Winter Stars (Sam/Dean)
Title: Winter Stars
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Warnings/Rating: NC-17
Notes/Summary: Sam's looking up at the stars. Dean just wants to bring him in from the cold.
Dean’s not a big fan of winter, but here in Kansas it’s not so bad. They don’t get enough snow to trap them inside a house or a motel. And there’s always the occasional hunt that takes them into more temperate climates. But right now, today, it’s cold. Very cold. And windy as fuck. They’ve just been back from Nebraska for a couple of days, where it was also very cold, and windy as fuck.
Sam’s not back from his nighttime run. Which is probably fine. Sam’s probably fine. But it’s been a while. And Dean’s not hovering, okay, he’s not. It’s just - Sam was already a little down, or maybe a lot, before this last trip. So now he’s been real quiet, like, contemplating how terrible everything is (which is kind of true) and how they ruined Donna’s life (which they totally didn’t, not entirely), and how he was right up close to death again (which he could honestly use a break from), and how everyone they know is probably better off never talking to them again (which - well, that could easily go either way).
Anyway, he’s been gone a while. And he’s not answering his phone. Probably because he’s listening to really loud My Chemical Romance or whatever, but still. Dean’s in his coat and on his way to the head of Sam’s usual running trail when he spots his wayward brother sitting on the frozen ground, propped up against a tree and staring into the sky. There’s nothing for that except to just go sit down next to him, so that’s what Dean does.
“Hey.”
“Yeah, hey, sorry I didn’t answer”, Sam says. He doesn’t look at Dean, so Dean follows his gaze.
The winter constellations are as familiar as the summer ones. Growing up, they’d spent plenty of winters in the south and plenty of summers in the northeast. When there was absolutely not a single other thing left to do, stuck in a motel room or a shitty single-wide trailer, the stars were always there. The only constant Dean and Sam really knew growing up, except for each other.
“Orion”, Dean says, absently.
“Taurus”, comes the automatic reply from Sam.
Sam probably wants to sit out here alone with the stars. Probably doesn’t want to talk. Dean wishes he would, and he probably will, at some point, but there’s been this dark cloud over Sam and Dean isn’t going to push him, but he doesn’t want to leave him. He’ll let Sam draw his lines in the night sky, take solace here under the blanket of Cassiopeia, Perseus, Sirius. Dean can’t help but see the brightest star in his whole entire universe right there next to him, sweaty and cold and beautiful and so fucking sad. He hooks his leg over Sam’s, to get his attention.
When Sam looks over at him, finally, he’s smiling. Thank fuck. It still catches Dean completely off guard when Sam, apparently not frozen solid, turns around quick and is straddling Dean’s middle, looking down at Dean like he’s hungry. Sam wiggles around a little until he’s got them into a position where they’re lap-to-lap, then bends his head and swoops in for an open-mouthed kiss that’s warming Dean up very nicely.
That escalated quickly, and Dean’s got no idea where it came from, but he’s not going to ask on account of gift horses and all that.
“Sammy”, he starts, but then the kiss returns and god damn it’s even hotter. This is Sam’s sex-kissing, tongue against Dean’s teeth and the roof of his mouth, breath almost burning against the cold skin of his face.
And now there’s grinding, honest to Chuck grinding, like it’s the first few months they’re together like this all over again, never knowing how to start or how far to go or how long either one of them would last before they had a load of jizz in their pants. Dean grips onto Sam’s biceps (but not all the way around because Sam’s biceps) to get a better hold and Sam has his hands on Dean’s hips like he’s trying to keep him still. Dean’s into this, he’s so turned on, and Sam might be some kind of erection superhero but there’s no way Dean’s getting a decent hard on out here where it’s twenty degrees.
He manages to get Sam upright and they’re inside in a flash, practically tripping down the stairs and already shedding layers before they land on Dean’s bed. Dean takes just a moment to consider summoning the spirit of one of the Men of Letters to thank them for whatever the fuck makes them instantly warm again once they’re inside the bunker, no matter what kind of weather they’ve come from. The thought is lost as soon as Sam goes for his belt, doesn’t bother pulling his jeans and shorts all the way off, just out of the way enough to free Dean’s now eagerly cooperating and interested cock.
