lastnightblues: Made by lj user Strikers_Design (CRB Headlights)
[personal profile] lastnightblues

...and the second fic of the night:  "We Are in the Year's End." Also for [info]rounds_of_kink . The kink was claiming, and the second I heard that, I knew a Sam/Dean fic was on its way.

Summary:  "Think they're watching over us right now?"  Sam/Dean, NC-17. About 2,500 words.

 

“Hey! Less thinking, more digging. I wanna be outta here before next year’s over.”      

 

Sam grunts and throws his shovel into the cold dirt, but his brain won’t stop going. He’s got a new thing. Sam knows he’s obsessive; he fixates on things in a way Dean never has. Always been that way, and Sam usually keeps a pretty good handle on it with Dean there to distract him. But this summer threw him off. Now that he has Dean back, he lets his brother fill his mind: every annoying habit, every quirk, every off-key note that’s back in his life now.

 

Among other things, of course. “Wanna grab some Jack on the way back to the motel?” Sam asks, hurling dirt over the side.

 

Dean grins, ivory flash of teeth against his dirt-streaked face. “Sammy, you romantic.”

 

“Shut up,” Sam groans, but he’s laughing and Dean looks satisfied; it’s the little things that count nowadays. “Come on. I don’t want to spend another New Year’s halfway down a grave.”

 

“Ah, but it’s tradition, Sammy.” Dean only calls him Sammy multiple times in a row if he feels like riling Sam up. Which probably means Dean’s horny, and Sam can work with that. “At least we’ve got a change of scenery this time.”

 

Sam snorts. Their pattern of stumbling across salt-and-burns around New Year’s held strong this year, and migrating from cemeteries to a Christmas tree lot only makes the motif more depressing. Sam can’t even blame the spirit too much after its suffering thirty years of five-year-olds dashing across its untimely and impromptu grave. No wonder the guy’s been haunting the buyers; being killed for—and then spending eternity beneath—Lucky’s Trees-To-Go would piss anyone off.

 

He throws his shovel in deep and cracks the cheap pine crate the poor bastard’s stuffed in. “Attaboy, Sammy,” Dean pants, wiping sweat from his forehead and leaving dirt in his wake. “Let’s finish this thing.”

 

The makeshift coffin’s not hard to break open and the bones aren’t wet—can of salt and a half-gallon of liter fluid later and they’re standing over the flames of a job well done. Dean’s grinning, because these are his favorite kinds of cases: straightforward and preferably solved with fire. The orange glow of the flames casts a strange light across his features, accentuating the planes of his face, and Sam shivers, just once, despite the warmth. He doesn’t like the association of Dean and fire.

 

————

 

Dean’s in a good mood afterwards, and he’s more than willing to head into the nearest liquor store for supplies. Sam idles in the car outside, watching his brother through the glass. He gets twitchy whenever Dean’s out of sight for too long. Bad memories, and—if he’s honest? He doesn’t know who else is watching.

 

Which is why, he thinks, these angels piss him off—other than the fact that they think he’ll bring about the apocalypse, of course. They watch them. They watch Dean, and Sam doesn’t know how much or how often. And they’ve got a lot of time on the road, so it’s either obsess about the dwindling seals or about the angels’ attention to his brother, and Sam decides the latter might be the more productive, if the less healthy, of the two.

 

Sam can see Dean debating between two different bottles and likes that he can track Dean’s thought process. Feels the same way whenever Castiel says or does something that really succeeds in pissing Dean off, whenever Sam understands what the angel can’t. It’s a jealous victory, one that makes Sam feel like a fourteen-year-old, but he can’t help it much and doesn’t want to, particularly. He went without his brother for months; now that he’s got him back, the angel can come second in attention.

 

He lets his gaze drift from Dean at the counter to survey the sidewalks idly, and he sees him all of a sudden. Doesn’t know if he’s been there the whole time, just appeared, or just made himself visible, but there’s Castiel. He’s sitting at a bench across the street, too far from the streetlamp to pick up any of its light, but Sam knows it’s him. Castiel tilts his head and Sam can’t see in the shadows but he knows the angel’s looking right at him. Not moving, not coming over.

 

Watching.

 

The creaking of the door practically makes Sam shit his pants. “Whoa, there, Sammy,” says Dean as he slides into the Impala. “You doin’ okay?”

 

Sam blinks. Castiel’s gone now, or at least Sam can’t see him. He takes the proffered bottle and relaxes as best he can, nodding at Dean. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get back, huh?”

 

Dean makes that face, the one that says, You’ve got a weird thing and I’ll get it out of you eventually. But the prospect of booze and a bed is too much to resist, so he just shrugs and starts the car.

 

Sam glares at the vacated bench as they drive off. He’s not in the mood for an angelic visitor tonight. Or for that angelic visitor to wait for him to fall asleep before having a private powwow with Dean. But he tries to stop thinking about it, he really does. It’s past one now, barely into the new year, and Sam wants to spend it with Dean. Forget about the impending doom and celebrate a year where his brother isn’t dying, isn’t going to Hell, isn’t leaving him to an empty car and emptier nights.

