SPN Fic: Chasing Shadows
Title: Chasing Shadows
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Warnings: What, you mean apart from the incest and gay sex? Nope.
Word Count: 2243
Spoiler: Nope. Not even, despite the title, for 'Shadows'.
Summery: Dean doesn’t want to give up what he knows he should. Pretty much PWP with some angst for decoration.
A/N: Many thanks again to my wonderful betas,
kentucka and
moonfairyhime, without whom this story would be much crapper. Also, this is stand alone, not a sequel to my last fic, ‘Battles’. That’s still in the works.
Dean doesn’t believe in Right and Wrong the way most people do. It’s all bullshit to him, after what he’s seen, what he’s done. What he does believe in is Good and Evil, and it’s such a simple, sublime view of the world that he wished everyone would take it up. It runs along the basic principals that there are Evil things that need destroying, and there are Good things that need protecting. Everything else is just decoration.
He wants to explain this to Sam, but he doesn’t think Sam will buy it. His brother has such rigid views of Right and Wrong that Dean thinks they’re just going to cleave him in two, one day. Sam insists on setting boundaries, drawing lines that should not be crossed, dividing everything up into little categories. Dean doesn’t know how to show him that as long as you follow those two rules - kill Evil, protect Good - you can do whatever you freaking want. Sam would just think of it as another excuse. Credit card scams, fake IDs, lying, cheating, scheming…and the rest of it.
~
Dean tries not to watch Sam sleep, but somehow he can never help himself. Propped up on one elbow, he stares down at the serene face beside him, wondering how all the torment, all the impossible angst, can be covered by such a ridiculously smooth façade. Sam looks like he’s not having the nightmares Dean knows he is. The curtains of this particular motel are ugly, but they make interesting patterns in light and dark on Sam’s skin, and Dean wants him to be ok so bad that he’s brushing away the tears before he even notices they’re there.
Sam shifts a little, and frowns in his sleep, eyes in shadow and his mouth brilliantly highlighted. Dean has to stop himself from kissing those lips, and knows that he’s just delaying the inevitable. Denying himself for a few precious moments, so he can make believe everything’s normal - which makes no fuckin’ sense because it’s never been normal and he’s never wanted it to be. That’s Sam’s trick, believing in something hard enough that suddenly you’re going to college and dating a girl like you were born to do it. Dean could never pull it off; he knows fuckin’ well what he was born for and it’s…well shit, he was born for this.
He gives up the game and inches forwards, just brushing his lips over the smooth rise of Sam’s cheekbone, and it’s then he realises that what he took for more shadow is actually a bruise, dramatically darker than it was a couple hours ago, covering the bone. Suddenly he’s undone. Reaching out, he probes it gently, running his finger over the little trail of blood that’s seeped out of a neighbouring cut, tears flowing freely, now, not for himself, because he’s got what he always wanted. For Sam, Sammy, for the little kid brother always trying to do the right thing, and who is now caught up in so much conflicting emotion that Dean almost wants to give it all away.
Almost but he knows he’s not strong enough for that. So when Sam opens his eyes, wincing a little at the pain, Dean’s on top of him, kissing him hard enough to hurt, driving the guilt out of his baby brother through pure force. For a moment, Sam’s too sleepy to kiss back, laying there with his eyes drifting closed again and his hand lazily coming up to touch the back of Dean’s head. But Dean needs more, he needs the fury and passion because otherwise it’s too damn bittersweet and he’ll just fall apart right there.
“Sam, Sammy, wake up,” he whispers urgently over Sam’s bruise, licking and sucking on the skin until Sam’s eyes are struggling open again.
“Why?” His voice is still heavy and sweet with sleep and Dean wonders how the fuck he could ever pretend that there was anything but this.
“Because I’m going to fuck you,” he replies, still whispering to the bruise. He feels Sam come alive under him, every muscle suddenly tense and hard, and he thinks good, maybe I’m in for a fight, and the fact that he likes the idea is just more of who he is.
But Sam’s easily led tonight. He just grips Dean’s shoulders hard, digging in his blunt nails, finding the sore spots, and he moans, so hot and needy that Dean lets himself think that that moan was made for him alone, and revels in the fact quietly before smothering it with his mouth and kissing until his mind is empty of anything but want.
Sam’s tee-shirt is warm and soft, but nothing to the boiling hot skin underneath it. Dean slides his hands along hip bones and smooth sides, counts ribs and tugs on downy soft hairs, until Sam is laughing and gasping and wriggling under him. “Lemme get this off,” he says breathlessly, pushing at Dean until he reluctantly sits up and watches as the hem is grasped and pulled away, baring acres and acres of golden skin, skin that manages to keep its colour even in the wan light struggling in through the window; glowing from within. The heat feels like it’s physically reaching out and grabbing Dean by the back of the neck, forcing him down until his mouth is warm and wet over the skin of Sam’s navel, and there’s that fucking moan again, the one that’s just about got Dean coming all over himself.
“So you wake me up in the middle of the night,” Sam’s gasping, legs wrapping around Dean’s back, “to suck off my stomach?” his voice is slightly amused, but rough and deep with arousal, and that’s exactly what Dean wants to hear.
He can’t help grinning a little. “Shut the fuck up, Sammy,” he murmurs, “Ain’t you ever heard of foreplay?”
“Don’t want foreplay. Thought you said you were gonna fuck me, what happened to that, huh?”
Dean closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Sam’s hip for a moment, letting the words sit crystallised in the night air for a moment. His brother isn’t having any of it, though. He bucks his hips up, rubbing against Dean insistently, pushing his cock against any part of Dean he can reach, and Dean decides to take charge of the situation again - what the fuck, he never had control in the first place and he knows it. More pretending.
