spn_gleeweek is currently celebrating with awesome vids. I can't believe
(Mentally I kind of speak like a Valley girl. It's tragic. Um, I mean, it's like totally tragic, ohmygod.)
ETA: I am a dumbass who can't count. THERE ARE THREE VIDS SET TO I ALONE. FUCK. Let's all have sex right now, SPN fandom. Oh wait. THIRTY MINUTES TO GO.
I had planned to incorporate some of the song in a story (at least inspiration-wise) but it never panned out although there was some...secret inspiration in the fic that I now post here for my own record.
As the wise, fucking fantastic (slightly scary? AHAHAHA only for her MIND POWERZ) balefully figured out my story was number twelve, the ridiculous hurt/comfort Wincest (without any of the comfort! Just sex. Sex sex sex.) fic Patina. Wherein I write Sam POV and um, whatever, everyone's probably gleeing over Supernatural's new episode so I post this for posterity's sake only.
Author: Regala Electra
Word Count: 1,719
Warnings: Sexual Content, Violence, Language
Spoilers: Set after S3 Jus in Bello
Summary: They do this, there’s no going back.
Author’s Notes: Written for spn_gleeweek. Wherein I am sneaky in exactly no way except that I used a one-word title that I dared to capitalize.
“Arm’s stiff,” Dean says and if there’s anything preceding that announcement it’s lost to the static rumble of the R&B station. There's no significant reason that they're listening to the blues; there's nothing better on the radio and sometimes even Dean tires of his tapes, though he'd never admit to it.
The car’s fuel gauge is a sliver away from “E” and Sam’s never had to point it out—but here they are, speeding past a mom-and-pop gas station—and he says, "You gonna drive on fumes the rest of the day?"
Sam doesn’t say “let me drive” because he knows better. His mouth’s dry and when he opens his lips—not to speak—he can feel the split cracking open and he does nothing to stop it. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his lip and makes it a little worse.
Over the faded odors of musk and sweat in the car, the sharp smell of blood itches deep in his nose. He doesn’t scratch.
They hadn’t spoken at all after Ruby left the motel room. The failure weighed them down and Sam struck first, pushed Dean on his back and didn’t care that Dean almost kneed him in the groin. He’d been quick enough to get on his knees in front of Dean and stripped off the belt, dragged his face against Dean’s crotch, jeans worn and soft against his cheek.
The zipper caught Sam’s bottom lip but he didn’t stop, just spat out the blood and wiped it away. He’d sucked Dean then without pausing went for it and got Dean begging him to not stop, not ever.
The sharp bitter of precome mingled with blood and he needed it, ached for it.
He had to hold Dean’s hips down to keep Dean from bucking forward.
The second time Sam opens the wound, Dean doesn't ignore it.
“You’re bleeding.” Flat words that aren’t meant to be considered as anything other than a summary report of their current physical condition.
They were taught to do this: inventory their wounds and track the worse of them, make repairs as necessary and if time allows. Stitch themselves back together and don’t ever complain about it. These things will heal and they’re going to get hurt another day so no need to live in the present. Prepare for the battle ahead.
The specter of his father in his mind, always, and it's become one of the more comforting thoughts he indulges.
There’s a scar on his side from a stitch-job that Sam had to do alone. It’s not there and it never will be but Sam feels it every now and again, this tight itch of skin mending back together. When he brushes his side the ghost sensation doesn’t fade away.
It’s a confirmation that he hasn’t experienced it yet.
The split lip is slow to close the second time around.
Dean’s already downed the last dregs of coffee in the thermos and there’s no other option available. All Sam wants is clear, cold water, straight out of a plastic bottle lying about how it's pure spring water, but anything’lll do at this point.
“Rest stop in thirty. Gotta take a leak.”
“Thanks for the update.”
Dean only cants his head a little, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye. There are vivid purple shadows under Dean’s eyes. If Sam bothers to catch a glimpse of his fleeting reflection in the windows (or worse, the rearview mirror), he’s probably just as bad, even without suffering the sharp hot burn of a gunshot wound.
Dean had said “let me drive” and “fuck you, I had worse. That bitch Meg got me worse.”
Sam remembered pulling the trigger. Not just then but back at Rockford and he remembered the shot that killed Dean on a Wednesday which doesn’t exist. He didn’t pull the trigger then but it felt all the same.
He let Dean drive.
The blood dries to a crust that Sam rubs off as the flakes stick to his fingers. He doesn't brush them away.
Dean’s foot is easing off the gas pedal, hand steady on the wheel as he smoothly turns despite the nasty curve and dip of road, a slight nod in the direction of the state trooper. Sam knows he’s there; they’ve passed this way too many times.
He pulls over and says, “What’s eating at you?”
Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response.
