Move On (Sam/Dean, PG) - Coda to 8.06
Nov. 13th, 2012 08:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlThis season is giving me ALL the feels. Thus, a self indulgent coda to 8.06, mostly because I needed it.
Word Count: 1490
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Spoilers for 8.06 obviously
Summary: The Winchesters don't really need words to work it out.
“Move on, or I will.”
Dean just nods, the bravado running out of him along with the ectoplasm – the stuff that made him (let him?) tell Sam that a vampire was more brother to him than his own blood brother had ever been. He acquiesces so fast, Sam doesn’t know if any of it is real, or just the quickest way Dean knows to shut Sam up and get him into the car.
Sam gets in anyway; of course he does. He’s moved on plenty of times, but never when Dean is flesh and blood real right here.
There are no more words once the motel door closes. Words have always been more lethal than weapons between them.
Dean puts the bottle of whisky on the table, unwraps one of the glasses on the bathroom sink and fills it. Sam watches his brother’s throat work as Dean downs it, eyes carefully averted. He startles when instead of settling on one of the twin beds with a huff, Sam unwraps the other glass and sits down too.
Sam reaches for the bottle; Dean shrugs and slides it across the table, watches as Sam pours it to the brim and takes a gulp. It burns, but not as much as Dean’s accusations did.
Their drinking has a rhythm after that. Everything they do has a rhythm, learned over too much time in too many places, a survival skill as much as loading weapons and memorizing Latin. Sam matches Dean glass for glass, watches the colors and patterns in the tacky wallpaper soften and swirl. They’re almost beautiful, familiar in their oddness, like this was the only thing the owners could find thirty years ago and who gives a shit if it matches the furniture. Nothing matches in here, not anymore.
Dean slouches in his chair as the bottle slowly empties, a blush on his cheeks and his eyes even greener for it, beneath the droop of heavy lashes. His long legs splay, lazy, unguarded like he hasn’t been since he came back from Purgatory, wound too tight and keeping too much hidden. Sam wonders why Dean doesn’t look a hundred years older, wonders how many things he killed down there, how many times Benny had his back. A flush crawls hot up Sam’s throat, pounds in his ears. More of a brother than you ever were. He wants to ask, did you mean it? But words are too dangerous. Especially now, when Sam’s mouth wants to spill everything swirling around his brain.
Dean seems to sense the danger, grabs the bottle and fumbles on the cap, big brother for you’ve had enough, Sammy. And damn it, Sam’s not sure he has; not sure there’s enough whisky in the world to make him forget the things they both said tonight. He gets up to dispute the decision as silently as Dean made it, gets to Dean just as Dean gets to the bureau to put down the bottle and makes a grab for it. He must be drunker than he thought, because his reach goes wide, knocking it out of Dean’s hand and sending it skidding across the bureau. They grapple for a second, both trying to right it before it spills out what they’ll surely need more of.
The bottle wobbles, then settles reluctantly upright. Dean slaps at Sam’s hand, frowning. Sam grunts his displeasure and grabs for Dean’s, gets four of his brother’s fingers in his grip and hangs on. Dean growls a warning and pulls away, and Sam lets his hand stay where it lands, flat against his brother’s chest. Dean’s heart is pounding, and Sam gets lost for a moment in the feel of it, the thumpthumpthump of blood that tells him Dean is back, alive. It feels good to have his hand on Dean, visceral proof that his brother is here. The rhythm picks up, harder, faster. Dean shifts restlessly; his hip bumps Sam’s, denim against denim, and Sam’s warm where they touch.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, not sure he meant to. Dean’s eyes tilt up at the sound, catch on Sam’s. They’re red-rimmed around the green, wide for a moment before Dean narrows his gaze and his brow furrows.
“Sammy?” he whispers back, like Sam has some kind of answer for him. They’re isn’t any, really. There’s just this – Sam and Dean, too close and never close enough, same as it’s been since that night Dean scooped Sam up and carried him out.
The thought makes Sam smile. Dean’s eyes fall to Sam’s mouth where it’s quirking up at the edges, goofy with drink, too wide. Sam wants to see Dean’s lopsided smile, the one that’s so rare it’s maybe just a memory. He pokes the corner of his brother’s mouth with a finger, tries to pull up one side.
Dean’s lips part instantly, maybe he’s gonna protest, spout some words that Sam doesn’t want to hear, so Sam lays his finger on the bow in the middle, shushes him.
Dean draws a harsh breath anyway, Sam can feel it, but he doesn’t speak. His lips are soft and full under the pad of Sam’s finger, and Sam presses there, fascinated by the cushiony feel, the give of them.
Dean’s looking at him again, his eyes wide open. The blush on his cheeks is even redder up close. It’s on his ears too, and Sam’s finger goes there next, trailing along the curve of Dean’s jaw, up to where the stubble ends and his skin gets baby soft, inviting the slow back and forth brush of Sam’s fingers.
