mickeym | [ New Fic: And If My Heart Be Scarred and Burned ]

Title: And If My Heart Be Scarred and Burned
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Hmm. This is a coda for 3x08, but nothing for that ep is really referenced.
Warnings: Note the pairing.
Disclaimers: I own nothing, which makes me sad. The boys would probably have more fun, too, if I did.
A/N: Coda for 3x08. Angsty pwp-ish thing, because the end of that ep was just crying out for something more. Written with

killabeez in mind. :) Hope y'all enjoy.

by MickeyM
© December 16, 2007

There's at least a couple inches of snow out there now, and the game is long over. Dean's not even sure when it ended, or who won. Hell, he's not sure who was playing.

What he does know is there's only a finger or two of rum left in the bottle and they cracked open the twelve-pack of MGD way before the infomercials started. He's got a buzz on like he hasn't had in a while, making all the stupid little sparkly lights on the tree shift and waver all over the place, reflecting in his stupid little brother's hair and eyes, making them shine and glimmer.

"'M really drunk," Sam slurs, tilting toward Dean. His lips look like they've been painted with cherry lip gloss, slick from the nog and beer; red where Sam's been biting them. Dean licks his and watches Sam mimic it.

"Uh-huh. Me, too." He's beyond drunk, moving toward wasted. Has to be, if he's staring at Sam's mouth and wondering if it would taste like rum or eggnog, or something else entirely. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "'M fucked up, Sammy."

"Yeeeeeah." Sam draws the word out and licks his lips again; fixes a stare on Dean. "Y'are. You're fucked up and you fucked up."

Even allowing for being fucked up, that doesn't make sense. "Huh?"

"You fucked up, man, an' you're gonna die, an' I'm gonna be all alone, just a couple of stupid skin mags to keep me comp'ny." Sam shudders, breath hitching on what sounds like a sob. "You brought me back, but then you're gonna be dead, Dean, an' I dunno if I can…you don' want me to save you…an' I don't wanna live without you."

Sam whispers the last words, voice raspy with the tears shimmering in his eyes, and it's like a sucker punch to Dean's gut. He slides over beside Sam, heat growing inside him that has everything and nothing to do with the alcohol bubbling through his veins.

"Sammy--"

"You can't leave me, man. I can't let you go, Dean. It's always been you an' me, an' we're finally…we…I--you're all I got left."

It is a sob, or as close as Sam's likely to get to one; he's cried almost silently since he was old enough not to want to draw any attention to himself.

"I didn't--" Dean breaks off, because what's he going to say? I didn't think it'd hurt this much to leave you? No. He's known since the minute he kissed that red-eyed bitch that it was going to hurt like hell to leave Sam behind, but he was okay with it, because Sam would be here. Alive, and healthy, and happy--

Dean cups Sam's face in his hands; stares into hazel-brown eyes sparkling with the tree lights and shining with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so--. I just couldn't--you couldn't be gone, I couldn't--" He swallows around the rest of the words trying to get out. "I'm sorry. I needed--I need--"

One tear slides down Sam's face, and then another, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world for Dean to lean in and catch them on his tongue; to take his brother's pain and love inside himself and make them a part of him. A tiny part of Sam to keep with him forever, because Dean just knows this salty bit will stay with him always, whether he's in hell or not.

Sam makes a quiet noise, hands coming up to clutch at Dean's shoulders. His breath is warm against Dean's cheek, and warmer still when Dean turns his head and Sam breathes against Dean's lips. He makes that noise again, low and inquisitive, and Dean leans in to brush a gentle kiss across Sam's mouth while his heart hammers against his chest and his pulse thunders in his ears.

He hovers there, mouth just touching Sam's, breathing in the scent of rum and eggnog mixed with soap and shampoo, unsure if this is a line he can cross. If it's a line Sam wants him -- them -- to cross.

"Dean?" Sam sounds breathless, voice low and raw, and it echoes through Dean; touches all the empty spots inside him and warms the chill he's felt for months now. "Dean."

It sounds like agreement, like encouragement. He sees it in Sam's eyes, still sparkling with Christmas lights, but lit up with something else, too.

"Sam," is what Dean starts to say, but the words are lost in the kiss; in the way Sam's mouth gives under Dean's, opening for Dean to lick inside.

They bump noses, then teeth, and the angle is awkward and wrong, but Dean can't stop; can't pull away. Sam tastes sweet and a little bitter, the bite of rum still lingering on his tongue. He's aggressive, too, sliding his tongue over Dean's, chasing the flavor in Dean's mouth and sucking on Dean's tongue. Dean slides his fingers through too-long hair, inhaling sharply through his nose when Sam pulls away enough to bite at his mouth, teeth dragging over Dean's lower lip before licking at it, then diving back in to start all over again.

