Oh, look. Post-707 reunionating schmoop. Who could ever have predicted such a thing!
Title: Direct Amends
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laurificus
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Word count: 2,532
Summary: If Dean has to put his trust in something, it's going to be them, together.
Notes: Thank you tomollyamory for betaing and titling. All remaining mistakes are mine.
***
Direct Amends
Sam's laughing as they walk through the door. Not hysterical, or anything, not the high-pitched, full-on Sam cackle, but Dean knows if he turned around now, Sam's face would be all scrunched up the way it gets when he's amused, nothing but teeth and sideburns and maybe even dimples. He doesn't turn around, because he's a good brother, and he doesn't need to embarrass Sam by staring at him when he looks so unrelentingly stupid. And anyway, Sam's hand is on Dean's shoulder, propelling him into the room like Dean might forget how forward motion works without him.
"I really like what they've done with the place," Sam says, once they're inside, salt lines laid and curtains drawn against the dark. His voice is all amusement still, and Dean nods in solemn agreement, trying not to smile himself. Nobody does judgement like Sam; even the Sam in Dean's head while they were separated couldn't quite pull it off.
"The combination of beige and beige is really striking," Dean says. He supposes dull should be an improvement on their usual damp and mouldy, but it's kind of a disappointment when Dean was hoping for something that would offend every one of Sam's delicate sensibilities. Even the pictures are boring: wholesomely charming mountain scenes on one wall, and bizarrely not-scary birds on the other. Except, of course, Dean's forgotten that Sam brings his horrible eagle prejudices everywhere with him.
"Don't worry," Dean tells him when he catches him side-eying it. "I'll take the bed nearest that one. You'll be perfectly safe."
Sam shoves at him, like the handsy fucker he's been since they left Lily Dale. "It would totally go for the eyes," he says, and he sounds a little bit like he's hoping it might fly out of the frame and do it just so he can be right. He stays at Dean's shoulder, warmth bleeding through his shirt, and Dean feels it everywhere.
"It would probably get lost in your hair," Dean says, and this time he does look around because, goddamnit, it was a week and a half. He's not made of stone.
He's rewarded with the tail-end of a smile, and Sam shoves him again, only this time his fingers catch and hold around Dean's wrist. "You might find this hard to believe, but the worst thing about my life is that you started thinking you're funny,"he says. His thumb skates, very lightly, against the underside of Dean's wrist, and Dean's insides go uniformly tight, like his body wants to fight off hope or relief or whatever sappy shit it is he's feeling right now. This, he's almost forgotten--told himself he had--but it's how it used to be, when there was always possibility between them and there was nothing bigger than the two of them.
"I'm the funniest person in this room," Dean says, and it's lame, so lame, but Sam still smiles at him, this look that just kills Dean, like he's smiling because of Dean, not his stupid jokes and his selfless eagle heroism.
"Sam," he says, because he can't do this, right as Sam says, "Can I?" reaching out with his other hand, and the tone of his voice, that Sam voice that's always, always asked for more than the world's ever given him. And Dean can't do this, but he says, "Yeah, anything you want," because Dean wants everything from Sam, always has. Wants everything for Sam, if it comes right down to it.
So Sam pulls him in, as if there's ever been any doubt about where Dean was headed. His hand's are on his face, now, big and possessive and strong, but for a second, he just stays like that, breathing against Dean's mouth, as if he's gone and gotten himself confused with someone who doesn't do crazy reckless things every chance he gets.
"Are you strategizing this?" Dean asks, because he's scared, a little. But mostly because giving Sam shit is the most familiar thing he knows, and because it means when Sam kisses him, he's smiling again, the curve of his mouth warm and hopeful when he presses it against Dean's.
And Dean grabs onto him, even as he's opening up for him, and he thinks, now, now it'll be terrifying, the final and biggest fuckup of all his fuckups in the last twenty years. Only the thing about Sam is, he has to be good at whatever he does, the same way other people have to breathe and eat and sleep. Math tests and English lit and knife throwing, bringing on the apocalypse and saving the world; he's always had to excel. And now, apparently, incestuous kissing is on his list. Terror doesn't stand a chance, not when Sam's there to outdo it, kissing Dean exactly like the guy who wrote his name on everything he owned as a kid, who pries and pushes and prods at Dean for all his secrets and useless pieces, as if they're his to have by divine Sammy right.