It must tickle; Dean shivers. Sam can feel it all up and down their bodies, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“Dean,” he says again, fingertips tracing up the curl of his brother’s ear, to the tip where the red turns crimson. Dean tilts his head back, so minutely that if Sam’s hands weren’t on him, he wouldn’t know it. The hand Sam still has on his chest pulses with the rapid pounding of Dean’s heart, jackhammer fast now, like it wants to come right through his ribs and let Sam hold it.
“Sam,” Dean answers, his voice rough; Sam can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks. Dean moves for the first time since they ended up here, both of them leaning against the bureau, maybe against each other. He wraps one hand around the back of Sam’s neck, his fingers warm and strong there, comforting. It feels good; better than anything has in a long time. Sam bends his head, slips his own hand back through the soft bristles of Dean’s hair to the nape of his neck, a mirror of his brother. It brings their foreheads together, leaves them sharing whisky breath. Sam can smell Dean even through the alcohol, the tang of his sweat and the remnants of whatever cheap soap and shampoo he used that morning. He can feel the puff of Dean’s breath against his own mouth, thinks there must only be inches of distance between them, can’t remember why he shouldn’t bridge it.
“Dean,” he whispers again, or maybe he just thinks it, and his lips brush the soft fullness of his brother’s mouth just barely.
Dean makes a soft pained sound, presses his mouth hard to Sam’s for a second, and Sam thinks, oh. This is new, unexpected. Maybe inevitable. His fingers grip at Dean’s nape; Dean’s fingers tangle in Sam’s long hair, clench hard.
Dean turns his head abruptly then, with a jerk like he was caught in something and had to free himself with force. Sam’s lips slide wetly across Dean’s stubble-rough jaw, and Sam smothers a growl of protest against Dean’s throat, doesn’t want to stop kissing his brother. Dean pulls him down, keeps their mouths apart. The grip of his fingers is strong and determined, and he sighs as he rests his own head on Sam’s shoulder, holding Sam there with a fistful of Sam’s hair.
Their bodies are pressed together, Dean’s hips snugged up warm and solid against Sam’s. Sam thinks that if it weren’t for the whisky, that would be more telling than it is. Even drunk, neither of them is soft, and both of them know it.
They’re hugging now, lips safely turned away from each other’s sweat-slick skin and the tentative tangle of tongues and all the things that shouldn’t happen between them. They’re hugging like brothers, and Sam feels the truth of his brother’s love in the grip of Dean’s strong fingers around his neck, the possessive press of his other hand to the curve of Sam’s spine. Benny doesn’t get this; not this, not Dean’s cheek damp against Sam’s.
Sam’s other hand wraps around Dean’s back and pulls him in even closer, no space between them. His fingers slip beneath the warm leather of Dean’s belt just barely, and Dean shivers the way Amelia never did.
Word Count: 1490
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning: Spoilers for 8.06 obviously
Summary: The Winchesters don't really need words to work it out.
“Move on, or I will.”
Dean just nods, the bravado running out of him along with the ectoplasm – the stuff that made him (let him?) tell Sam that a vampire was more brother to him than his own blood brother had ever been. He acquiesces so fast, Sam doesn’t know if any of it is real, or just the quickest way Dean knows to shut Sam up and get him into the car.
Sam gets in anyway; of course he does. He’s moved on plenty of times, but never when Dean is flesh and blood real right here.
There are no more words once the motel door closes. Words have always been more lethal than weapons between them.
Dean puts the bottle of whisky on the table, unwraps one of the glasses on the bathroom sink and fills it. Sam watches his brother’s throat work as Dean downs it, eyes carefully averted. He startles when instead of settling on one of the twin beds with a huff, Sam unwraps the other glass and sits down too.
Sam reaches for the bottle; Dean shrugs and slides it across the table, watches as Sam pours it to the brim and takes a gulp. It burns, but not as much as Dean’s accusations did.
Their drinking has a rhythm after that. Everything they do has a rhythm, learned over too much time in too many places, a survival skill as much as loading weapons and memorizing Latin. Sam matches Dean glass for glass, watches the colors and patterns in the tacky wallpaper soften and swirl. They’re almost beautiful, familiar in their oddness, like this was the only thing the owners could find thirty years ago and who gives a shit if it matches the furniture. Nothing matches in here, not anymore.
Dean slouches in his chair as the bottle slowly empties, a blush on his cheeks and his eyes even greener for it, beneath the droop of heavy lashes. His long legs splay, lazy, unguarded like he hasn’t been since he came back from Purgatory, wound too tight and keeping too much hidden. Sam wonders why Dean doesn’t look a hundred years older, wonders how many things he killed down there, how many times Benny had his back. A flush crawls hot up Sam’s throat, pounds in his ears. More of a brother than you ever were. He wants to ask, did you mean it? But words are too dangerous. Especially now, when Sam’s mouth wants to spill everything swirling around his brain.