The kisses are sloppy-wet and slick, tinged with desperation. Dean feels it inside himself, rising with each nip of Sam's teeth, each pass of his tongue over Dean's gums and teeth. He feels it from Sam, too, in the way he moans low in his throat, the sound ragged and rough like it's being pulled up out of him.

His hands shake when he lets go of Sam's hair to run his palms down Sam's chest, fingers pulling clumsily at the buttons. Sam's working on Dean's belt buckle, nails scratching at Dean's belly. One nail is ragged; it stings when Sam catches the thin, sensitive skin of Dean's navel.

Dean shivers; the shiver turns into a full-body shudder when Sam dips his fingers lower, heel of his hand rubbing hard against the front of Dean's jeans. He's not completely hard -- yet -- but he's sure getting there, fast. Sam touching him, kissing him, shouldn't feel so good but Christ, it does. "Are you--"

"Yeah," Sam mutters, like he knows what Dean's asking. He drags Dean's hand down his chest and presses it against him. Sam's hard, so hard, cock throbbing behind his jeans. He moans when Dean squeezes and jerks his fingers, trying to jack Sam through his jeans. "Dean. Dean."

"Not enough," Dean says, fumbling with Sam's belt and then with the zipper. "Need to touch you, Sammy."

"God, yeah." Sam kisses him again, biting and licking like he's trying to consume Dean -- and Dean's so okay with that.

The little couch isn't big enough for one of them to stretch out, much less for the two of them, grappling and grasping at each other like they're going to die if they don't get to touch all of each other right the fuck now.

Dean kind of feels like he might. He needs to touch Sam, to taste him, to ground himself with the feel of Sam -- big and warm and all around him.

They end up on the floor, panting and groaning as they rock against each other. Sam's hands are huge and hot, stroking up under Dean's shirt to rub over his back, his chest, fingers plucking sharply at Dean's nipples until they're stinging and hot, and all Dean can think of how good Sam's mouth would feel on them.

Sam's neck calls out to him and Dean leans in to bite it, then suck a bruise onto it; he feels Sam's growl vibrate through skin, through his lips; it resonates inside him, the sound expanding, echoing, until all Dean knows is the shiver of want moving through him. Sam makes a frustrated noise and then those huge hands are shoving at Dean's jeans until they're bunched around his thighs and Sam's got Dean's cock in his hand, stroking and pulling on it, thumb rubbing just so over the bundle of nerves, at the circumcision scar, and Dean's coming, pleasure pulsing out of him hot and thick as he coats Sam's fingers.

Sam pushes Dean over onto his back and grinds against him, panting hotly against his neck, the words muffled and rough, sounding a lot like, "love you so much" and "won't let you go, not without a fight", and all Dean can do is hang on while Sam shoots all over him, belly and thighs streaked with Sam's pleasure.

They lay there for endless minutes, breathing ragged in the stillness around them. "'M cold," is the first thing Sam says, hand coming down to rest on the sticky mess of Dean's stomach. He's tracing random designs through the slick, making Dean burn with wanting to do it all again.

"Bed," Dean answers, rolling himself up to his feet and offering a hand down. Sam groans and pushes up, then stumbles to the nearest bed, pulling Dean back down with him. They're both sticky and messy, drying come tacky on their skins on their clothes, and Dean can feel his hangover already throbbing at the edges of his awareness, but he doesn't care. He settles on his side, Sam moving onto his, to face him.

Sam's eyes are heavy-lidded, his long body lax with exhaustion and pleasure. Dean looks at him, the way Sam's lips are red and swollen from bites and kisses, and thinks, I did that. I made him look like that.

If he knew he was going live another thousand years, it wouldn't be long enough. No amount of time will be long enough.

"Talk…'n the morning," Sam says, the words heavy with sleep and laced with alcohol and sex. His eyes are already mostly closed, though Dean still sees flashes of colored light twinkling. "Dean. Yeah?"

Dean touches Sam's face, rubs his thumb over Sam's lower lip, breath catching when Sam kisses the tip. "Yeah, Sammy. We'll talk in the morning."

He falls asleep watching Sam sleep, thinking about colored lights and salvation, and wondering how he could've promised his soul to the demon without realizing it -- and his heart -- already belonged to someone else.

~fin~

*Title is from Dorothy Parker's Incurable:

And if my heart be scarred and burned, The safer, I, for all I learned; The calmer, I, to see it true That ways of love are never new- The love that sets you daft and dazed Is every love that ever blazed; The happier, I, to fathom this: A kiss is every other kiss.