Then Sam’s manhandling him, Dean’s legs are off the side of the bed and Sam’s sliding completely down onto the floor, shit, because sometimes (a lot of times) Sam likes to get literally on his knees to blow Dean and hey, if that’s how he likes it - fuck fuck fuck it only takes a minute for Dean to get completely hard. His eyes close automatically and his head kind of rolls back but he gets it together enough to look down and it’s so worth it. The view from here is perfect, Sam’s lips stretched wide around his cock, easing down closer and closer to the base with each downward thrust of his mouth. Most importantly, though, Sam’s looking straight up, right into Dean’s eyes, and Sam doesn’t look sad, not even a little. Sam looks like he’s turned on and like he’s excited and like this is his favorite thing in the world (and maybe it’s not but it’s near the top of the list) and Dean can’t hold back a breathy groan of satisfaction as his hands slide into Sam’s hair and his eyes close again.
Before Dean gets too lost in it, Sam pulls back and toes off his shoes, tugs at his track pants and says, “Off, off”, gesturing at Dean’s pawed open pants and the one shirt he’s still got on. Then they’re both in bed again, sheet pulled up halfway and back to the fire-hot kissing until Dean moves enough to start nipping along Sammy’s jawline and down his neck, hard little bites just how he likes it. Sam’s cursing now, fuck fuck Dean fuck yeah more Dean please oh fuck, and thrusting his hips up against any part of Dean he can reach, and it’s so good, he could do this forever, he could run this on a loop like a soundtrack, Sam’s heavy breathing and desperate sex noises.
Sam clearly still has his wits about him, though, because one of his hands moves away from Dean, straight into the drawer in the nightstand that Dean keeps meaning to move closer to the bed. It’s close enough, though, for Sam to reach the bottle of lube in there (and not any of the other items they keep in that drawer) and scooch back onto the bed on his side so they’re facing each other. Sam’s got some lube on his fingers and he reaches down to wrap his giant hand around both of their dicks, moving very slowly, like he’s just trying it out.
“This okay?”, Sam asks, like maybe for some reason it’s not. He’s doing that thing where he looks down and his eyelashes are so long and what the fuck is Dean’s thing with Sam’s eyelashes anyway?
Dean reaches up and catches his chin in his hand, eyes steady and locked in. “This is outstanding”, he tells him with what Sam used to call the panty-dropping grin before Dean started using it to get Sam out of his shorts.
And now it’s like they’ve dropped out of time, nothing else that’s happening matters at all, and Dean hasn’t seen Sam so loose-limbed and relaxed in who the hell knows how long. Sam jerks them off together, and it’s not frantic and it’s not teasing, it’s this perfect rhythm that’s just exactly right for this very moment and they can’t keep their eyes off each other.
It’s still like that when Dean starts to feel his orgasm approaching, slowly moving through the middle of his body, uncurling in his belly and working its way around. He feels Sam’s movements falter a bit, hears him suck in a big breath and let out this soft helpless sound, and that’s it for Dean. By the time he shoots all over Sam’s hand and both of their dicks it feels like he’s been coming for the past few minutes and he’s shocked at how it drains him of so much energy.
There’s not even another minute before Sam’s losing it too, his come all mixed up with Dean’s, and Dean’s brain isn’t working well enough to think of any metaphors right now.
When Sam makes a half-hearted cursory attempt at cleanup, Dean gives him a look and asks, “Is that my shirt?”
Not surprisingly, Sam answers a question with a question. “Is that your jizz?”
They stop and for a minute it’s intense, really intense, just staring each other down less than six inches apart. Dean can’t feel anything except for how much he fucking loves this man, and Sam’s like a mirror, they don’t have to say it, Dean knows what’s being reflected back at him and they can’t just lay here like this, so.
“Sammy, I don’t know if you noticed. It’s kind of tucked away, but here in the bunker we have our very own telescope, for looking at the stars without freez-”
The pillow hits Dean’s face and there’s some pressure behind it, along with some profane insults, and okay, this. This.