It's actually a little annoying. He's just standing there, doing impossible things with his tongue, his fingers rubbing over the fine hair at the back of Dean's neck; nothing but that, and even that is enough to make Dean fucking hard, like his whole body has been primed just for Sam. Dean's pretty sure his kisses get smug, and Dean doesn't even have defences against that, because Sam's skin is smooth and warm when Dean's hands fumble under his shirt, and Sam moans into Dean's mouth when Dean touches him, this needy, helpless sound that shatters Dean like nothing ever has.
He hardly even notices when they start moving, is surprised when his legs hit the bed, and he goes down like he's been shot, landing hard on a mattress that might be made of extra specially sharpened rocks. His back protests, but not much else does, because the six hundred feet of groping Sammy is really fucking distracting. "Good strategizing," Dean says, as Sam settles against him, and maybe he's laughing a little too, breathless and bewildered and feeling entirely like someone else. Sam's bracing himself with his arms on either side of Dean, sucking frantically at Dean's neck. Dean feels small beneath him, vulnerable and exposed by how much he needs this, and that's okay. His hands skate over the huge expanse of Sam's back, curl around his hips; he wants to touch all of Sam with a kind of desperate longing that wipes out everything else.
"Would've been better if I had gotten your clothes off first," Sam says without bothering to pull his mouth away from Dean's neck. His stubble scratches against the skin he's already marked, and as if to prove his point, Dean's dick throbs painfully in his jeans. Sam shifts, then, pushes himself up to start working on Dean's fly. He keeps his gaze locked on Dean's, and there's a moment, stretched out and suddenly electric with waiting, because if they're ever going to stop this, it has to be now. Then it's over, and Sam's throwing himself off the bed, fingers squeezing Dean's dick as he goes.
"Take your own goddamn clothes off," he says, grappling unsteadily with however many layers he's got on. "'Bout time you put some work in." His tone is probably supposed to be all commanding, maybe even hot, but somewhere along the way, Sam's lost the knack of hiding anything from Dean--maybe gave it up willingly--and his voice cracks and breaks. His face flushes, his chest, too, but he doesn't look away from Dean.
And whatever doubt Dean had left disappears, salted and burned and exorcised with Sam's usual efficiency. Sam's with him in this, maybe always has been, and if Dean has to put his trust in something, it's going to be them, together. He's ready when Sam comes back to him, legs splaying open to let Sam settle between them, and he kisses Sam as Sam's weight falls over him, and it's like every perfect shot he's ever made, every time he bet high because he knew he couldn't lose. Sam's mouth is hot and sweet, and Sam's dick is hard and heavy where it's pushing against Dean's hip. There's so much of him for Dean to touch, but he's never been one to resist the obvious. He wraps his hand around Sam's dick; Sam scrabbles at his shoulders and bites at Dean's mouth until he draws blood, and Dean is totally fucked, because even Sam's ragged, stuttering breathing is turning him on. He did this; somehow, Sam's this hard and desperate just for him.
"Dean," Sam says. "Dean. We could--I want--" And then, like a miracle, he just kind of gives up on actual words, whimpering and gasping and laughing, and completely, completely losing it. Dean can't stop working Sam's dick, vaguely fascinated by how fucking huge it feels in his hand, and, man, if Sam's going to keep sounding like that, it'll take a long time to get old. But then Sam grabs his hand, holds it still. "Not this," he says. "We can do better than this."
Dean squeezes in answer, because Sam seems to like it just fine. "You're not putting that in me," he says, because he wants, always, for Sam to laugh just like that, right on top of Dean so that Dean feels it in his bones. And also, seriously, Sam's probably got some sort of medical condition, too much growth hormone or something else they should've had treated when he was young enough to be helped.
"You don't have to do anything you're scared of, Dean," Sam says, like the bastard he is, but then he's pushing Dean's hands away, sitting up and saying, "Let me, okay?" as he slides off the bed and kneels down between Dean's legs.