 

Yet the thoughts won’t leave his head. He’s grateful to Castiel for getting Dean out, he is, it’s just… It’s his brother.

 

The more he thinks about it, the more pissed he gets, and his mood is pretty dark by the time they’re walking to the room. He’s itching to mess something up: himself, or maybe Castiel’s too-perfect face. Christ, what if he’s watching them right now?

 

Oh, that’s a vicious thought, but now that he’s had it, Sam can’t rid himself of it. What if the angel is watching them right now? Because there are a few things Sam wouldn’t mind clearing up.

 

The moment the door clicks shut behind Dean, Sam throws him against it, wrapping himself around Dean and kissing the chill from his skin. It’s easy to fit himself against Dean’s body, familiar and faultless the way they align. He wraps one hand around the base of Dean’s neck, fingers tangled in his hair and thumb holding his chin in place while they kiss, open and messy and a little too hard. Dean grunts a bit from the impact, chuckling even as he arches into Sam’s mouth and hands, dropping the bottle of Jack somewhere along the way. Sam’s fingers are surely fitting bruises where they span Dean’s hip but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, already hard against Sam’s leg.

 

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean pants when they break off for air. “Someone’s awful keen.”

 

Sam ignores him, drawing his tongue along the pulse in Dean’s neck. Dean smells like damp leather and grave dirt and dead cedar, and Sam growls with the desire to erase any other scent but theirs from his brother’s skin. He presses their hips together and rolls down, just once, relishing in the sound Dean makes when their erections meet. “Wanna fuck you, Dean,” he murmurs at Dean’s ear before thrusting again, slow and relentless, and Dean can’t resist rutting against him, never can. He loves seeing Dean likes this, horny and willing for him and he leans over to speak the words into Dean’s mouth. “Wanna hear you say my name when you come.”

 

“Fuck—yeah, Sam, want you to- Christ.”

 

It’s a short, tangled trip from the door to the bed, muddy boots landing god-knows-where and the possible tearing of fabric when Sam strips Dean of his t-shirt. They land on the bed still half-clothed and Sam can’t stop himself from straddling Dean’s hips and grinding down through their jeans, even though it’s not terribly productive. But Dean reaches up to yank him down for a kiss while they struggle out of pants and boxers and soon Sam stretches himself along the length of Dean’s body, warm skin familiar and perfect and his, mapped out night after night since he got back, relearning.

 

His fingers brush the edge of the still-healing handprint on Dean’s shoulder and Dean hisses, clutching at Sam tighter. Sam wants to ask if it hurts, if it reminds Dean of his unthinkable sacrifice, if Dean stares at it alone in the bathroom the way Sam stares at it after Dean falls asleep. But none of those is a question he particularly wants an answer to, so Sam just kisses him harder, presses his fingertips into Dean’s collarbone and bicep and hips, leaving handprints of his own.

 

The room is quiet outside their breathing and the sound of skin on skin, the hum of the heater fading to white noise, so Sam’s words fall a little too heavy when he says, “Say- say you want this.”

 

Dean’s hands along his side pause for a second—just a second—but when they resume stroking it’s softer, Dean’s caretaking hands, and Sam just… Sam can’t deal with that right now, even when Dean complies, “I want this, Sam, want you-”

 

Sam pins his hands on the pillow beside his head in one swift, powerful movement, leaning in to nip at Dean’s neck. He’s purpling a bruise right at the base of Dean’s jaw, he knows, but he can’t resist the urge to mark Dean’s immaculate new skin. It’s all too violent, too rough around the edges, and Dean’s only unperceptive when he wants to be. “Need to hear it a little louder, Dean,” he croons filthily into Dean’s skin, trepidation gone. “Gotta warm up those vocal chords for what I’m gonna do to you. Now give it a bit more feeling.”

 

The motion of their hips is crude and ruthless and inelegant, and Dean pushes up against his hands obstinately, but there’s a smirk in his louder growl, “Want you to fuck me, Sammy. Come on, wanna feel you in me—fuck, let’s do this-”

 

Brutal kiss and Sam drags Dean with him when he throws an arm over the side of the bed. It’s a scramble to find the lube on the floor, messier still to get it open and working but then Dean’s draping his leg around Sam’s hips and spreading his legs for Sam’s fingers, and Sam grins at Dean’s harsh moan when he presses two fingers inside. “Wider,” he says, swallowing a groan when Dean opens for him, and he needs this now. He knows when he twists his fingers just right because Dean snaps his hips off the bed and lets out of a stream of curses with his next unsteady breath, and Sam leans in to whisper, “Gonna fuck you, Dean, gonna make you come so hard you won’t remember anything but my name, feel anything but my cock in you. Want you to feel me tomorrow,” and he thrusts in all at once, fast and harsh.

