mickeym

Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Rish
Warnings: Nope, unless you haven't figured out Sam/Dean is incest
Spoilers: Nothing specific, other than a nod toward the pilot
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em; life wouldn't be that kind. *g*
Notes: So, I wrote rather than sleeping last night. Or part of the night. Whatever. Lots of thanks to

without_me for the quick and dirty beta. She'll probably never stay up past her bedtime again, on the off-chance I pop on at 2a Eastern time and say 'do you have a minute?' :) Hope you enjoy the story.

Jess tasted sweet, like honey. Her kisses were gentle and loving, something special shared between them. They always felt like a gift.

Dean's mouth is hotter, like he's burning from the inside out. He tastes like salt and lime, or the bitterness of whiskey. He's seldom gentle, though Sam doesn't doubt the loving part. His kisses don't feel like a gift as much as a need that runs soul-deep.

Jess was friend, lover, someone Sam could talk to and laugh with. Someone who grounded him and kept him safe.

Dean is his brother, but also lover, and sometimes friend. Sam can't talk to him as easily and can't remember if it was always that way or if it's just the layers and years of tension, anger, and betrayal that lie between them now.

Dean would die for Sam.

Jessica died because of him.

Sometimes, like now, late at night when nightmares have left him wide-awake, unable to sleep, Sam will watch Dean sleeping. He sleeps like a child, open and innocent, body relaxed and trusting. Sam knows Dean really isn't trusting; the knife beneath his pillow is proof of that. But he stretches out, invitation written in every line of his body. Sam accepts that invitation often, with eyes, hands, mouth. It doesn't stop the nightmares, but it does make them more bearable.

Almost as if he hears Sam's thoughts, Dean shifts, moving toward Sam. He curls so one arm rests heavy across Sam's side, hand warm where it splays open on Sam's back. His breath is warm against Sam's mouth when he whispers, the words dragged rough and sleep-heavy from his throat.

"Nightmare 'gain?"

"Yeah." Sam wishes he could lie about them, because even in the dark he can see worry spread across Dean's face, feels tension tighten his body. He wants to say something comforting, and isn't it funny that he's the one who dreams death night after night, and he wants to comfort? "I'm okay," he adds softly, not lying about that. Mostly.

Dean's fingers are pinpoints of heat against his back, moving slowly up and down, pressing into the groove of Sam's spine. It feels good, soothing, and he makes a noise low in his throat that he couldn't give words to if his life depended on it.

Warm breath against his mouth becomes wet heat, Dean's mouth teasing at his, tasting him. Soft. Gentle. So unlike their usual kisses it takes Sam's breath away, makes his stomach clench hard and tight; not arousal, but something…something nameless, formless, but so necessary he can't believe he didn't notice before how much he missed it.

He turns toward Dean, mouth opening for him, that noise swallowed down into their kiss. Need buzzes along Sam's skin like electricity and he shivers against Dean, pressing closer, wishing he could get under Dean's skin and inside him.

"Shh," he hears, the sound muted where Dean whispers it against his lips. "Easy, Sam. It's okay."

Sam wants to cry out it's not, nothing's okay, everything feels so strange, so different. In one instant things changed, and he's not even sure what, or how.

Maybe he's still dreaming? Another nightmare he hasn't woken from yet?

"Sammy. Shh." Big hands, stroking over his burning skin, so strong, but being so gentle right now. Gentle but insistent, tangling into his hair. Sam stills against Dean, shuddering when the kisses deepen, an edge of violence sliding through them, just out of reach.

The nameless formless something blossoms into arousal, the need buzzing through him changing to something familiar, something he knows. Sam pushes against Dean, presses him onto his back before sliding over him, knee settling between Dean's thighs. This time it's Dean opening for Sam's kiss, a low keening noise rising from his throat. It changes to a grunt when Sam bites at Dean's mouth, licking at the split there from a fight earlier in the week. The soft flesh yields and Sam tastes blood on the next kiss, coppery, a little salty, so perfect.

Dean's shorts were kicked off hours ago, and Sam never put any on after his shower, so it's only a matter of shifting, feeling Dean stretch, reach out for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand.

"Probably don't need it," Dean mutters, fumbling in the dark. Sam laughs breathlessly.

"Only if you don't want to sit down in the morning." The lotion is cool against his fingers, but Dean isn't; he's fiery hot inside, so hot Sam wonders how it is they don't burst into flames when they're fucking.

Making love, whispers inside his head, and yeah, okay, that's probably what it is. Love doesn't have to be slow and gentle. It just has to be.

Dean groans when Sam breaches him, tightening before he relaxes, body opening and accepting. He's not under Dean's skin, but he is inside him, and it feels like coming home.

"It's good," he mumbles, moving slowly. He'll speed up in a minute; he'll have to, or die from wanting, but right now, he can go slow. Wants to feel every stroke in and out, the way Dean's body grips, trying to keep him in. Keep him from leaving.

"'S always good." Dean pushes up, against, hooking one arm around the back of Sam's neck to drag him down. It's awkward, kissing in this position, and the kiss is sloppy, more teeth than anything, but it makes Sam's blood flow even hotter, until that moment is now, and slow is going to be left behind because he has to move.

Everything swirls together, movement and sound and taste and touch. Sweat stings Sam's eyes, and in the pre-dawn light filtering in around the blinds he can see Dean's skin glistening with it. Sam lowers his head, mouthing up the arch of Dean's throat. He tastes like salt, tastes earthy and clean and this is exactly where Sam is supposed to be, right here, drinking in the taste of love and loss, of tears and blood, the things he's left behind and what his future is.

Dean's orgasm leaves Sam gasping, swearing against Dean's throat at pleasure so sharp, so brilliant, it's more like pain. He drives in hard, fast, listening to Dean growl and moan, and each stroke rips through him until Sam isn't sure if he's feeling Dean's orgasm or his own.

Afterward, though how long Sam can't say, just later, he kisses Dean gently, licking at the split-again lip apologetically. Each kiss takes him lower and Dean weaves his fingers through Sam's hair, holding tight when Sam licks him clean, the taste salty and bitter and perfect.

"Sleep some more?" Dean asks when Sam slides back up. Sam presses a kiss to Dean's mouth; even in the weak light he can see how red Dean's lips are now, swollen from biting and kisses.

"Mmm, yeah." Tempting as it is to get up -- unlike Dean, Sam's a morning person, loves the early part of the day -- he is tired again, worn out from the past and the present, from the back-and-forth his brain keeps throwing at him.

"No nightmares, Sammy." The last word is hardly more than puffs of air; Dean's already mostly asleep again, body lax and loose against Sam's.

"No nightmares," he echoes, thinking of Jess, and honey and sunlight, and salt and heat and love.

This time he'll sleep, and if he dreams, they'll be good ones.

~fin~