mickeym

I dunno, the whole template thingy makes my head hurt. So, here's the short form:

[ Aftermath ]
Sam/Dean (so, y'know, Wincest)
R/NC17ish
Vague spoilers, maybe, for tonight's ep.

Thanks to

darkseaglass for encouragement and on-the-spot checking over for glaring errors :) *smooch*

They drive until the lights in the rearview aren't Chicago, aren't anything. Until there aren't any lights at all, and then there are, and still neither one's said a word. Sam doesn't know what he could say and Dean's never been one to talk just for the sake of filling empty silence.

There's a gas station, some little place in the middle of nowhere, where they stop to clean off the worst of the blood. Even after a quick rinse, Dean still has to go to the office of the first ratty motel they come to, because Sam's face--the claw marks go too deep right now. He thinks he'll stay inside for a few days.

Hot water is the greatest thing ever, and the shower is big enough for both of them to squeeze into it; essential right now because neither can let the other out of his sight for more than a minute, tops. The ten minutes Dean's in the office is absolute torture and Sam ignores the whole personal space thing while they unload their stuff into the motel room.

They're in the shower, clinging to each other and pretending they're not, and still no one's saying anything. Sam hates that Dean's right, it's too dangerous for Dad to be with them and it still hurts -- worse than the claw marks and scrapes and cuts all over his body. The water's cool and the area around the drain is light pink before they stop washing each other, before Dean takes one step forward and Sam meets him and the kiss is hard, brutal, perfect. They're both shaking against the other, and Sam still tastes blood where his lip split, where Dean's head is still oozing.

Patching each other up takes the last of their energy, or maybe they're in the negative now because Sam thinks he ran out of energy before Chicago was dark behind them. Still silent, though Dean keeps looking at him, they collapse onto the closest bed, arms wrapping around each other. Sam holds Dean close, and they're just breathing in the scent of each other. Dean's skin still tastes a little bit like blood and sweat -- Sam's sure his does, too -- and they're both exhausted and sore and scared out of their ever-lovin' minds, but they have each other, they're not alone. Dean kisses Sam first, licks at his mouth to taste the blood, pressing him down into the mattress, and Sam moans and opens up for Dean because nothing is ever as good as this, as them coming together. Nothing.

It hurts everywhere, everything hurts, and Dad's gone again and how--they're not talking, just touching, and Sam couldn't say no now if his life depended on it. Doesn't want to say no. Instead he cups Dean's head, urges him silently downward. Dean acts like he has to lick each scrape, each cut. Touch the bruises already coming up on Sam's body. It hurts so bad, each touch, and Sam's never needed anything as much as he needs this. It terrifies him, how much he wants it. And as much as Sam wants them all together, wants Dad back, wants his own life separate from all this, there's this part of him--this part he loathes--that knows that in some dark corner of his heart he wants this, wants Dean all to himself. And if Dad was here, it would have to stop.

Every single spot Dean kisses burns Sam's skin, but it's a healing burn. Like he's purifying the wounds. Sam grips Dean's shoulders, probably harder than he should because Dean's skin is also starting to show the first signs of bruising, but he can't help it. It's hurts and it's so fucking good Sam doesn't want it to ever stop. He thinks he whispers that, because Dean pulls back just a little, mouth hovering over Sam's, eyes cloudy with pain and need, and says, "I'm not stopping. Can't--stop."

Sam shudders at the words, arches up against Dean and growls, "Good." He wants Dean to need like he needs--though he tries to hide it. He won't ever get away, because Dean won't let go, and Sam counts on that.

"Wanted to kill that bitch, climbing you like a fucking tree--" Dean bites down, pressing his teeth into bruised, tender skin, and Sam bucks up against him, so hard, so ready.

"You can climb me," Sam pants out, sweeping his hands down Dean's back then raking upward, nails not long or sharp, but enough of both to make Dean shiver from head to toe.

"Plan to, Sammy--fuck!" Dean's words trail off into something between a grunt and a wail when Sam finds -- unintentionally -- a tender spot. Between them, against his belly, Sam feels Dean's dick throb. He presses again on that spot, walking his fingers up and down and over it until Dean is thrusting against him, breath hot against Sam's neck where he's panting raggedly.

Everything swirls together, then, the pain and pleasure running redhot and black, melding into one another. They roll on the bed until Sam can pin Dean beneath him, both of them grunting and snarling, the smell of sex and sweat and need hanging in the air over them, coating them. Sam goes first, sliding down into nothing but liquid heat, Dean's teeth and fingers lethal even while he's wriggling beneath Sam. It's a signal, apparently, because as soon as Sam comes, Dean thrusts up hard and fast, holding Sam close, too close, too tight, heat spreading between them, wet and sticky.

When they kiss afterward, bodies lax against each other, Sam tastes blood but doesn't know whose--

--and likes it that way. If he can't tell them apart, then they're close enough. Finally.

~fin~