That's not a move open to a lot of interpretation, but Dean's still shocked into stupid silence when Sam reaches out, hands on Dean's thighs, and touches his tongue to the tip of Dean's dick. Not that there's any danger of Sam mistaking his silence for descent when his dick's jerking against Sam's face, messy and leaking. Sam grins up at him, before leaning in to lick the drops of pre-come, and then he's taking Dean apart for real, as easily as he might strip an engine down, only he's never been quite this good at that. Dean doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this--Sam licking him, slow and deliberate, stopping only to get his mouth on anywhere else within reach, until Dean's squirming and panting on the bed. And now Sam's just holding him, arm across his hips while he breathes on his dick. His eyes stay steady on Dean and he touches Dean constantly, his fingers trailing up the insides of his thighs, cupping his balls, and Dean feels the words against his skin when he says, "I think I'm gonna be good at this."
Dean's voice isn't steady, not at all, when he says, "You could maybe get on with it," and his hands curl into Sam's hair, just to have something to hang onto. Sam tips his head back to look up at him, mouth shiny and slick with spit, and Dean lets his thumbs tremblingly trace over his cheekbones. Sam looking at him like this, taking his time on him like this, like there's nothing else he wants in the world--it freaks him out, worse than anything else has.
"I gotcha," Sam says, all teasing gone. He looks like a porn star, mussed hair and swollen mouth, but there's certainty in his eyes that seems like it's miles and miles deep, a promise that's maybe deeper. Seeing it makes Dean want to make promises of his own--hell, Dean is making promises of his own, and not the big brother bullshit he's been selling Sam all his life. Real promises he can keep this time. No more lies. No more pushing Sam away in case Sam decides the reck he is isn't worth saving. Sam deserves better, and he's going to get it. Dean just can't say any of that right now, because he can't say much of anything. But Sam smoothes his fingers over Dean's hipbones, in this really unforgivably gentle way, like maybe he knows already. He ducks his head back down, takes Dean into his mouth without any more messing around. It's inexpert, maybe, but he's his usual level of eager and determined, and Dean's so hard he's aching with it.
Sam's not stupid; he doesn't try to choke himself by shoving Dean's whole dick in at once, but his tongue swirls around the head like a fucking pro, and his hand takes care of what his mouth can't. Dean tries to keep still, but his body has gotten all kinds of rebellious, and his hips jerk forward as Sam lights him up all the way through. Sam doesn't seem to mind. If anything, his sucking gets more enthusiastic, and Dean feels combustable and dangerous, like there's enough heat and energy under his skin to power a couple hundred galaxies. He can't stop watching Sam, the concentration on his face while he gets Dean off; it's the same look he has whenever he's figuring out how to save them from whatever mess they're in, and it's too much, all that sensation in his dick, and Sam making him have actual feelings at the same time. When he comes, it's with that same dizzying jolt he's known so often over the last few months, like the bottom's dropping out of the world, but this time it's good, pleasure catching him instead of fear. Sam won't pull off, just swallows and swallows and swallows, fingers digging hard into Dean's skin.
Afterwards, years or millennia or whatever later, he comes back to himself, and Sam's crawling up the bed to him. It's all Dean can do to grab his shoulder and hold on. He's as useless as he was that time he got electrocuted: weak and shaking, his malfunctioning heart a liability. Sam's got Dean's come on his mouth, mingling with the smile there. He looks unbelievably fucking happy. He splays his hand out on Dean's chest, so casually, as if they've been doing this for years.
"Told you I would be good," he says.
"With some practice you could probably be adequate." Then like the superhero he is, Dean finds the energy to get an arm around Sam so he can tug him in. Sam might have killed all his higher brain function, but Dean's still smart enough to know that Sam hasn't been taken care of, and Sam's undoubtedly going to be keeping track of who owes who what from now on.
"New plan," Sam says, inexplicably continuing to talk as Dean tries to get at his mouth. "You drink less, you get more sex."
"Sneaky bastard," Dean says, and then he kisses him a lot, before he can say anything horrifying that Sam might take for agreement.