They collide instead of kiss and when Sam’s mouth opens, he bleeds, not breathes, into Dean's and not even this is a good distraction. Still, he forgets enough to clutch Dean’s bicep and the scream gets swallowed away.
Dean doesn't stop and Sam doesn't stop to check for new injuries.
Sam finds the ache of the mind more unbearable than the scores of physical damage he’s racked up over the years.
Because there's a constant annoyance battering his thoughts, there’s something on the way, and Sam will not be able to stop it.
He has to focus on Dean—at the cost of hunting?—comes the question and Sam’s spent too much time believing one fight will naturally transition to the other, that somehow by hunting the demons and working cases, they’ll stumble across an answer to saving Dean. He assigns himself the ultimatum he knows he’ll have to face when everything’s said and done. His brother or the world. Only he doesn’t have an answer yet.
Dean. Or everything Dean believes is worth dying for.
Dean. At the end, it will be Dean.
There’s no acknowledgement of what happens. The back-and-forth of insults shifting from sniping and turns to contact. No punches pulled and nothing left inside either of them to consider any restraint.
They do this, there’s no going back.
When this happens, because it always does and not even Sam has the wherewithal to obsess over the significance, there’s less time left, soon months will be weeks less and then, days.
He tallies up the damage and figures there’ll be worse come tomorrow. It’s no more damaging that a bruise.
Dean never kisses his mouth first. Not even the corner of his mouth, a pretense of a missed attempt.
He’ll start at the jaw or the slant of Sam’s cheek.
When he’s annoyed, he licks Sam’s cheek. It’s sloppy and wet until his lips touch down and follow the preliminary path made by his tongue. So strangely gentle and hesitant that Sam has no idea how to react other than to hold on tighter and force Dean to meet his mouth.
Their lips to smash against each other’s and it’s not so gentle after that.
Dean’s arm is still healing; Sam has to jerk himself off, gripping the base as Dean sucks him off. He’s making greedy noises and spit slides down Sam’s dick, a purposefully lack of finesse but Sam really can’t bring himself to care. It’s messy and he’s seconds from losing himself.
He has no complaints.
Sam runs his thumb under his dick and touches Dean’s fat bottom lip, curled over teeth. When Sam pushes Dean off, Dean’s ahead of the game, squeezes his eyes shut when Sam comes over Dean’s face.
“Goddammit. I fuckin’ hate that, Sam.”
Dean’s hard, boxers shoved down just enough over his hips to let his erection out, begging for attention.
Sam grabs lower, pushes down Dean’s boxers a little more, gets Dean’s balls free. “You hate it enough to stop?”
A dangerous question and after Dean clumsily wipes at his face and dares open his eyes, it’s clear he got the double meaning.
“We always finish what we start.”
Dean doesn’t ever fuck Sam face-to-face and he refuses to let Sam fuck him from behind.
It’s a double standard that Sam would complain about if they actually spoke about this. But he wants it like this.
Dean’s hands rough on his hips, always setting the pace and then Dean’ll lean over him, one hand on Sam’s dick and the other hand over Sam’s chest, fingers splayed over Sam’s tattoo. Almost close enough over his heart.
“I got you Sammy” or “come for me” and never “let go” is spoken, right against the shell of his ear. “Wanna see you come,” and that’s the last thing Dean says and it’s always Sam’s undoing.
He comes every time to the slight catch in wanna like Dean’s really saying I gotta, I need to, please Sam please I want you.
The rest stop is a nightmare, the bathroom disgusting, but there’s a water fountain with almost-clear water and Sam takes what he can get, filling the thermos with the cool water.
“We need to find a place to crash once we’re in the city limits,” Sam says to Dean as Dean waits for him, leaning against the Impala.
“Sleep in the car. Curl up in the backseat. I’ll get your blankie out of the truck.”
Sam only has to soften his voice a little, it’s enough of a change, saying, “We need a motel room, Dean.”
Dean nearly swallows audibly.
Sam has Dean’s legs over his shoulders and it’s the first push, has to take it slow because Dean’s watching it as it happens, head bent at an awkward angle to see Sam push inside.
Dean peppers encouragements with threats. “I ain’t driving another three hundred miles straight with a sore ass. You slow the fuck down.”
He never lets Sam talk. He pulls Sam down for a long tongue-fucking as Sam fucks into Dean.
Sam likes it best when Dean’s still hard and Sam can fist Dean’s cock until Dean shoots all over Sam’s chest if he’s worked up enough. This time, he only spurts over his stomach but that doesn’t stop Sam from driving into him hard, coming as Dean bites down on his lip.
The blood is worth it.
In the morning, they rub their cocks against each other and let the sticky mess between them grow cold before they clean up.
Sam winces when he brushes his teeth, his mouth tender, and Dean grimaces, looking ridiculous with his face half-covered in shaving cream.
“You gotta let that heal.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam lies and they don’t speak for the rest of the morning.