pick easily and it was dry, all they wanted after two hours spent digging through a mudslide, rain still falling, a futile attempt.
There were candles. Sam remembers the candles: homemade ones, unknown fingerprints left in the wax, remnants of old wicks curled under the surface. Candles, and eventually a fire, once Dean had gone out grumbling and come back trailing fallen branches. The fire crackled loudly as it met damp wood, fighting the rhythm of the rain, threw the cobwebbed corners into dark shadows.
No power, not this high up in the hills. Nothing much to do, weapons still clean after an easy hunt. A pack of cards from the car, but they knew all the creased corners and little marks, the tear on the ten of hearts and the penciled dick on the back of the jack of spades. We need a new pack Dean had said and Sam said yes and took another dollar off his brother.
They sat at the table at first, rickety chairs that Dean swore had woodworm. But the wind whistled in between the cracks in the window frame, and first Dean shivered, and then Sam (though maybe Dean remembers it the other way around) and so they ended up on the floor in front of the fire. Less need for candles there, just two burning low in dusty saucers.
They didn't talk much, even after they'd put the cards down and just not bothered dealing again. They'd not spoken much for days. Not deliberate or awkward, just the silence of nothing needing to be said out loud.
They boiled water from the rainwater butt they found around back and made tea in a battered saucepan - aluminum, and Sam said it's a good thing we're not gonna live long enough to get Alzheimer's and neither of them laughed. A spider scuttled out of it when Dean picked it up - he jumped and Sam laughed. Fucker bit me Dean said, though Sam's sure it didn't. It was just a spindly long-legged thing, not the biting type. Dean wiped the saucepan around with the hem of his shirt and filled it up, and they'd drunk the tea black and thick with sugar like they did when they were kids and ran out of milk. Sam hated the taste of it then and still does, but he drank it anyway, to put warmth in his belly.
They carried an air mattress back then, in the trunk of the car above the weapons, a Salvation Army reject but it gave Sam's back and Dean's shoulder an easier night than sleeping in the car or on the floor.
They set it up in front of the fire. It wasn't that cold, not the bone-aching bitter it would be later in the year, but the rain had washed away the last of the day's warmth, and the fire was welcome now, would be needed later. Fully clothed, and they could have done with an extra blanket. Always colder when they're not moving, colder in the night. They'd tossed for the side by the fire, and Dean had lost. Claimed he'd lost. Sam didn't believe him, but Dean had pocketed the coin the second he'd called it, so no proof. He'd cheat both ways, but times like that, food or shelter or bleeding from the guts, Sam knew which way he'd go.
He called him on it. Liar, cheat, bitch, jerk, and they wrestled on the mattress for the worst position. Ended up in a pile, Dean on top, Sam sprawled out loose underneath, too lazy comfortable to move. Stayed there, fighting stopped as abrupt as the cessation of a summer thunderstorm.
Dean's hair was softer than it looked - fine and silky and shiny like fishing line. It smelled of rain and outdoors, mud, faint trace of wood smoke and shampoo. Sam remembers the smells clearer than the place or the date. Even now he only has to lean against Dean, face against his hair, catch any one of those scents, and he remembers.
They might even have slept like that, a while. Or dozed. Sam probably snored, sleeping on his back, and Dean probably drooled, mouth open. Those aren't the details he recalls.
He remembers later, last candle flickering out, the question mark curl of the wick as the last of the wax slipped away from it, the fire a dull ashy red, Dean shifting off him and breaking wood up for the fire. Trying to do it quietly, which was ridiculous, because no one can snap branches quietly. He remembers Dean's face, in silhouette against the fire, expression barely visible but clear to Sam. Remembers shifting sideways, just enough, so that Dean couldn't help but end up in his arms when he lay back down, and remembers kissing Dean to the background sound of rain and fire. Not the apocalypse, not hail and brimstone, just soft forgiving rain slip-sliding down the window, and a friendly crackle as the dried out wood caught light. He remembers the gasp Dean made against his lips, shocky sound that Sam swallowed up and hid. He remembers the way one hand - the hand that had been under him - was warm, and his other hand cold.
Sam, Sammy, Dean said and Sam had kissed the uncertainty out of him. Huge kisses, coming home kisses. End of the war kisses. Something magnificent.
Tumble of clothes on the floor, fire hot bright almost-burn on naked skin. Dean held him up, cradled in his lap, and Sam tried to remember how to breathe and Dean wouldn't shut up, mouth run away with him like Sam had let something loose inside him. Dirty mouth, fucking want your cock in me, want you to fuck me hard, wanna feel it and it had been forever, muffled handjobs under the covers and in the shower, his own hand no substitute, and he was on fire, exploding and he said yes, yes and they were fumbling and unprepared and they had nothing with them. Doesn't matter, Dean said, this'll do, rub of his cock between Sam's ass crack, do this, he said, and he let go of Sam, pushed him away, and Sam complained until he saw. Dean, on his knees, ass in the air, skin hadn't seen sunlight in months, pale round ass and Sam's dick fit between his thighs and Dean squeezed tight. The nape of his neck was warm under Sam's mouth, Dean and sweat and mud, and he closed his eyes in Dean's hair, closed his eyes and held on while he fucked the sweet crease of Dean's thighs. Reached around blind, found Dean's cock bobbing heavy against his belly, heard Dean bite back the grunt when Sam squeezed and pulled.
He remembers the twitch of Dean's cock in his hand, Dean's hand over his guiding him, up down rhythm the way he wanted it.
You and me, he'd said, just you and me, and Dean said yes and that had been it, promise sealed with a slow fuck in a broken down cabin nowhere they could ever find again. A promise they've never mentioned again, but always kept.
You and me, and there's a spunk stain still on the mattress in the trunk of the car. And Sam's still greedy for Dean's kisses, more than anything, helpless ache in his chest need for them. Grabs him now, flame-lit from the open grave, girl-ghost this second gone, and kisses him. Pushed up against an old oak tree, Dean's knee between his legs, and Dean whispers his name when Sam lets him up for breath. Kisses back like there's nothing else he can do, certain and deliberate.
End of the world kisses.
//
Prompt words from musesfool, long ago: candle, scar, rain, loose, helpless.