spn fic: Lay Hands - Sam/Dean
Sep. 23rd, 2008 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withimpunityTitle: Lay Hands
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
A/n: Spoilers for 4.01 if you haven't seen it
Disclaimer: All your samndean are belong to Kripke.
In retrospect, Dean thinks, maybe he should have at least left a note.
Sam’s gripping the collar of his t-shirt so tight he can feel the burn-scrape of cotton against his neck and, he thinks, the quiet sound of tiny threads ripping beneath Sam’s fingers. “Where were you?”
“Coffee.” Dean deadpans, holding up the Styrofoam cup in his right hand. “What the hell, S-”
“Don’t,” Sam chokes out; Dean can see the outline of his jaw, clenched tight, muscles flexing in his cheeks. “Don’t ever leave me again, Dean.”
The next thing he feels is the throbbing in his skull where Sam just shoved him into the wall. There’s old wallpaper curling up beside his left ear and Sam’s tongue inside his mouth. He reaches out, intent on getting Sam off of him; instead his hands somehow end up on his brother’s hips, his mouth parting wider.
“I thought,” Sam’s lips move against his and Dean squeezes Sam’s hip.
“I wasn’t,” He reassures him, one hand moving to the back of Sam’s head to pull him closer. Dean’s brain forgets to do the normal kissing-your-brother-is-wrong thing for once, and allows him enjoy the way Sam’s mouth is smothering him, how Sam’s body is crushing his ribs as he presses against him, like he’s trying to fit inside Dean’s skin.
Sam slips his hands beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt and Dean bites down on his lip, a hot rush slamming into him at the feeling of skin against skin. Those hands. Dean remembers everything about those hands. The freckles on the back, the lines and cracks in his palm, the slightly crooked index finger Sam broke when they were horsing around, pissing Dad off because then he couldn’t train with them for three days. The back of Sam’s knuckles graze his navel and Dean, fuck it; he whimpers.
He missed those hands.
Sam reaches up, tilting Dean’s head back with a thumb to his chin and claims his mouth again, tracing the curve of Dean’s lips with his tongue, biting at the corner of his mouth, dragging Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth until he breaks them apart.
“Bed,” He says calmly, placing his hand on the small of Dean’s back, guiding him across the room to the bed.
“Sam, what-”
Then Sam’s hands are peeling the black, dusty shirt from Dean’s back, tasting Dean’s skin with his tongue and teeth. His fingers grip Dean’s hips and he turns them sideways, so they can see their reflections in the full length mirror hung on the back of the bathroom door. Sam shifts Dean another inch or two so that he has a good view of the mark on his shoulder. Dean watches in the mirror as Sam raises his hand to Dean’s arm, fitting it over the handprint burned into his skin. It doesn’t quite fit. Smaller. Fingers too wide.
“Sammy?” Dean asks, ignoring the wobble in his voice. He is not scared of his brother, never has been and never fucking will be. But if he were anyone else, he just might be a little terrified right now. The hardened look on Sam’s face, the darkness in his eyes, the pressure on Dean’s arm from him pushing and pressing his hand harder and harder into his skin, like he could make it fit, make it his own. It was downright unsettling.
“Sam? Sammy?”
“Listen to me, Dean.” Sam says slowly, like he‘s carefully choosing each word, tiptoeing between what he says and what he wants to say. “I’m glad you’re back. God, I am glad. You know that, right?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods at Sam’s reflection in the mirror. He’s afraid that if he turns, sees all that raw emotion in Sam‘s eyes, his guard might drop and Sam might see that underneath, yeah, he’s a little scared.
“But I swear. I will kill the thing that did this to you.”
Dean’s entire body shudders as Sam turns him away from the mirror and pushes him down on the bed, stripping off his own shirt.
“No one touches what’s mine.”
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
A/n: Spoilers for 4.01 if you haven't seen it
Disclaimer: All your samndean are belong to Kripke.
In retrospect, Dean thinks, maybe he should have at least left a note.
Sam’s gripping the collar of his t-shirt so tight he can feel the burn-scrape of cotton against his neck and, he thinks, the quiet sound of tiny threads ripping beneath Sam’s fingers. “Where were you?”
“Coffee.” Dean deadpans, holding up the Styrofoam cup in his right hand. “What the hell, S-”
“Don’t,” Sam chokes out; Dean can see the outline of his jaw, clenched tight, muscles flexing in his cheeks. “Don’t ever leave me again, Dean.”
The next thing he feels is the throbbing in his skull where Sam just shoved him into the wall. There’s old wallpaper curling up beside his left ear and Sam’s tongue inside his mouth. He reaches out, intent on getting Sam off of him; instead his hands somehow end up on his brother’s hips, his mouth parting wider.
“I thought,” Sam’s lips move against his and Dean squeezes Sam’s hip.
“I wasn’t,” He reassures him, one hand moving to the back of Sam’s head to pull him closer. Dean’s brain forgets to do the normal kissing-your-brother-is-wrong thing for once, and allows him enjoy the way Sam’s mouth is smothering him, how Sam’s body is crushing his ribs as he presses against him, like he’s trying to fit inside Dean’s skin.
Sam slips his hands beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt and Dean bites down on his lip, a hot rush slamming into him at the feeling of skin against skin. Those hands. Dean remembers everything about those hands. The freckles on the back, the lines and cracks in his palm, the slightly crooked index finger Sam broke when they were horsing around, pissing Dad off because then he couldn’t train with them for three days. The back of Sam’s knuckles graze his navel and Dean, fuck it; he whimpers.
He missed those hands.
Sam reaches up, tilting Dean’s head back with a thumb to his chin and claims his mouth again, tracing the curve of Dean’s lips with his tongue, biting at the corner of his mouth, dragging Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth until he breaks them apart.
“Bed,” He says calmly, placing his hand on the small of Dean’s back, guiding him across the room to the bed.
“Sam, what-”
Then Sam’s hands are peeling the black, dusty shirt from Dean’s back, tasting Dean’s skin with his tongue and teeth. His fingers grip Dean’s hips and he turns them sideways, so they can see their reflections in the full length mirror hung on the back of the bathroom door. Sam shifts Dean another inch or two so that he has a good view of the mark on his shoulder. Dean watches in the mirror as Sam raises his hand to Dean’s arm, fitting it over the handprint burned into his skin. It doesn’t quite fit. Smaller. Fingers too wide.
“Sammy?” Dean asks, ignoring the wobble in his voice. He is not scared of his brother, never has been and never fucking will be. But if he were anyone else, he just might be a little terrified right now. The hardened look on Sam’s face, the darkness in his eyes, the pressure on Dean’s arm from him pushing and pressing his hand harder and harder into his skin, like he could make it fit, make it his own. It was downright unsettling.
“Sam? Sammy?”
“Listen to me, Dean.” Sam says slowly, like he‘s carefully choosing each word, tiptoeing between what he says and what he wants to say. “I’m glad you’re back. God, I am glad. You know that, right?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods at Sam’s reflection in the mirror. He’s afraid that if he turns, sees all that raw emotion in Sam‘s eyes, his guard might drop and Sam might see that underneath, yeah, he’s a little scared.
“But I swear. I will kill the thing that did this to you.”
Dean’s entire body shudders as Sam turns him away from the mirror and pushes him down on the bed, stripping off his own shirt.
“No one touches what’s mine.”