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Warnings/Rating: NC-17
Notes/Summary: Sam's looking up at the stars. Dean just wants to bring him in from the cold.
Dean’s not a big fan of winter, but here in Kansas it’s not so bad. They don’t get enough snow to trap them inside a house or a motel. And there’s always the occasional hunt that takes them into more temperate climates. But right now, today, it’s cold. Very cold. And windy as fuck. They’ve just been back from Nebraska for a couple of days, where it was also very cold, and windy as fuck.
Sam’s not back from his nighttime run. Which is probably fine. Sam’s probably fine. But it’s been a while. And Dean’s not hovering, okay, he’s not. It’s just - Sam was already a little down, or maybe a lot, before this last trip. So now he’s been real quiet, like, contemplating how terrible everything is (which is kind of true) and how they ruined Donna’s life (which they totally didn’t, not entirely), and how he was right up close to death again (which he could honestly use a break from), and how everyone they know is probably better off never talking to them again (which - well, that could easily go either way).
Anyway, he’s been gone a while. And he’s not answering his phone. Probably because he’s listening to really loud My Chemical Romance or whatever, but still. Dean’s in his coat and on his way to the head of Sam’s usual running trail when he spots his wayward brother sitting on the frozen ground, propped up against a tree and staring into the sky. There’s nothing for that except to just go sit down next to him, so that’s what Dean does.
“Hey.”
“Yeah, hey, sorry I didn’t answer”, Sam says. He doesn’t look at Dean, so Dean follows his gaze.
The winter constellations are as familiar as the summer ones. Growing up, they’d spent plenty of winters in the south and plenty of summers in the northeast. When there was absolutely not a single other thing left to do, stuck in a motel room or a shitty single-wide trailer, the stars were always there. The only constant Dean and Sam really knew growing up, except for each other.
“Orion”, Dean says, absently.
“Taurus”, comes the automatic reply from Sam.
Sam probably wants to sit out here alone with the stars. Probably doesn’t want to talk. Dean wishes he would, and he probably will, at some point, but there’s been this dark cloud over Sam and Dean isn’t going to push him, but he doesn’t want to leave him. He’ll let Sam draw his lines in the night sky, take solace here under the blanket of Cassiopeia, Perseus, Sirius. Dean can’t help but see the brightest star in his whole entire universe right there next to him, sweaty and cold and beautiful and so fucking sad. He hooks his leg over Sam’s, to get his attention.
When Sam looks over at him, finally, he’s smiling. Thank fuck. It still catches Dean completely off guard when Sam, apparently not frozen solid, turns around quick and is straddling Dean’s middle, looking down at Dean like he’s hungry. Sam wiggles around a little until he’s got them into a position where they’re lap-to-lap, then bends his head and swoops in for an open-mouthed kiss that’s warming Dean up very nicely.
That escalated quickly, and Dean’s got no idea where it came from, but he’s not going to ask on account of gift horses and all that.
“Sammy”, he starts, but then the kiss returns and god damn it’s even hotter. This is Sam’s sex-kissing, tongue against Dean’s teeth and the roof of his mouth, breath almost burning against the cold skin of his face.
And now there’s grinding, honest to Chuck grinding, like it’s the first few months they’re together like this all over again, never knowing how to start or how far to go or how long either one of them would last before they had a load of jizz in their pants. Dean grips onto Sam’s biceps (but not all the way around because Sam’s biceps) to get a better hold and Sam has his hands on Dean’s hips like he’s trying to keep him still. Dean’s into this, he’s so turned on, and Sam might be some kind of erection superhero but there’s no way Dean’s getting a decent hard on out here where it’s twenty degrees.
He manages to get Sam upright and they’re inside in a flash, practically tripping down the stairs and already shedding layers before they land on Dean’s bed. Dean takes just a moment to consider summoning the spirit of one of the Men of Letters to thank them for whatever the fuck makes them instantly warm again once they’re inside the bunker, no matter what kind of weather they’ve come from. The thought is lost as soon as Sam goes for his belt, doesn’t bother pulling his jeans and shorts all the way off, just out of the way enough to free Dean’s now eagerly cooperating and interested cock.