Title: Direct Amends
Author:
laurificusPairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Word count: 2,532
Summary: If Dean has to put his trust in something, it's going to be them, together.
Notes: Thank you to
mollyamory for betaing and titling. All remaining mistakes are mine.***
Direct Amends
Sam's laughing as they walk through the door. Not hysterical, or anything, not the high-pitched, full-on Sam cackle, but Dean knows if he turned around now, Sam's face would be all scrunched up the way it gets when he's amused, nothing but teeth and sideburns and maybe even dimples. He doesn't turn around, because he's a good brother, and he doesn't need to embarrass Sam by staring at him when he looks so unrelentingly stupid. And anyway, Sam's hand is on Dean's shoulder, propelling him into the room like Dean might forget how forward motion works without him.
"I really like what they've done with the place," Sam says, once they're inside, salt lines laid and curtains drawn against the dark. His voice is all amusement still, and Dean nods in solemn agreement, trying not to smile himself. Nobody does judgement like Sam; even the Sam in Dean's head while they were separated couldn't quite pull it off.
"The combination of beige and beige is really striking," Dean says. He supposes dull should be an improvement on their usual damp and mouldy, but it's kind of a disappointment when Dean was hoping for something that would offend every one of Sam's delicate sensibilities. Even the pictures are boring: wholesomely charming mountain scenes on one wall, and bizarrely not-scary birds on the other. Except, of course, Dean's forgotten that Sam brings his horrible eagle prejudices everywhere with him.
"Don't worry," Dean tells him when he catches him side-eying it. "I'll take the bed nearest that one. You'll be perfectly safe."
Sam shoves at him, like the handsy fucker he's been since they left Lily Dale. "It would totally go for the eyes," he says, and he sounds a little bit like he's hoping it might fly out of the frame and do it just so he can be right. He stays at Dean's shoulder, warmth bleeding through his shirt, and Dean feels it everywhere.
"It would probably get lost in your hair," Dean says, and this time he does look around because, goddamnit, it was a week and a half. He's not made of stone.
He's rewarded with the tail-end of a smile, and Sam shoves him again, only this time his fingers catch and hold around Dean's wrist. "You might find this hard to believe, but the worst thing about my life is that you started thinking you're funny,"he says. His thumb skates, very lightly, against the underside of Dean's wrist, and Dean's insides go uniformly tight, like his body wants to fight off hope or relief or whatever sappy shit it is he's feeling right now. This, he's almost forgotten--told himself he had--but it's how it used to be, when there was always possibility between them and there was nothing bigger than the two of them.
"I'm the funniest person in this room," Dean says, and it's lame, so lame, but Sam still smiles at him, this look that just kills Dean, like he's smiling because of Dean, not his stupid jokes and his selfless eagle heroism.
"Sam," he says, because he can't do this, right as Sam says, "Can I?" reaching out with his other hand, and the tone of his voice, that Sam voice that's always, always asked for more than the world's ever given him. And Dean can't do this, but he says, "Yeah, anything you want," because Dean wants everything from Sam, always has. Wants everything for Sam, if it comes right down to it.
So Sam pulls him in, as if there's ever been any doubt about where Dean was headed. His hand's are on his face, now, big and possessive and strong, but for a second, he just stays like that, breathing against Dean's mouth, as if he's gone and gotten himself confused with someone who doesn't do crazy reckless things every chance he gets.
"Are you strategizing this?" Dean asks, because he's scared, a little. But mostly because giving Sam shit is the most familiar thing he knows, and because it means when Sam kisses him, he's smiling again, the curve of his mouth warm and hopeful when he presses it against Dean's.
And Dean grabs onto him, even as he's opening up for him, and he thinks, now, now it'll be terrifying, the final and biggest fuckup of all his fuckups in the last twenty years. Only the thing about Sam is, he has to be good at whatever he does, the same way other people have to breathe and eat and sleep. Math tests and English lit and knife throwing, bringing on the apocalypse and saving the world; he's always had to excel. And now, apparently, incestuous kissing is on his list. Terror doesn't stand a chance, not when Sam's there to outdo it, kissing Dean exactly like the guy who wrote his name on everything he owned as a kid, who pries and pushes and prods at Dean for all his secrets and useless pieces, as if they're his to have by divine Sammy right.
