Remember when I used to do this?
Feb. 23rd, 2009 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withimpunityI wrote something? I WROTE SOMETHING.
Title: Smudges
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Pg-13
Words: 963
Disclaimer: All your Sam and Dean are belong to Kripke.
Monday Sam comes home with a myriad of different colored smudges around the hem of one of Dean's old t-shirts. Dean tugs on it when Sam gets out of the car with his backpack slung over one shoulder and asks, "What the hell, Sammy? Ain't learned to color in the lines yet?"
They just started a unit on oil pastels in art class, Sam tells him, and Dean nods like that means something to him. All he cares about is his old Megadeth shirt is fucking stained, probably won't ever come clean, and Sam, as per usual, only cares about his stupid art project. He goes on for ten minutes telling Dean what it will look like when its finished and how Susie So-in-So is doing half of it with him, but Dean doesn't hear most of what he says. Sam's always rambling about school shit that Dean could care less about so he pulls a random Sabbath song from the place in his head where he keeps songs for times like this, and tunes him out.
* * *
When Sam walks through the front door Wednesday, his shirt isn't stained (he thought to wear a black this time), but there's still a dark smudge over his right eyebrow that he missed when he was washing up after class. Dean wonders if art is the last class Sam has or if he walked around school all day with smudge marks on his face, but he doesn't ask.
"C'mere," he says when Sam puts his backpack down by the front door. Sam looks up at him quizzically, but walks over anyway. Dean's got this weird expression on his face, and Sam flinches when he reaches out, the weird texture of Dean's calloused thumb brushing across his skin, then applying a bit more pressure to wipe it off.
Sam blinks, round, golden brown eyes looking up at Dean, and he does this thing that he doesn't know he does, sucks his bottom lip in a little; its what he does when he's thinking or nervous or scared.
"Dean?" He kind of whispers, but Dean's already turned and gone, wiping his hand on the leg of his jeans. Sam stares at the dark oily smudges he leaves behind on the denim.
* * *
Friday Dean picks Sam up in the Impala after school and spends more time staring at the tips of his fingers, stained and smeared with dark blues and golds, hint of burgundy, than at the road. He tells Sam not to fucking touch anything till he gets home and washes his damn hands, but he can't stop thinking about what it would look like if he did, a rainbow of smudged fingerprints, staining everything they touched, leather, cotton, skin.
"Can't you clean that shit off at school?" Dean growls as he pulls into the driveway.
Sam shrugs and waits for Dean to open the car door for him.
Dean considers leaving him in there; for his own good.
* * *
That weekend Sam brings the project home to finish it.
Dean cleans every gun they own, sharpens every knife, hell anything with a point to it, in sight. The place smells like some preppy art class, like smudged fingerprints and canvas and the grape Bubbleyum Sam's chewing while he works. Dean glances over and his hands are fucking covered in it, the old white t-shirt he's wearing smeared across his chest and belly with rusty oranges, and deep, forest greens. There's a gold streak across Sam's left cheek bone, and a bit of red right under his chin. Something stirs in Dean's belly when Sam looks up and blows the bangs out of his eyes.
"I'm done," He says quietly, smiling triumphantly. Its weird, the surge of pride Dean feels at just that, the fact that Sam's happy with this, with anything. "Wanna see?"
"Sure, why not?" Dean shrugs, like he's been thinking about anything else the past three hours. He stands behind Sam's and gazes down at his work, takes in all the rich colors melting together to make this, this fucking awesome piece of art, because that's exactly what it is, art. But he recognizes it, too. "Hey, isn't that?"
He doesn't have to finish, Sam just nods. There's a creek and a patch of blueberry bushes, a dark smudge in the distance with two muted yellow lights that's supposed to be the Impala. Dean remembers. It was Sam's birthday. Dean gave him his first beer and they talked about what they wanted to be when they grew up, you know, besides this. Dean, because he seemed to hemmorage honesty when he had too many in him, told Sam he'd hunt all his life so long as they were still, y'know, and that's when Sam leaned forward and kissed him.
And that was two years ago.
"C'mere," Dean says quietly, still, then as soon as Sam turns around, he's got his hands all over him, pressing Sam back against the wallpaper. Sam's hands fly behind him to brace himself, smearing blue and red together on the rosey wallpaper to make purple. Dean's mouth searches out Sam's clumsily, wincing when their teeth clack together, then he finds what he wants, sucking that bottom lip between his own, biting down on it, then soothing the skin with his tongue.
"Hey," Sam pulls away just enough for Dean to see the smile cross his lips.
"Hey," Dean grins, stroking the skin on Sam's hip where his shirt's rode up.
"Should take your shirt off," Sam says helpfully. "Hands are still covered in paint."
"I know," Dean says and grabs his wrists, planting Sam's hands firmly on the front of his shirt, back of his jeans, all over his bare skin.