 

“Jesus fuck, Sam,” Dean gasps, already moving to meet him, eyes sliding shut at Sam’s second thrust, until Sam grips his chin fiercely.

 

“Watch,” he commands quietly, and Dean’s eyes open wide and dark. “I want you to watch me, so you know it’s me doing this to you, making you—” faster now, right where Dean needs it and yeah, that gets him some nice sounds, as does wrapping his hand around Dean’s hard cock, “—making you- fuck, Dean, you feel so good.”

 

“God, Sam,” yes, yes, like that, say it like that, he thinks as Dean shudders beneath him and rocks into his fist. And Dean is hot and sweet around him, skin warm and smooth and bruising under his hands and mouth, his to have and touch, his, and he needs his brother so much he’s drowning with it, feels like his next words come from underwater.

 

“Love seeing you like this, spread out beneath me, open for me,” he rumbles into Dean’s ear, moving quicker, harder, following the undertow, his entire body alive with the pull. “So- hot like this, so beautiful. God, you’re- fuck, Dean… Say you’re mine.”

 

“Fuck-” Dean’s riding the edge, meeting each of Sam’s thrusts even as his thighs tremble around Sam’s waist, beneath his hands. “Fuck, Sam, I’m- I’m yours.”

 

“Say. It. Louder,” hard thrust, almost too hard, and Dean keens with it, breathless and so close to coming that Sam grips his cock to halt him.

 

Dean pants, fingers pressed deep in Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, I’m- god, Sam, I’m yours, please- fuck me.”

 

 Another savage thrust and Dean’s almost there but Sam won’t let him, not yet, wants more. “Think they’re watching over us right now? Think they hear us, see us? Think they—fuck, you’re so- Jesus, Dean—think they know? Think they hear you begging for me to fuck you?”

 

Dean’s entire body has tensed and he’s moving, fucking himself down, desperate, “Sam, I- Sam, please, fuck- need you… Sam-”

 

It only takes a few strokes and he rounds his thumb around the head once, twice, murmuring, “Come, Dean. Come right now, come for me, and say- say my name so that they know exactly who you belong to. Come, Dean, come on, need to see you, hear you,” and Dean’s gone, fingers tight around the base of Sam’s neck, the curve of his arm, Sam’s name gasped before words become irrelevant and he comes over Sam’s fist and their bellies. Sam kisses his open mouth, his jaw, his cheek, strokes him through it, smoothes the crease in his forehead with a thumb. They’re close enough to share the same oxygen and Sam’s heady with it, with the feel of his brother all around him, and it won’t take long when Dean, eyes still closed, starts to move Sam’s hips more insistently, urging him forward.

 

“Sam,” and Dean’s voice is rough, hoarsened softer, and the sound of it makes Sam groan and he’s so fucking close. “Come on, Sammy.” One palm to the small of his back, moving him faster, so warm and tight, his and god, he missed Dean, wants Dean. “Fuck, you’re- Come for me, Sam, want you come in me.”

 

It hits him so hard his muscles bend under the strain, shuddering beneath Dean’s hands and he comes violently, face buried in Dean’s neck to absorb the smell of him, dirty and sweaty and alive and here, and he’s saying words like beautiful and god and can’t, Dean, need you. It’s a slow way back down, hands soothing, and everything’s melted in his brain. But he traces the words into Dean’s skin as much as he can, his own litany, a prayer repeated night after night. Mine. Safe. Stay.

 

Once his limbs work again he edges off Dean to relieve the weight, wrapping them close around each other, side by side. The sheets are tangled at their feet and he’ll get them soon, because the heater kicked off and there’s a slight chill creeping into the room. But right now Dean is reaching for him, kissing him easy and warm, the way he does only after sex, when he’s sated and almost affectionate.

 

They don’t move when they break off, just curl into the indent their bodies are already forming in the mattress they’ll leave behind tomorrow. In ten minutes or so Sam will drag himself out of bed to get the Jack while Dean flips on the TV for the ridiculous marathons he’s so good at finding—The Twilight Zone, or maybe Star Wars—and they’ll settle back to watch together. They have a routine, and Sam likes that. He likes that he can get a little drunk tonight and tomorrow his brother will still be there, and he likes that he can toast to this new year without the deal looming.

 

Dean grunts quietly, shifting to reposition his arm. He doesn’t even open his eyes, just brings Sam closer before sighing contentedly, and this is a sin the angels will never understand. This is Dean, and Sam would do anything to keep him.

 

Another sleepy grunt from Dean, who nudges Sam teasingly with his knee. Go get the bottle is coming pretty soon, to be followed closely by Bet I can last longer than you, but for now Dean just murmurs, “Happy New Year, Sam.”

 

And Sam swallows hard. Because every year is bittersweet, because every year might be their last, and they’ve had to hit the ground running for a long time now. But he got his wish last year, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make it again this year. “Happy New Year, Dean,” he says into his brother’s skin, and
e’ll make damn sure they see the next.

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lastnightblues

June 2009

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