I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

  • Mood:

Fic: the curves of your lips rewrite history

the curves of your lips rewrite history
Author: Regala Electra
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Spoilers: S3, set after A Very Supernatural Christmas
Word Count: 1,178
Summary: It doesn’t take very long either, all that has to be done is kiss (and make up) to see the stars burst across the field of vision, the world blackening out with a sucking gasp, slip of tongue.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to ignited for a variety of reasons.
Feedback is appreciated.


What more is there to say?


And with that, he was felled. The only answer was to let go, relinquish such a vital part inside of him that he splinters. Here he is, left broken, merely waiting to be reformed, new pieces slotted in as though they had always been there before.

This is how the beginning feels, the dizzying sensation of falling, flip flopping in the stomach, the pulse beating too fast. Completely different sensation, being more than alive, and now, the pressure builds, overwhelming, pounding in his head and heart. Remembers something he shouldn't, resurrection, such a strange alchemist, the most natural high anyone’s ever going to get: death.

Stretches out the beginning because it's going to end the moment one of them makes the first move.


Fool’s gold, this, shines bright and pure and underneath black coal or hollow, or worse.


It doesn’t take very long either, all that has to be done is kiss (and make up) to see the stars burst across the field of vision, the world blackening out with a sucking gasp, slip of tongue.

Just a slip of the tongue, whatever else it may be, it’s nothing more than the flex of a muscle, wet and sucking.

God forbid he say anything to disturb the profane silence of this uneasy agreement, his body unsteady, swaying though seated. There is unspoken language despite this, said with a flourish, with a look: they will never talk about this.

All it takes is a swift nod and lurching back to those lips.

Why sully this violation with words when actions succeed in highlighting the bullet points (bullet wounds)?


And before, he dreams.

The skin starts going grey, in the dream, so he paints it black, then he remembers that he dreams in color, and the red comes, like it always does. Not prophecy, not a vision, just a dream, swept away in the undertow, sinking upon the stir of an awakening, some new tragedy to play out.


If he separates it, places it in little boxes, splits the movements off into their own neat actions, perhaps it doesn't mean anything at all, certainly it can be intimate. Wouldn't dare think of making this important.

Draw a line down his throat, just with a bandaged finger (trying not to think about the pain that will come, later, when the nail slowly grows back in).

Press against the pulse point and marvel at how steady the beat feels, second finger joining the exploration, how a swallow feels on the outside, impatient, as if time’s winding down, can be felt in the pulse, how little time matters right about now.

Best to have closer access, and it's training, simply that, seeking the best vantage point. Breathing in the too familiar scents that have soaked into skin, how the smell of home isn’t a real scent at all, it just is: too much travel and motor oil, hastily applied aftershave one side of the neck stronger smelling than the other, and overwhelming all else, the generic soap.

He has to stop himself from giving it (this) a name. By naming what lies tangled underneath gives it too much weight that neither of them can bear.

When the breath’s exhaled, rum and egg nog, rum more than anything, cheap rum at that, promise of a hangover tomorrow, it's almost a relief. A promise of an excuse.


Maybe it’ll be enough to birth the lie: what happened? Don’t remember.

Too much booze without a thought about quality, that’s never been their choice, after all, there's reason why people’ll pay for top shelf but not an option them.

Don’t wait for the world to swing into focus. It's an order, one he has to keep on repeating in his head, new mantra, don't start thinking. Stay close, more than a claustrophobic’s nightmare, too close, only the beginning’s unraveled—what's yours is mine—pulls down his zipper with the good hand, clumsily holding onto his jaw as his tongue slides, lazy, into the open-mouthed invitation.

This is what I wanted to tell you.

There’s no point in saying anything, not when a noise deep in the throat sneaks out, deep and fragile, new broken bit slipping away. The answer is just let go—let it all go.



Almost tears it all apart, pulling back, forced to look (think), forced to (keep your hands to yourself) stop. Lets a moment pass before drawing a ragged breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way. “Yeah?”

Desperation, nothing’s going to happen, shouldn’t have expected any less, but he’s proven wrong when Dean jumps across the temporarily broken boundary, fingers twisting into hair. Surprise clack of teeth, he’s lacking the precision and anticipated skill, as though there hasn’t been enough experience to last ten lifetimes, because there’s fear in this kiss.

This one counts.


His touch gets a little harder, fiercer, and he can’t remember the way skin tears or how blood flows in neat twisting ribbons (or is it rivers?) over pavement.

A dream, nothing more, a bad dream, and one he shoves away, ignoring pain when his index finger presses too hard against the curve of Dean's skull, wound too raw.


This is not pleasant, which does not make it unpleasant. They both are in need of showers and Dean’s cock is pressing against his cheek.

He is trying to lick along the shaft properly, make it feel good, figure out how this is done, the swallowing and suck. How stupid to realize that he’s never done this before and Dean might be expecting it to be perfect, any mistake and this’ll stop—“Ease up on the teeth”—and Dean’s stroking the back of his head, petting him, if he didn’t know Dean better, it would be almost grateful, and how strange, the tremor in Dean's voice.

“Yeah, yes, God yes.” A keening noise following after a deep grunt, Dean’s momentary religious conversion isn’t a surprise: Dean’s a believer in sex and all its healing powers.

There is no healing here.

One needy slow fuck on a couch (and floor) later doesn’t solve the building pressure between them.


He wakes with Dean kneeling beside Sam’s bed, mouth trailing over Sam’s exposed hip. Twist of his head to show he’s been waiting for Sam—that what it takes to wake you up?

No answer to that and Dean pushes, little twist, you’re hard. Want me to suck you off, Sammy?

Sam doesn’t want Dean to look at him like that. Wants to know when the excuses will begin and end this.

Dean’s pulling the sheet down and Sam can't want for more, thinking, maybe it'll be different, and this time they will build something substantial, nothing crass as an orgasm, spurting hot and leaving him emptied, that there’s a word, long untested on his lips, hope.

Ah, and this is the lie that stitches him up all over again, Dean’s mouth taking on the familiar smirk and Sam lurches back into obliteration.

Tags: fic, spn fic, wincest
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →