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the first of the Sam birthday ficlets :)
Sam birthday ficlets
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destina, who wanted
They don't talk about it, because that's not who they are. There's no 'we need to talk about our feelings' or 'where is this going' or anything else like that. Even Sam, big girl that he is, doesn't seem to have any desire to beat this thing into the ground. It is what it is, they both know how they feel, and that's that.
But sometimes, just once in a while, things slip through. Usually on nights like this one, when they're not quite sloppy drunk, but the tequila is almost gone and the scent of lime hangs tangy and heavy in the air.
It's a warm night, southeastern Arizona in the late spring, and the hood of the Impala is solid and comforting beneath Dean's back. Sam's curled up against Dean, head resting on Dean's chest right over his heart. He does that a lot these days: rests where he can hear the heartbeat and reassure himself (or so Dean assumes; he's not about to ask) that yeah, Dean's really alive.
"You're hogging the bottle again," Sam slurs, and he doesn't sound as drunk as he sounds sleepy, but Dean can't not tease. Just a little.
"Mmm. You don't need any more. Friggin' lightweight." Dean tips the bottle up and takes a slug, then pulls Sam up to kiss him. They share the liquor within the kiss, Dean's hand curling around Sam's neck, thumb resting so he can feel when Sam swallows.
Sam chases the taste of tequila through Dean's mouth, lapping at his lips, his tongue, sucking any last flavor away.
Dean takes another shot, holding it in his mouth until Sam licks inward, drinking the tequila from him.
Again and again, until the bottle's completely empty. Then Sam takes the last lime and bites into it, spraying tangy juice across both of them. He shares it with Dean, citrus kisses and the heat of his mouth making Dean think of sunshine.
Even the sunshine isn't as warm or bright as Dean feels, laying on his car, his brother in his arms.
rivers_bend asked for
"Dude, this is awesome!" It's awesome at its tackiest best. Dean really loves it a lot. Sam, not so much, judging from his sigh.
"It's a lava lamp, Dean."
"Well, yeah." The "dumbass" is unspoken, but Dean knows Sam hears it just the same when his eyes narrow.
"You're excited about a lava lamp."
"Sam, this is classic seventies chic. It's awesome." Dean drops his duffle onto the bed they're not going to use -- not that they ever actually say or acknowledge beforehand that they're not going to use it -- and bounces down onto the other bed. "Turn it on. They're cool to watch."
And speaking of classics and awesome, there's the bitchface, come out to play. Dean grins, because there is nothing in the world more fun than getting Sam riled up. Well, unless sex or pie is involved somehow.
"Turn it on? Or turn you on?" Sam hits the light switch, throwing the room into it's-almost-nighttime dark, then clicks the lava lamp on. "Or are they one in the same?"
He pounces before Dean has a chance for a come-back, body big and heavy, pining Dean to the bed. This is something Dean will never, ever get tired of: Sam's weight and heat, the solid comfort of his body against Dean's.
"Maybe," is all Dean manages, growling the word when Sam rubs his face against Dean's, stubble catching and dragging. Sam brushes his mouth over Dean's then, liquid heat of his tongue gliding, stroking, probing. Dean opens willingly, reaching up to hold onto Sam, needing something to ground him.
"I kind of like the way you look in the light," Sam says, lips and teeth dragging over skin suddenly hypersensitive.
"You're just sayin' that so I'll put out." Dean shivers when large hands stroke down over his chest, his stomach, one coming to rest on his hip and the other between his legs, cupping his dick.
"Nah." Sam squeezes and Dean groans, the sensation like liquid heat flowing through him. Beneath Sam's hand, against the rough fabric of his jeans, he's thickening. Hardening. "I know you'll put out anyway." Sam rubs, cupping and stroking Dean through the denim. "Love how you feel like this," he mutters, ghosting the words against Dean's throat. "Hard for me. Getting so hard--love to touch you, Dean. Wanna touch you, taste you--"
He sucks a bruise into Dean's throat, biting down into the skin and pulling the heat up to the surface. Dean grunts against the sting, breath leaving his body in a groaning shudder when Sam laves it with his tongue. Sam's hard against him, dick pressed into Dean's thigh as they grind and rub together.
The lava lamp is making crazy designs on the walls and ceiling, spinning and circling and pulsating in time to the pounding heat moving through Dean's body.
He has time to gasp "Sam!", and Sam's jerking him hard through his jeans -- not even open, just jerking him through his fucking pants -- and Dean stiffens, pleasure pulsing hot and electric through him as he comes all over himself.
Sam groans and jerks against Dean, hips pumping forward hard and fast, and Dean feels the heat spreading between them as Sam comes.
Dean kisses Sam as he comes down, inhaling the rich scent of sex, spunk and sweat.
"I take it back," Sam breathes, shifting off Dean and onto his back beside him. "Lava lamps are totally cool."
Dean would give him a 'told you so', except for how he's too boneless and sated to care. He falls asleep, sticky and sweaty, watching the lava lamp spin designs around the room.
For
destina, who wanted They don't talk about it, because that's not who they are. There's no 'we need to talk about our feelings' or 'where is this going' or anything else like that. Even Sam, big girl that he is, doesn't seem to have any desire to beat this thing into the ground. It is what it is, they both know how they feel, and that's that.
But sometimes, just once in a while, things slip through. Usually on nights like this one, when they're not quite sloppy drunk, but the tequila is almost gone and the scent of lime hangs tangy and heavy in the air.
It's a warm night, southeastern Arizona in the late spring, and the hood of the Impala is solid and comforting beneath Dean's back. Sam's curled up against Dean, head resting on Dean's chest right over his heart. He does that a lot these days: rests where he can hear the heartbeat and reassure himself (or so Dean assumes; he's not about to ask) that yeah, Dean's really alive.
"You're hogging the bottle again," Sam slurs, and he doesn't sound as drunk as he sounds sleepy, but Dean can't not tease. Just a little.
"Mmm. You don't need any more. Friggin' lightweight." Dean tips the bottle up and takes a slug, then pulls Sam up to kiss him. They share the liquor within the kiss, Dean's hand curling around Sam's neck, thumb resting so he can feel when Sam swallows.
Sam chases the taste of tequila through Dean's mouth, lapping at his lips, his tongue, sucking any last flavor away.
Dean takes another shot, holding it in his mouth until Sam licks inward, drinking the tequila from him.
Again and again, until the bottle's completely empty. Then Sam takes the last lime and bites into it, spraying tangy juice across both of them. He shares it with Dean, citrus kisses and the heat of his mouth making Dean think of sunshine.
Even the sunshine isn't as warm or bright as Dean feels, laying on his car, his brother in his arms.
rivers_bend asked for "Dude, this is awesome!" It's awesome at its tackiest best. Dean really loves it a lot. Sam, not so much, judging from his sigh.
"It's a lava lamp, Dean."
"Well, yeah." The "dumbass" is unspoken, but Dean knows Sam hears it just the same when his eyes narrow.
"You're excited about a lava lamp."
"Sam, this is classic seventies chic. It's awesome." Dean drops his duffle onto the bed they're not going to use -- not that they ever actually say or acknowledge beforehand that they're not going to use it -- and bounces down onto the other bed. "Turn it on. They're cool to watch."
And speaking of classics and awesome, there's the bitchface, come out to play. Dean grins, because there is nothing in the world more fun than getting Sam riled up. Well, unless sex or pie is involved somehow.
"Turn it on? Or turn you on?" Sam hits the light switch, throwing the room into it's-almost-nighttime dark, then clicks the lava lamp on. "Or are they one in the same?"
He pounces before Dean has a chance for a come-back, body big and heavy, pining Dean to the bed. This is something Dean will never, ever get tired of: Sam's weight and heat, the solid comfort of his body against Dean's.
"Maybe," is all Dean manages, growling the word when Sam rubs his face against Dean's, stubble catching and dragging. Sam brushes his mouth over Dean's then, liquid heat of his tongue gliding, stroking, probing. Dean opens willingly, reaching up to hold onto Sam, needing something to ground him.
"I kind of like the way you look in the light," Sam says, lips and teeth dragging over skin suddenly hypersensitive.
"You're just sayin' that so I'll put out." Dean shivers when large hands stroke down over his chest, his stomach, one coming to rest on his hip and the other between his legs, cupping his dick.
"Nah." Sam squeezes and Dean groans, the sensation like liquid heat flowing through him. Beneath Sam's hand, against the rough fabric of his jeans, he's thickening. Hardening. "I know you'll put out anyway." Sam rubs, cupping and stroking Dean through the denim. "Love how you feel like this," he mutters, ghosting the words against Dean's throat. "Hard for me. Getting so hard--love to touch you, Dean. Wanna touch you, taste you--"
He sucks a bruise into Dean's throat, biting down into the skin and pulling the heat up to the surface. Dean grunts against the sting, breath leaving his body in a groaning shudder when Sam laves it with his tongue. Sam's hard against him, dick pressed into Dean's thigh as they grind and rub together.
The lava lamp is making crazy designs on the walls and ceiling, spinning and circling and pulsating in time to the pounding heat moving through Dean's body.
He has time to gasp "Sam!", and Sam's jerking him hard through his jeans -- not even open, just jerking him through his fucking pants -- and Dean stiffens, pleasure pulsing hot and electric through him as he comes all over himself.
Sam groans and jerks against Dean, hips pumping forward hard and fast, and Dean feels the heat spreading between them as Sam comes.
Dean kisses Sam as he comes down, inhaling the rich scent of sex, spunk and sweat.
"I take it back," Sam breathes, shifting off Dean and onto his back beside him. "Lava lamps are totally cool."
Dean would give him a 'told you so', except for how he's too boneless and sated to care. He falls asleep, sticky and sweaty, watching the lava lamp spin designs around the room.