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zuben_eschamali
Jun. 2nd, 2011 12:22 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_springflingTitle: Dean 3:16
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Any warnings: spoilers up through season 3, mentions of major character death
Written byfromcainwthlove for zuben_eschamali!
"I know what you're doing."
Sam looks up at Dean, down at the jar of maraschino cherries in his hand, then up to meet his brother's gaze again.
"Congratulations, Dean, you've mastered the art of observation," Sam says. "We'll get you to 'two and two is four' yet."
"I know what you're really doing," Dean says, not taking the bait, the easy, joking out, and that discomfits Sam more than anything.
"And what am I really doing?" Sam asks, prying the lid off the vacuum-sealed jar with a hollow 'pop', restrained violence in the sharp twist of his wrist. "What's the shadowy secret motive behind dessert?"
"You're—" Dean balks at saying the words, just like Sam had hoped, and he feels a fraction of the tension in his shoulders ease. Dean's gaze is still heavy, still too direct, but Sam ignores it, popping the open jar of hot fudge into the microwave. It's good, homemade stuff from a creamery they passed on the way into town. The ice cream's rich and dense, hand-packed pints in five flavors thawing out on the cluttered hotel dresser.
It's a nicer place than they usually stay; not quite the Holiday Inn, but the doors are on the inside, there's a hot buffet down in the lounge in the morning, and the little pool is clean and blue. It cost twice what they usually pay, and Dean had argued that they couldn't afford it, but he hadn't argued very long. Sam had worried about that, too, unused to his brother letting him win anything, but he let it go. He didn't want to waste their time fighting.
Not when there's so little of it left.
The microwave dings and Sam reaches for it, but Dean gets there first, lifting the hot jar out carefully with his fingertips. The hot fudge starts to melt the scoops of ice cream mounded into styrofoam bowls almost as soon as it's poured. Dean licks the drips from the rim of the jar, considers it for a moment, then dips a finger into the thick sauce and pops it into his mouth, sucking noisily.
"It's good," he mumbles around his finger, throwing Sam a wink, and Sam realizes he's staring, flushes quick and dark and snaps his mouth shut with a click. He shakes up the can of Reddi-Whip and smothers the sundaes in whipped cream, sighing when Dean grabs the can from his hand and sprays some directly into his open mouth.
"You're a pig," Sam tells his brother, reaching for the sprinkles. Dean nods seriously, whipped cream smeared all across his lip.
"Always have been," Dean agrees. "Don't try to change me, Sammy."
Sam looks up at his brother, chocolate sauce on his chin and the collar of his shirt, and thinks that there is nothing he wouldn't give to keep Dean just like this. Aloud he says, "It hasn't worked for the last 25 years. I don't expect anything to be different now."
"Aw, you haven't been trying your whole life,," Dean argues, fishing a cherry out of the jar and plopping it into his dish. "When you were little, you thought everything I did was cool. You were such a smart kid. I dunno what happened."
Dean flashes him a grin, then catches sight of Sam's hand still curled around the sprinkles and grimaces. "Dude. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not actually an eight year old girl having a birthday party. I'm not eating rainbow sprinkles."
Sam looks down at the jar in his hand. The sprinkles are neon-colored, blue and pink and yellow, stamped into the shape of tiny stars. "This is all they had at the store," he says, which is a total lie, overriding Dean's protests and shaking a healthy scattering of sprinkles over each bowl. "Stop complaining. You'll eat what I put in your mouth and you'll like it."
It's out before he realizes how it sounds, and all he can do is pick up a spoon and dig into his sundae, ignoring Dean's arched brows and pointed smirk, his teasing murmur of, "Love it when you get bossy, Sammy." Sam's never been good at this kind of joking, always hot-faced and tongue-tied, and it's only gotten worse since it stopped being strictly a joke; since that night a few weeks ago when they stumbled back exhausted and bleeding after a hunt, and Sam pressed Dean into the door and kissed him, deep and messy, until Dean pushed him away.
Since then there've been half a dozen desperate, stolen kisses, late at night after hunts when the light's low and adrenaline's high. Sam's learned the shape of Dean's mouth, the hitched sounds he makes when Sam bites his lip, the sweet, aborted thrust of his hips. Just once he's gotten his hand on Dean, both of them so sloppy drunk Sam was distantly surprised he could get it up. Purely amazed when the slick pulse of Dean spilling over his knuckles had him humping the bed and coming in his jeans like a horny kid.
They haven't talked about it, and they don't talk now, spooning sticky mouthfuls of ice cream from their bowls in silence. They're good at not talking, Sam thinks; trained in it as surely as knot-tying or marksmanship or Latin, trained to follow orders and not ask questions. To not ask for anything at all.