Then Sam’s manhandling him, Dean’s legs are off the side of the bed and Sam’s sliding completely down onto the floor, shit, because sometimes (a lot of times) Sam likes to get literally on his knees to blow Dean and hey, if that’s how he likes it - fuck fuck fuck it only takes a minute for Dean to get completely hard. His eyes close automatically and his head kind of rolls back but he gets it together enough to look down and it’s so worth it. The view from here is perfect, Sam’s lips stretched wide around his cock, easing down closer and closer to the base with each downward thrust of his mouth. Most importantly, though, Sam’s looking straight up, right into Dean’s eyes, and Sam doesn’t look sad, not even a little. Sam looks like he’s turned on and like he’s excited and like this is his favorite thing in the world (and maybe it’s not but it’s near the top of the list) and Dean can’t hold back a breathy groan of satisfaction as his hands slide into Sam’s hair and his eyes close again.
Before Dean gets too lost in it, Sam pulls back and toes off his shoes, tugs at his track pants and says, “Off, off”, gesturing at Dean’s pawed open pants and the one shirt he’s still got on. Then they’re both in bed again, sheet pulled up halfway and back to the fire-hot kissing until Dean moves enough to start nipping along Sammy’s jawline and down his neck, hard little bites just how he likes it. Sam’s cursing now, fuck fuck Dean fuck yeah more Dean please oh fuck, and thrusting his hips up against any part of Dean he can reach, and it’s so good, he could do this forever, he could run this on a loop like a soundtrack, Sam’s heavy breathing and desperate sex noises.
Sam clearly still has his wits about him, though, because one of his hands moves away from Dean, straight into the drawer in the nightstand that Dean keeps meaning to move closer to the bed. It’s close enough, though, for Sam to reach the bottle of lube in there (and not any of the other items they keep in that drawer) and scooch back onto the bed on his side so they’re facing each other. Sam’s got some lube on his fingers and he reaches down to wrap his giant hand around both of their dicks, moving very slowly, like he’s just trying it out.
“This okay?”, Sam asks, like maybe for some reason it’s not. He’s doing that thing where he looks down and his eyelashes are so long and what the fuck is Dean’s thing with Sam’s eyelashes anyway?
Dean reaches up and catches his chin in his hand, eyes steady and locked in. “This is outstanding”, he tells him with what Sam used to call the panty-dropping grin before Dean started using it to get Sam out of his shorts.
And now it’s like they’ve dropped out of time, nothing else that’s happening matters at all, and Dean hasn’t seen Sam so loose-limbed and relaxed in who the hell knows how long. Sam jerks them off together, and it’s not frantic and it’s not teasing, it’s this perfect rhythm that’s just exactly right for this very moment and they can’t keep their eyes off each other.
It’s still like that when Dean starts to feel his orgasm approaching, slowly moving through the middle of his body, uncurling in his belly and working its way around. He feels Sam’s movements falter a bit, hears him suck in a big breath and let out this soft helpless sound, and that’s it for Dean. By the time he shoots all over Sam’s hand and both of their dicks it feels like he’s been coming for the past few minutes and he’s shocked at how it drains him of so much energy.
There’s not even another minute before Sam’s losing it too, his come all mixed up with Dean’s, and Dean’s brain isn’t working well enough to think of any metaphors right now.
When Sam makes a half-hearted cursory attempt at cleanup, Dean gives him a look and asks, “Is that my shirt?”
Not surprisingly, Sam answers a question with a question. “Is that your jizz?”
They stop and for a minute it’s intense, really intense, just staring each other down less than six inches apart. Dean can’t feel anything except for how much he fucking loves this man, and Sam’s like a mirror, they don’t have to say it, Dean knows what’s being reflected back at him and they can’t just lay here like this, so.
“Sammy, I don’t know if you noticed. It’s kind of tucked away, but here in the bunker we have our very own telescope, for looking at the stars without freez-”
The pillow hits Dean’s face and there’s some pressure behind it, along with some profane insults, and okay, this. This.