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ellensmithee for the read through.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~750
Rating: R
Summary: The boys in the Impala, immediately following 6.5. Warning for Wincest.
The road is flashing past in his peripheral vision, trees and powerlines, houses and street signs, blended together in a sickening blur. Dean's driving too fast, and too fast for Dean is a ridiculous pace. Sam's not flinching.
Of course not, thinks Dean, and he slams on the brakes, turning hard to the right.
"Dean, what are you doing?"
Finally, a reaction. Too cold, too calculated to be the Sam that Dean remembers, but at least it's something. The Impala skids into a roadside overlook, gravel crunching as Dean comes to a reckless stop.
"Sammy, you gotta tell me what's going on," he says as the engine goes quiet. "Because, goddammit, I'm not goin' anywhere else until I know what the hell's wrong with you."
"Dean, start the car."
"No."
Sam reaches for the ignition, but Dean is faster, and he holds the keys up over his head. Sam lunges, Dean twists, and that old familiar play of muscle on muscle--Christ, when did Sam get so strong?--and grunting struggle, and Dean is pinned, Sam on top of him, chest rising and falling against his. Dean can feel Sam's heartbeat, as calm and even as it was back in that fucking motel room when it was thundering through Dean's blood, pulsing in his head.
"Dean."
Dean flicks the keys from his hands, which Sam holds fast over his head, and the keys tumble down between the seat and the door.
"Dammit, Dean." Sam's pressing against him, and the struggle is suddenly needy.
This hasn't happened since Sam's come back. Dean had a life, he had Lisa; he told himself he didn't need this. But he'd fucked that all up last night anyway, hadn't he? And here he is with Sam sprawled out above him and even though he stopped the car because this Sam is not his Sam, his body can't tell the difference. He doesn't trust himself. He was an undead thing just hours earlier, and now he's living flesh and warm blood and desire and fuck if he isn't hard as a rock, grinding up against Sam at an awkward angle in the driver's seat of the car.
Sam is exhaling through his nose, hard, rhythmic exhalations, and his lips twitch as he struggles and for once Dean knows that they're fighting the same demons here.
"Sam."
"Shut up, Dean."
"Do you know how long a year is, Sam?"
Sam doesn't answer. He's wrenching himself sideways to work open Dean's jeans and Dean shoves his knee up between Sam's hip and the dash, slamming his knee against the steering wheel, and everything that's left to say is lost in a tangle of lips and tongue and rough, strong hands.
When it's over, they're panting, and Dean's back is killing him as he uses Sam for leverage to get upright again.
"This car," Sam says--and Dean hadn't expected him to speak first, "is the opposite of Lucifer's cage."
Dean finishes tucking himself away and his gaze slides over to his brother. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Dunno," says Sam. "I didn't want to get in it, not at first. It was like the wrong side of a magnet. But in here, Dean, just like it used to be?" He shakes his head. "That was good, right?"
Dean wishes Sam would have just shut the hell up after the first word. If he's gotta ask...
Like a magnet. Maybe Sam's just a compass that doesn't know which way to point anymore. Dean snorts. He'll be a fuckload of help, won't he? He's got one year of trying to pass as a regular guy under his belt, but other than that, he's got nothing. Is he supposed to be Sam's true north? And when Sam just stands there and smirks as the next monster with a bad case of blood lust makes a feast out of Dean, what's he supposed to do then?
"Yeah, Sammy," he says, his words only slightly more sincere than before they got into the car. "It was good."
Maybe Sam just bought himself some more time before Dean has to pound the answers out of him, but sooner or later, there will be answers. Dean shoves his hand down beside the seat, groping for the keys, pulling them back up with him. Cool flat metal pinched too tightly between his fingers. The engine growls and he looks out at the road. Which way are they headed, anyway?
ellensmithee for the read through. Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~750
Rating: R
Summary: The boys in the Impala, immediately following 6.5. Warning for Wincest.
The road is flashing past in his peripheral vision, trees and powerlines, houses and street signs, blended together in a sickening blur. Dean's driving too fast, and too fast for Dean is a ridiculous pace. Sam's not flinching.
Of course not, thinks Dean, and he slams on the brakes, turning hard to the right.
"Dean, what are you doing?"
Finally, a reaction. Too cold, too calculated to be the Sam that Dean remembers, but at least it's something. The Impala skids into a roadside overlook, gravel crunching as Dean comes to a reckless stop.
"Sammy, you gotta tell me what's going on," he says as the engine goes quiet. "Because, goddammit, I'm not goin' anywhere else until I know what the hell's wrong with you."
"Dean, start the car."
"No."
Sam reaches for the ignition, but Dean is faster, and he holds the keys up over his head. Sam lunges, Dean twists, and that old familiar play of muscle on muscle--Christ, when did Sam get so strong?--and grunting struggle, and Dean is pinned, Sam on top of him, chest rising and falling against his. Dean can feel Sam's heartbeat, as calm and even as it was back in that fucking motel room when it was thundering through Dean's blood, pulsing in his head.
"Dean."
Dean flicks the keys from his hands, which Sam holds fast over his head, and the keys tumble down between the seat and the door.
"Dammit, Dean." Sam's pressing against him, and the struggle is suddenly needy.
This hasn't happened since Sam's come back. Dean had a life, he had Lisa; he told himself he didn't need this. But he'd fucked that all up last night anyway, hadn't he? And here he is with Sam sprawled out above him and even though he stopped the car because this Sam is not his Sam, his body can't tell the difference. He doesn't trust himself. He was an undead thing just hours earlier, and now he's living flesh and warm blood and desire and fuck if he isn't hard as a rock, grinding up against Sam at an awkward angle in the driver's seat of the car.
Sam is exhaling through his nose, hard, rhythmic exhalations, and his lips twitch as he struggles and for once Dean knows that they're fighting the same demons here.
"Sam."
"Shut up, Dean."
"Do you know how long a year is, Sam?"
Sam doesn't answer. He's wrenching himself sideways to work open Dean's jeans and Dean shoves his knee up between Sam's hip and the dash, slamming his knee against the steering wheel, and everything that's left to say is lost in a tangle of lips and tongue and rough, strong hands.
When it's over, they're panting, and Dean's back is killing him as he uses Sam for leverage to get upright again.
"This car," Sam says--and Dean hadn't expected him to speak first, "is the opposite of Lucifer's cage."
Dean finishes tucking himself away and his gaze slides over to his brother. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Dunno," says Sam. "I didn't want to get in it, not at first. It was like the wrong side of a magnet. But in here, Dean, just like it used to be?" He shakes his head. "That was good, right?"
Dean wishes Sam would have just shut the hell up after the first word. If he's gotta ask...
Like a magnet. Maybe Sam's just a compass that doesn't know which way to point anymore. Dean snorts. He'll be a fuckload of help, won't he? He's got one year of trying to pass as a regular guy under his belt, but other than that, he's got nothing. Is he supposed to be Sam's true north? And when Sam just stands there and smirks as the next monster with a bad case of blood lust makes a feast out of Dean, what's he supposed to do then?
"Yeah, Sammy," he says, his words only slightly more sincere than before they got into the car. "It was good."
Maybe Sam just bought himself some more time before Dean has to pound the answers out of him, but sooner or later, there will be answers. Dean shoves his hand down beside the seat, groping for the keys, pulling them back up with him. Cool flat metal pinched too tightly between his fingers. The engine growls and he looks out at the road. Which way are they headed, anyway?