It's actually a little annoying. He's just standing there, doing impossible things with his tongue, his fingers rubbing over the fine hair at the back of Dean's neck; nothing but that, and even that is enough to make Dean fucking hard, like his whole body has been primed just for Sam. Dean's pretty sure his kisses get smug, and Dean doesn't even have defences against that, because Sam's skin is smooth and warm when Dean's hands fumble under his shirt, and Sam moans into Dean's mouth when Dean touches him, this needy, helpless sound that shatters Dean like nothing ever has.
He hardly even notices when they start moving, is surprised when his legs hit the bed, and he goes down like he's been shot, landing hard on a mattress that might be made of extra specially sharpened rocks. His back protests, but not much else does, because the six hundred feet of groping Sammy is really fucking distracting. "Good strategizing," Dean says, as Sam settles against him, and maybe he's laughing a little too, breathless and bewildered and feeling entirely like someone else. Sam's bracing himself with his arms on either side of Dean, sucking frantically at Dean's neck. Dean feels small beneath him, vulnerable and exposed by how much he needs this, and that's okay. His hands skate over the huge expanse of Sam's back, curl around his hips; he wants to touch all of Sam with a kind of desperate longing that wipes out everything else.
"Would've been better if I had gotten your clothes off first," Sam says without bothering to pull his mouth away from Dean's neck. His stubble scratches against the skin he's already marked, and as if to prove his point, Dean's dick throbs painfully in his jeans. Sam shifts, then, pushes himself up to start working on Dean's fly. He keeps his gaze locked on Dean's, and there's a moment, stretched out and suddenly electric with waiting, because if they're ever going to stop this, it has to be now. Then it's over, and Sam's throwing himself off the bed, fingers squeezing Dean's dick as he goes.
"Take your own goddamn clothes off," he says, grappling unsteadily with however many layers he's got on. "'Bout time you put some work in." His tone is probably supposed to be all commanding, maybe even hot, but somewhere along the way, Sam's lost the knack of hiding anything from Dean--maybe gave it up willingly--and his voice cracks and breaks. His face flushes, his chest, too, but he doesn't look away from Dean.
And whatever doubt Dean had left disappears, salted and burned and exorcised with Sam's usual efficiency. Sam's with him in this, maybe always has been, and if Dean has to put his trust in something, it's going to be them, together. He's ready when Sam comes back to him, legs splaying open to let Sam settle between them, and he kisses Sam as Sam's weight falls over him, and it's like every perfect shot he's ever made, every time he bet high because he knew he couldn't lose. Sam's mouth is hot and sweet, and Sam's dick is hard and heavy where it's pushing against Dean's hip. There's so much of him for Dean to touch, but he's never been one to resist the obvious. He wraps his hand around Sam's dick; Sam scrabbles at his shoulders and bites at Dean's mouth until he draws blood, and Dean is totally fucked, because even Sam's ragged, stuttering breathing is turning him on. He did this; somehow, Sam's this hard and desperate just for him.
"Dean," Sam says. "Dean. We could--I want--" And then, like a miracle, he just kind of gives up on actual words, whimpering and gasping and laughing, and completely, completely losing it. Dean can't stop working Sam's dick, vaguely fascinated by how fucking huge it feels in his hand, and, man, if Sam's going to keep sounding like that, it'll take a long time to get old. But then Sam grabs his hand, holds it still. "Not this," he says. "We can do better than this."
Dean squeezes in answer, because Sam seems to like it just fine. "You're not putting that in me," he says, because he wants, always, for Sam to laugh just like that, right on top of Dean so that Dean feels it in his bones. And also, seriously, Sam's probably got some sort of medical condition, too much growth hormone or something else they should've had treated when he was young enough to be helped.
"You don't have to do anything you're scared of, Dean," Sam says, like the bastard he is, but then he's pushing Dean's hands away, sitting up and saying, "Let me, okay?" as he slides off the bed and kneels down between Dean's legs.