Sam gathers up the empty bowls and cartons, stuffing them into the trash and jamming the melted remains of the ice cream into the hotel fridge's tiny freezer. He's not surprised when Dean steps up behind him, because he always knows where Dean is, tracking the soft rustle of his movement, the angle of his gaze. He's not even surprised when Dean's hand finds his hip and Dean's mouth touches the back of his neck, hot and soft; just breathes out a sigh of relief and turns on his brother, kissing him hard and wet and deep.
Dean lets him take control of the kiss; lets Sam push him back toward the bed, tangle him up and press him down. He lets Sam plunder his mouth, greedy and desperate, licking traces of chocolate away until all he can taste is Dean, warm and twice as sweet. It makes him a little crazy, the way Dean just opens up to him, doesn't fight him or try to take over, but another part of him loves Dean for letting him have this.
Sam gets himself down to boxers and Dean down to skin, and he wants to stare, wants to drink in the sight of Dean naked and panting, but he can't stop touching him for that long. He runs his hands from Dean's throat all the way down to his hips and then traces the path over again with his mouth. By the time Sam's licking his thighs apart Dean's hard and wet at the tip, flushed and gorgeous and fucking alive.
"I know what you're doing," Dean whispers, threading a hand through Sam's hair. Sam glances up through his lashes, mouth hovering, and meets Dean's gaze.
"Then let me do it," he says, and Sam swallows his brother down.
Sam keeps his eyes open when Dean comes, hot and salty across his tongue, his own fucked up Communion. For Dean so loved his brother that he died for his sins; but Sam loves him enough to forgive him. Sam could forgive Dean anything. Even making Sam live without him.
Outside the wind howls, and it's only his imagination that makes it sound like the baying of hounds. Inside, Sam kisses Dean, and finds new ways to say goodbye.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Any warnings: spoilers up through season 3, mentions of major character death
Written by
fromcainwthlove for zuben_eschamali!"I know what you're doing."
Sam looks up at Dean, down at the jar of maraschino cherries in his hand, then up to meet his brother's gaze again.
"Congratulations, Dean, you've mastered the art of observation," Sam says. "We'll get you to 'two and two is four' yet."
"I know what you're really doing," Dean says, not taking the bait, the easy, joking out, and that discomfits Sam more than anything.
"And what am I really doing?" Sam asks, prying the lid off the vacuum-sealed jar with a hollow 'pop', restrained violence in the sharp twist of his wrist. "What's the shadowy secret motive behind dessert?"
"You're—" Dean balks at saying the words, just like Sam had hoped, and he feels a fraction of the tension in his shoulders ease. Dean's gaze is still heavy, still too direct, but Sam ignores it, popping the open jar of hot fudge into the microwave. It's good, homemade stuff from a creamery they passed on the way into town. The ice cream's rich and dense, hand-packed pints in five flavors thawing out on the cluttered hotel dresser.
It's a nicer place than they usually stay; not quite the Holiday Inn, but the doors are on the inside, there's a hot buffet down in the lounge in the morning, and the little pool is clean and blue. It cost twice what they usually pay, and Dean had argued that they couldn't afford it, but he hadn't argued very long. Sam had worried about that, too, unused to his brother letting him win anything, but he let it go. He didn't want to waste their time fighting.
Not when there's so little of it left.
The microwave dings and Sam reaches for it, but Dean gets there first, lifting the hot jar out carefully with his fingertips. The hot fudge starts to melt the scoops of ice cream mounded into styrofoam bowls almost as soon as it's poured. Dean licks the drips from the rim of the jar, considers it for a moment, then dips a finger into the thick sauce and pops it into his mouth, sucking noisily.
"It's good," he mumbles around his finger, throwing Sam a wink, and Sam realizes he's staring, flushes quick and dark and snaps his mouth shut with a click. He shakes up the can of Reddi-Whip and smothers the sundaes in whipped cream, sighing when Dean grabs the can from his hand and sprays some directly into his open mouth.
"You're a pig," Sam tells his brother, reaching for the sprinkles. Dean nods seriously, whipped cream smeared all across his lip.
"Always have been," Dean agrees. "Don't try to change me, Sammy."
Sam looks up at his brother, chocolate sauce on his chin and the collar of his shirt, and thinks that there is nothing he wouldn't give to keep Dean just like this. Aloud he says, "It hasn't worked for the last 25 years. I don't expect anything to be different now."
"Aw, you haven't been trying your whole life,," Dean argues, fishing a cherry out of the jar and plopping it into his dish. "When you were little, you thought everything I did was cool. You were such a smart kid. I dunno what happened."