He lifts his head and stares up into the mix of light and shadows that’s disguising his brother’s face, catches his eye as he slides down Sam’s boxers and tosses them over the side of the bed, holds Sam’s gaze as he runs his fingers up those insanely longs legs, and lets his lids fall just slightly closed as he drags his fingers, so lightly, over the head of Sam’s cock. “What was that? Did I hear you say please?”
Against all reason, Sam grins. “No,” he says simply. Suddenly, without really knowing how it happened, Dean’s on the floor on his back and Sam’s straddling his hips. Before he can catch his breath his nipples are being sucked damn near out of his chest, one after the other, and his boxers are being ineffectually shoved down his thighs. Dizzy but not exactly displeased with the situation, Dean kicks his legs until the boxers fly off, and then his hands are all over Sam, touching everything he can reach, pinching and scratching and finding every bruise he can to push and rub to make Sam hiss. In retaliation, Sam’s tongue turns into Sam’s teeth, grazing over a fine network of scratches on Dean’s chest, and goddamn it, but Dean never has to wonder why their injuries take so long to heal.
Sam sits up, pulling back from Dean’s right nipple with a long, obscene sucking noise, and looks down through his bangs, squeezing Dean’s hips with his thighs and rubbing his ass against Dean’s cock. “Gonna fuck me anyway, big brother?” The slightest emphasis on the last two words brings everything sharply into focus, etches out lines and curves in the air between them, and Dean slams his head back against the floor in an effort not to explode then and there. Sam’s still only just this side of ok with what they’re doing, and it makes Dean so hot and overprotective that he wants to bury himself so deep in his brother that they’ll never come apart ever again.
He pushes Sam off and heaves him back on the bed, watching for a second the way his legs fall open, knowing that he’s not the only one practically begging for it. A quick search under the bed reveals a bottle of lube and he tosses it onto his brother’s chest before kneeling at the end of the bed, his hand clamped around the base of his cock, to enjoy the show.
Sam doesn’t have to be told what to do, and the look in his eyes is so knowing and dirty that Dean has a hard time tearing his gaze away. When he does, he’s treated to the sight of slick wetness dripping down Sam’s fingers, fingers that slowly lower and disappear between his legs, leaving a bright, shiny smear on the inside of one thigh that Dean thinks might be the sexiest thing he’s seen in his life. When Sam slips the first finger into his arse twin groans rent the air, and Dean really doesn’t think waiting is an option right now. He crawls up the bed, panting, as Sam quickly adds a second finger and pushes both in and out a few times, raising his hips and thrusting a little in a way that’s not so much an invitation as a demand.
Dean still hesitates for a fraction of a second, searching his brother's eyes, as always, for the barest hint of no. As always, all he can catch are shadows and need, and, as always, by then it doesn’t matter anyway. He grabs Sam’s wrist, wrenching it up and against the pillow over Sam’s head. “My turn,” he whispers into his ear, and is rewarded by a swipe of Sam’s tongue along his neck.
“You’ve been fucking taking your time. Just do it, bitch.”
He does.
Sliding into Sam feels like the filthiest sin imaginable, and from where Dean’s standing, sin seems like a very good fucking idea indeed. The first inch feels like its killing him, and then he’s in and realising that he might already be dead. It’s too tight, too good, too much and all Dean can do is lie there, buried to the hilt in his brother, and gasp. Sam grabs his ass with his free hand and scratches and squeezes and pulls Dean into him until Dean’s ready to start moving, and when he does it's like someone somewhere flicked a switch.
“C’mon, you want it, you want it,” Dean whispers over and over, like a prayer, like a question he doesn’t know the answer to yet. Sam’s thrusting against him, ankles hooked over Dean’s legs for leverage, and he’s talking right over the top of Dean, who never would’ve picked his brother for having such a dirty mouth until they started this shit.
“Give it to me, fuck me, harder, yeah, I need it harder, fuck, fuck, you like it don’t you, Dean, you like fucking me like that yeah, so fuckin’ good…”
The tears are flowing again, and Dean does his best to ignore them as he listens, takes his brother’s words as code for everything’s ok. The heat in the bed is liquefying them both, skin slick with sweat and everything tastes like salt, until the tears and the sex end up the same thing anyway. Dean sinks his teeth into the side of Sam’s neck and holds on for dear life as he makes his brother come, his hand caught awkwardly between them, grip slipping in the gush of wetness, and he doesn’t need to taste it to know that that tastes like salt, too.
He shoves his fingers in his mouth anyway, and when Sam impatiently pushes them away and kisses him, it’s like they’ve crossed every line ever drawn. Dean’s so torn apart that when he comes, long and hard, pulsing into Sam, it’s like the sweetest pain imaginable.
~
Dean knows his brother is Good. Not just a good person, but some sort of pure personification of Goodness. He’d do anything to protect that. Sam might whinge and whine about doing the Right thing, but Dean doesn’t give a flying fuck about what’s Right. Except, of course, for where his brother’s concerned.
And that, right there, is where Dean’s entire philosophy crumbles to dust. He’s seen the shadows in Sam’s eyes, and the more he tries to chase them away, the darker they get until Dean’s afraid that whatever’s happening to Sam is corroding everything Dean loves about him. But thoughts like these, like the tears that inevitably come during sex, are to be pushed away and disguised as something else. Dean doesn’t want to know what he has to do. He just wants to seek confirmation in hidden meanings and codes until he’s convinced himself that everything’s alright.
And then maybe one day, for him and Sam, it will be.