That's not a move open to a lot of interpretation, but Dean's still shocked into stupid silence when Sam reaches out, hands on Dean's thighs, and touches his tongue to the tip of Dean's dick. Not that there's any danger of Sam mistaking his silence for descent when his dick's jerking against Sam's face, messy and leaking. Sam grins up at him, before leaning in to lick the drops of pre-come, and then he's taking Dean apart for real, as easily as he might strip an engine down, only he's never been quite this good at that. Dean doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this--Sam licking him, slow and deliberate, stopping only to get his mouth on anywhere else within reach, until Dean's squirming and panting on the bed. And now Sam's just holding him, arm across his hips while he breathes on his dick. His eyes stay steady on Dean and he touches Dean constantly, his fingers trailing up the insides of his thighs, cupping his balls, and Dean feels the words against his skin when he says, "I think I'm gonna be good at this."
Dean's voice isn't steady, not at all, when he says, "You could maybe get on with it," and his hands curl into Sam's hair, just to have something to hang onto. Sam tips his head back to look up at him, mouth shiny and slick with spit, and Dean lets his thumbs tremblingly trace over his cheekbones. Sam looking at him like this, taking his time on him like this, like there's nothing else he wants in the world--it freaks him out, worse than anything else has.
"I gotcha," Sam says, all teasing gone. He looks like a porn star, mussed hair and swollen mouth, but there's certainty in his eyes that seems like it's miles and miles deep, a promise that's maybe deeper. Seeing it makes Dean want to make promises of his own--hell, Dean is making promises of his own, and not the big brother bullshit he's been selling Sam all his life. Real promises he can keep this time. No more lies. No more pushing Sam away in case Sam decides the reck he is isn't worth saving. Sam deserves better, and he's going to get it. Dean just can't say any of that right now, because he can't say much of anything. But Sam smoothes his fingers over Dean's hipbones, in this really unforgivably gentle way, like maybe he knows already. He ducks his head back down, takes Dean into his mouth without any more messing around. It's inexpert, maybe, but he's his usual level of eager and determined, and Dean's so hard he's aching with it.
Sam's not stupid; he doesn't try to choke himself by shoving Dean's whole dick in at once, but his tongue swirls around the head like a fucking pro, and his hand takes care of what his mouth can't. Dean tries to keep still, but his body has gotten all kinds of rebellious, and his hips jerk forward as Sam lights him up all the way through. Sam doesn't seem to mind. If anything, his sucking gets more enthusiastic, and Dean feels combustable and dangerous, like there's enough heat and energy under his skin to power a couple hundred galaxies. He can't stop watching Sam, the concentration on his face while he gets Dean off; it's the same look he has whenever he's figuring out how to save them from whatever mess they're in, and it's too much, all that sensation in his dick, and Sam making him have actual feelings at the same time. When he comes, it's with that same dizzying jolt he's known so often over the last few months, like the bottom's dropping out of the world, but this time it's good, pleasure catching him instead of fear. Sam won't pull off, just swallows and swallows and swallows, fingers digging hard into Dean's skin.
Afterwards, years or millennia or whatever later, he comes back to himself, and Sam's crawling up the bed to him. It's all Dean can do to grab his shoulder and hold on. He's as useless as he was that time he got electrocuted: weak and shaking, his malfunctioning heart a liability. Sam's got Dean's come on his mouth, mingling with the smile there. He looks unbelievably fucking happy. He splays his hand out on Dean's chest, so casually, as if they've been doing this for years.
"Told you I would be good," he says.
"With some practice you could probably be adequate." Then like the superhero he is, Dean finds the energy to get an arm around Sam so he can tug him in. Sam might have killed all his higher brain function, but Dean's still smart enough to know that Sam hasn't been taken care of, and Sam's undoubtedly going to be keeping track of who owes who what from now on.
"New plan," Sam says, inexplicably continuing to talk as Dean tries to get at his mouth. "You drink less, you get more sex."
"Sneaky bastard," Dean says, and then he kisses him a lot, before he can say anything horrifying that Sam might take for agreement.