There are some stains you don't want to get out.
Title: Smudges
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Pg-13
Words: 963
Disclaimer: All your Sam and Dean are belong to Kripke.
Monday Sam comes home with a myriad of different colored smudges around the hem of one of Dean's old t-shirts. Dean tugs on it when Sam gets out of the car with his backpack slung over one shoulder and asks, "What the hell, Sammy? Ain't learned to color in the lines yet?"
They just started a unit on oil pastels in art class, Sam tells him, and Dean nods like that means something to him. All he cares about is his old Megadeth shirt is fucking stained, probably won't ever come clean, and Sam, as per usual, only cares about his stupid art project. He goes on for ten minutes telling Dean what it will look like when its finished and how Susie So-in-So is doing half of it with him, but Dean doesn't hear most of what he says. Sam's always rambling about school shit that Dean could care less about so he pulls a random Sabbath song from the place in his head where he keeps songs for times like this, and tunes him out.
When Sam walks through the front door Wednesday, his shirt isn't stained (he thought to wear a black this time), but there's still a dark smudge over his right eyebrow that he missed when he was washing up after class. Dean wonders if art is the last class Sam has or if he walked around school all day with smudge marks on his face, but he doesn't ask.
"C'mere," he says when Sam puts his backpack down by the front door. Sam looks up at him quizzically, but walks over anyway. Dean's got this weird expression on his face, and Sam flinches when he reaches out, the weird texture of Dean's calloused thumb brushing across his skin, then applying a bit more pressure to wipe it off.
Sam blinks, round, golden brown eyes looking up at Dean, and he does this thing that he doesn't know he does, sucks his bottom lip in a little; its what he does when he's thinking or nervous or scared.
"Dean?" He kind of whispers, but Dean's already turned and gone, wiping his hand on the leg of his jeans. Sam stares at the dark oily smudges he leaves behind on the denim.
Friday Dean picks Sam up in the Impala after school and spends more time staring at the tips of his fingers, stained and smeared with dark blues and golds, hint of burgundy, than at the road. He tells Sam not to fucking touch anything till he gets home and washes his damn hands, but he can't stop thinking about what it would look like if he did, a rainbow of smudged fingerprints, staining everything they touched, leather, cotton, skin.
"Can't you clean that shit off at school?" Dean growls as he pulls into the driveway.
Sam shrugs and waits for Dean to open the car door for him.
Dean considers leaving him in there; for his own good.
That weekend Sam brings the project home to finish it.
Dean cleans every gun they own, sharpens every knife, hell anything with a point to it, in sight. The place smells like some preppy art class, like smudged fingerprints and canvas and the grape Bubbleyum Sam's chewing while he works. Dean glances over and his hands are fucking covered in it, the old white t-shirt he's wearing smeared across his chest and belly with rusty oranges, and deep, forest greens. There's a gold streak across Sam's left cheek bone, and a bit of red right under his chin. Something stirs in Dean's belly when Sam looks up and blows the bangs out of his eyes.
"I'm done," He says quietly, smiling triumphantly. Its weird, the surge of pride Dean feels at just that, the fact that Sam's happy with this, with anything. "Wanna see?"
"Sure, why not?" Dean shrugs, like he's been thinking about anything else the past three hours. He stands behind Sam's and gazes down at his work, takes in all the rich colors melting together to make this, this fucking awesome piece of art, because that's exactly what it is, art. But he recognizes it, too. "Hey, isn't that?"
He doesn't have to finish, Sam just nods. There's a creek and a patch of blueberry bushes, a dark smudge in the distance with two muted yellow lights that's supposed to be the Impala. Dean remembers. It was Sam's birthday. Dean gave him his first beer and they talked about what they wanted to be when they grew up, you know, besides this. Dean, because he seemed to hemmorage honesty when he had too many in him, told Sam he'd hunt all his life so long as they were still, y'know, and that's when Sam leaned forward and kissed him.
And that was two years ago.
"C'mere," Dean says quietly, still, then as soon as Sam turns around, he's got his hands all over him, pressing Sam back against the wallpaper. Sam's hands fly behind him to brace himself, smearing blue and red together on the rosey wallpaper to make purple. Dean's mouth searches out Sam's clumsily, wincing when their teeth clack together, then he finds what he wants, sucking that bottom lip between his own, biting down on it, then soothing the skin with his tongue.
"Hey," Sam pulls away just enough for Dean to see the smile cross his lips.
"Hey," Dean grins, stroking the skin on Sam's hip where his shirt's rode up.
"Should take your shirt off," Sam says helpfully. "Hands are still covered in paint."
"I know," Dean says and grabs his wrists, planting Sam's hands firmly on the front of his shirt, back of his jeans, all over his bare skin.
There are some stains you don't want to get out.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 01:31 am (UTC)