The Turning Point, Supernatural, R
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Turning Point
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, mild Sam/Dean
Rating: R-ish, mostly angsty stuff
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point and The Breaking Point. "The Balancing Point" was my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...this is from Dean's POV
Warnings/Author's Notes: Schloompy Angst, entirely emo...sad, but touching...
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
They mill about the room restlessly, waiting. They wait for dark in a motel room with one queen sized bed that has seen better days and they don’t talk, they don’t touch.
Dean’s eyes track Sam’s movements in the gloom. The shades are down, the drapes pulled tight over windows marked with sigils and salt. Sam’s tense, his body tight, the muscles in his neck corded and thick, even as he collapses onto the end of the bed and sighs into his big hands.
He’s been wound up for days. Dean watches for a minute. For all that Sam had been the one to hold him, to tap the cracks until he broke open and held him while he grieved, they haven’t touched since. It’s almost worse somehow than before when they didn’t touch. Eyes never really meet, words are soft, but not tender. As if they can hide from it.
It.
Dean sighs and goes back to the knife he was sharpening. Sam sighs and Dean glances to watch him fall gracefully back onto the bed, his bare torso cut with shadows. He can still see the sharp lines of pain on Sam’s face, etched in by the vision that had brought them here…that had them waiting for dark. Sam’s eyes close and Dean lowers his, watching the knife scrape slowly over the sharpening stone. He could say something…but what hasn’t been said?
His brother’s long form drapes over the bed, his arms casually askew, one over his eyes, his legs splayed wide. Dean looks away. They decided. Years ago.
He’s not allowed to look anymore. Looking leads to touching. Touching leads to other things. Things Dean needs in ways that went beyond his ability to understand. So Dean doesn’t look. His eyes watch the knife sliding over the stone, his fingers caressing the blade.
He hears the first sound, Sam’s whimpering sound and looks up. It’s coming again. He can see his body tighten, his legs close. He half rolls to his side to hide the pain that Dean already knows is filling his face. “Sam?” Its said in little more than a whisper and Dean is already by the bed when there is no answer, the knife forgotten.
He sinks onto the bed beside him, his hand sliding up to touch Sam’s back. His skin is hot to the touch and Sam arches away from him. “Its almost over,” he whispers through clenched teeth.
Dean knows there’s more than Sam is telling him, when he rolls back toward his brother and there are tears along with the physical evidence of pain. Without thinking, without considering, Dean leans toward him, kissing away the salt, reverent as though Sam’s skin is a sacred thing. Sam trembles, but doesn’t move away, doesn’t reject the comfort of his brother’s kiss, of his brother’s lips warm against his face.
When Dean’s mouth touches Sam’s lips they both shiver, and as Dean’s tongue caresses Sam’s they moan as one. “Dean.” Sam breathes the name like it’s a prayer and Dean melts to lay beside him.
“Let me.” Dean murmurs against Sam’s skin, his lips nestled into the curve of Sam’s neck. His hands hover uncertain, but descend slowly when Sam doesn’t move away. “Want to feel you.”
Sam’s head moves, tilts, exposing more of his neck to Dean’s lips, encouraging him closer. Dean let’s his lips slide over his brother’s neck, let his hands slide over his hot skin until Sam seems to suddenly realize what is happening and pulls away, pulls Dean’s head up with one large hand. His eyes are wild and lost and afraid and Dean wants to kiss them closed, but settles for letting his hand cup Sam’s cheek. “Let me.” Dean implores, his voice needy…his desire for this touch, this connection bleeding into his voice.
Sam holds him there, looking into him, and Dean sees the surrender, the collapse within, watches as Sam lets go of all the reasons, all the arguments…the wrong…Its all they have now, each for the other…the need, the touch…
Dean’s kiss is hungry, his body pressing against Sam’s, the skin of their chests sliding together as they move, turning and twisting on the bed until Dean pulls free, rising above Sam, his hands sliding over chest muscles and down. “Want you,” he whispers and Sam’s body arches into his, lighting Dean with a fire he hasn’t felt in far too long.
Dean paints his brother’s skin with kisses, with feather touches and sighs. He moves slowly, almost afraid Sam might yet stop him. His finger hooks in Sam’s boxers and tugs while his lips suck at the jut of his hip bone. Tiny kisses along muscle and bone and up to the place where his brother’s arousal dispels his fear. “Let me.” Dean whispers one more time before taking Sam into him, before swallowing Sam with a hiss of pleasure.
Years melt away and they are teenagers again, working out the fear and adrenaline of the hunt in each other, before they knew, before they decided…Sam pants and Dean moans around him and Sam’s hands are in Dean’s hair.
Dean’s mouth floods with Sam’s release, with the taste of Sam…and he swallows him down, taking what Sam offers…He comes easily when Sam’s hands pull at him, dragging his face up to kiss. “Dean.” He breathes it into Dean’s mouth, over Dean’s tongue and he swallows that too…the acceptance of what this is, the taste of a something sweet, as only something forbidden and unforgivable can be.
There is still pain there, in his face, but it is softened now with something else, something they share between them and Dean can not stop from pressing kisses to every inch of skin on Sam’s face, from letting Sam fill him and take him beyond the broken pieces…from turning them both toward healing.