Dean flashes him a grin, then catches sight of Sam's hand still curled around the sprinkles and grimaces. "Dude. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not actually an eight year old girl having a birthday party. I'm not eating rainbow sprinkles."
Sam looks down at the jar in his hand. The sprinkles are neon-colored, blue and pink and yellow, stamped into the shape of tiny stars. "This is all they had at the store," he says, which is a total lie, overriding Dean's protests and shaking a healthy scattering of sprinkles over each bowl. "Stop complaining. You'll eat what I put in your mouth and you'll like it."
It's out before he realizes how it sounds, and all he can do is pick up a spoon and dig into his sundae, ignoring Dean's arched brows and pointed smirk, his teasing murmur of, "Love it when you get bossy, Sammy." Sam's never been good at this kind of joking, always hot-faced and tongue-tied, and it's only gotten worse since it stopped being strictly a joke; since that night a few weeks ago when they stumbled back exhausted and bleeding after a hunt, and Sam pressed Dean into the door and kissed him, deep and messy, until Dean pushed him away.
Since then there've been half a dozen desperate, stolen kisses, late at night after hunts when the light's low and adrenaline's high. Sam's learned the shape of Dean's mouth, the hitched sounds he makes when Sam bites his lip, the sweet, aborted thrust of his hips. Just once he's gotten his hand on Dean, both of them so sloppy drunk Sam was distantly surprised he could get it up. Purely amazed when the slick pulse of Dean spilling over his knuckles had him humping the bed and coming in his jeans like a horny kid.
They haven't talked about it, and they don't talk now, spooning sticky mouthfuls of ice cream from their bowls in silence. They're good at not talking, Sam thinks; trained in it as surely as knot-tying or marksmanship or Latin, trained to follow orders and not ask questions. To not ask for anything at all.
Sam gathers up the empty bowls and cartons, stuffing them into the trash and jamming the melted remains of the ice cream into the hotel fridge's tiny freezer. He's not surprised when Dean steps up behind him, because he always knows where Dean is, tracking the soft rustle of his movement, the angle of his gaze. He's not even surprised when Dean's hand finds his hip and Dean's mouth touches the back of his neck, hot and soft; just breathes out a sigh of relief and turns on his brother, kissing him hard and wet and deep.
Dean lets him take control of the kiss; lets Sam push him back toward the bed, tangle him up and press him down. He lets Sam plunder his mouth, greedy and desperate, licking traces of chocolate away until all he can taste is Dean, warm and twice as sweet. It makes him a little crazy, the way Dean just opens up to him, doesn't fight him or try to take over, but another part of him loves Dean for letting him have this.
Sam gets himself down to boxers and Dean down to skin, and he wants to stare, wants to drink in the sight of Dean naked and panting, but he can't stop touching him for that long. He runs his hands from Dean's throat all the way down to his hips and then traces the path over again with his mouth. By the time Sam's licking his thighs apart Dean's hard and wet at the tip, flushed and gorgeous and fucking alive.
"I know what you're doing," Dean whispers, threading a hand through Sam's hair. Sam glances up through his lashes, mouth hovering, and meets Dean's gaze.
"Then let me do it," he says, and Sam swallows his brother down.
Sam keeps his eyes open when Dean comes, hot and salty across his tongue, his own fucked up Communion. For Dean so loved his brother that he died for his sins; but Sam loves him enough to forgive him. Sam could forgive Dean anything. Even making Sam live without him.
Outside the wind howls, and it's only his imagination that makes it sound like the baying of hounds. Inside, Sam kisses Dean, and finds new ways to say goodbye.
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no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 11:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 11:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 12:54 pm (UTC)Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 01:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 01:14 pm (UTC)But also that lingering desperation and angst, from the "restrained violence in the sharp twist of his wrist" to those killer last lines, that make this story about something so much deeper. Great title, too. Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:17 pm (UTC)so, once i finish that story i'll post it and you'll have two for the price of one :p
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Date: 2011-06-02 01:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 02:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 02:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 02:34 pm (UTC)He's not surprised when Dean steps up behind him, because he always knows where Dean is, tracking the soft rustle of his movement, the angle of his gaze.
- I love this detail.
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Date: 2011-06-02 05:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 08:53 pm (UTC)That made my girly heart go all gooey. Totally teared up at the end. What a lovely story.
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Date: 2011-06-02 10:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 11:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-03 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-03 12:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-03 11:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-03 02:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-05 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 09:42 am (UTC)I love the combination of hot and hurt.
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Date: 2011-07-08 10:21 pm (UTC)sorry for the delayed notification!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 12:46 am (UTC)