Title: The Turning Point
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, mild Sam/Dean
Rating: R-ish, mostly angsty stuff
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point and The Breaking Point. "The Balancing Point" was my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...this is from Dean's POV
Warnings/Author's Notes: Schloompy Angst, entirely emo...sad, but touching...
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
They mill about the room restlessly, waiting. They wait for dark in a motel room with one queen sized bed that has seen better days and they don’t talk, they don’t touch.
Dean’s eyes track Sam’s movements in the gloom. The shades are down, the drapes pulled tight over windows marked with sigils and salt. Sam’s tense, his body tight, the muscles in his neck corded and thick, even as he collapses onto the end of the bed and sighs into his big hands.
He’s been wound up for days. Dean watches for a minute. For all that Sam had been the one to hold him, to tap the cracks until he broke open and held him while he grieved, they haven’t touched since. It’s almost worse somehow than before when they didn’t touch. Eyes never really meet, words are soft, but not tender. As if they can hide from it.
It.
Dean sighs and goes back to the knife he was sharpening. Sam sighs and Dean glances to watch him fall gracefully back onto the bed, his bare torso cut with shadows. He can still see the sharp lines of pain on Sam’s face, etched in by the vision that had brought them here…that had them waiting for dark. Sam’s eyes close and Dean lowers his, watching the knife scrape slowly over the sharpening stone. He could say something…but what hasn’t been said?
His brother’s long form drapes over the bed, his arms casually askew, one over his eyes, his legs splayed wide. Dean looks away. They decided. Years ago.
He’s not allowed to look anymore. Looking leads to touching. Touching leads to other things. Things Dean needs in ways that went beyond his ability to understand. So Dean doesn’t look. His eyes watch the knife sliding over the stone, his fingers caressing the blade.
He hears the first sound, Sam’s whimpering sound and looks up. It’s coming again. He can see his body tighten, his legs close. He half rolls to his side to hide the pain that Dean already knows is filling his face. “Sam?” Its said in little more than a whisper and Dean is already by the bed when there is no answer, the knife forgotten.
He sinks onto the bed beside him, his hand sliding up to touch Sam’s back. His skin is hot to the touch and Sam arches away from him. “Its almost over,” he whispers through clenched teeth.
Dean knows there’s more than Sam is telling him, when he rolls back toward his brother and there are tears along with the physical evidence of pain. Without thinking, without considering, Dean leans toward him, kissing away the salt, reverent as though Sam’s skin is a sacred thing. Sam trembles, but doesn’t move away, doesn’t reject the comfort of his brother’s kiss, of his brother’s lips warm against his face.
When Dean’s mouth touches Sam’s lips they both shiver, and as Dean’s tongue caresses Sam’s they moan as one. “Dean.” Sam breathes the name like it’s a prayer and Dean melts to lay beside him.
“Let me.” Dean murmurs against Sam’s skin, his lips nestled into the curve of Sam’s neck. His hands hover uncertain, but descend slowly when Sam doesn’t move away. “Want to feel you.”
Sam’s head moves, tilts, exposing more of his neck to Dean’s lips, encouraging him closer. Dean let’s his lips slide over his brother’s neck, let his hands slide over his hot skin until Sam seems to suddenly realize what is happening and pulls away, pulls Dean’s head up with one large hand. His eyes are wild and lost and afraid and Dean wants to kiss them closed, but settles for letting his hand cup Sam’s cheek. “Let me.” Dean implores, his voice needy…his desire for this touch, this connection bleeding into his voice.
Sam holds him there, looking into him, and Dean sees the surrender, the collapse within, watches as Sam lets go of all the reasons, all the arguments…the wrong…Its all they have now, each for the other…the need, the touch…
Dean’s kiss is hungry, his body pressing against Sam’s, the skin of their chests sliding together as they move, turning and twisting on the bed until Dean pulls free, rising above Sam, his hands sliding over chest muscles and down. “Want you,” he whispers and Sam’s body arches into his, lighting Dean with a fire he hasn’t felt in far too long.
Dean paints his brother’s skin with kisses, with feather touches and sighs. He moves slowly, almost afraid Sam might yet stop him. His finger hooks in Sam’s boxers and tugs while his lips suck at the jut of his hip bone. Tiny kisses along muscle and bone and up to the place where his brother’s arousal dispels his fear. “Let me.” Dean whispers one more time before taking Sam into him, before swallowing Sam with a hiss of pleasure.
Years melt away and they are teenagers again, working out the fear and adrenaline of the hunt in each other, before they knew, before they decided…Sam pants and Dean moans around him and Sam’s hands are in Dean’s hair.
Dean’s mouth floods with Sam’s release, with the taste of Sam…and he swallows him down, taking what Sam offers…He comes easily when Sam’s hands pull at him, dragging his face up to kiss. “Dean.” He breathes it into Dean’s mouth, over Dean’s tongue and he swallows that too…the acceptance of what this is, the taste of a something sweet, as only something forbidden and unforgivable can be.
There is still pain there, in his face, but it is softened now with something else, something they share between them and Dean can not stop from pressing kisses to every inch of skin on Sam’s face, from letting Sam fill him and take him beyond the broken pieces…from turning them both toward healing.