Dean seems to sense the danger, grabs the bottle and fumbles on the cap, big brother for you’ve had enough, Sammy. And damn it, Sam’s not sure he has; not sure there’s enough whisky in the world to make him forget the things they both said tonight. He gets up to dispute the decision as silently as Dean made it, gets to Dean just as Dean gets to the bureau to put down the bottle and makes a grab for it. He must be drunker than he thought, because his reach goes wide, knocking it out of Dean’s hand and sending it skidding across the bureau. They grapple for a second, both trying to right it before it spills out what they’ll surely need more of.
The bottle wobbles, then settles reluctantly upright. Dean slaps at Sam’s hand, frowning. Sam grunts his displeasure and grabs for Dean’s, gets four of his brother’s fingers in his grip and hangs on. Dean growls a warning and pulls away, and Sam lets his hand stay where it lands, flat against his brother’s chest. Dean’s heart is pounding, and Sam gets lost for a moment in the feel of it, the thumpthumpthump of blood that tells him Dean is back, alive. It feels good to have his hand on Dean, visceral proof that his brother is here. The rhythm picks up, harder, faster. Dean shifts restlessly; his hip bumps Sam’s, denim against denim, and Sam’s warm where they touch.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, not sure he meant to. Dean’s eyes tilt up at the sound, catch on Sam’s. They’re red-rimmed around the green, wide for a moment before Dean narrows his gaze and his brow furrows.
“Sammy?” he whispers back, like Sam has some kind of answer for him. They’re isn’t any, really. There’s just this – Sam and Dean, too close and never close enough, same as it’s been since that night Dean scooped Sam up and carried him out.
The thought makes Sam smile. Dean’s eyes fall to Sam’s mouth where it’s quirking up at the edges, goofy with drink, too wide. Sam wants to see Dean’s lopsided smile, the one that’s so rare it’s maybe just a memory. He pokes the corner of his brother’s mouth with a finger, tries to pull up one side.
Dean’s lips part instantly, maybe he’s gonna protest, spout some words that Sam doesn’t want to hear, so Sam lays his finger on the bow in the middle, shushes him.
Dean draws a harsh breath anyway, Sam can feel it, but he doesn’t speak. His lips are soft and full under the pad of Sam’s finger, and Sam presses there, fascinated by the cushiony feel, the give of them.
Dean’s looking at him again, his eyes wide open. The blush on his cheeks is even redder up close. It’s on his ears too, and Sam’s finger goes there next, trailing along the curve of Dean’s jaw, up to where the stubble ends and his skin gets baby soft, inviting the slow back and forth brush of Sam’s fingers.
It must tickle; Dean shivers. Sam can feel it all up and down their bodies, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“Dean,” he says again, fingertips tracing up the curl of his brother’s ear, to the tip where the red turns crimson. Dean tilts his head back, so minutely that if Sam’s hands weren’t on him, he wouldn’t know it. The hand Sam still has on his chest pulses with the rapid pounding of Dean’s heart, jackhammer fast now, like it wants to come right through his ribs and let Sam hold it.
“Sam,” Dean answers, his voice rough; Sam can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks. Dean moves for the first time since they ended up here, both of them leaning against the bureau, maybe against each other. He wraps one hand around the back of Sam’s neck, his fingers warm and strong there, comforting. It feels good; better than anything has in a long time. Sam bends his head, slips his own hand back through the soft bristles of Dean’s hair to the nape of his neck, a mirror of his brother. It brings their foreheads together, leaves them sharing whisky breath. Sam can smell Dean even through the alcohol, the tang of his sweat and the remnants of whatever cheap soap and shampoo he used that morning. He can feel the puff of Dean’s breath against his own mouth, thinks there must only be inches of distance between them, can’t remember why he shouldn’t bridge it.
“Dean,” he whispers again, or maybe he just thinks it, and his lips brush the soft fullness of his brother’s mouth just barely.
Dean makes a soft pained sound, presses his mouth hard to Sam’s for a second, and Sam thinks, oh. This is new, unexpected. Maybe inevitable. His fingers grip at Dean’s nape; Dean’s fingers tangle in Sam’s long hair, clench hard.
Dean turns his head abruptly then, with a jerk like he was caught in something and had to free himself with force. Sam’s lips slide wetly across Dean’s stubble-rough jaw, and Sam smothers a growl of protest against Dean’s throat, doesn’t want to stop kissing his brother. Dean pulls him down, keeps their mouths apart. The grip of his fingers is strong and determined, and he sighs as he rests his own head on Sam’s shoulder, holding Sam there with a fistful of Sam’s hair.
Their bodies are pressed together, Dean’s hips snugged up warm and solid against Sam’s. Sam thinks that if it weren’t for the whisky, that would be more telling than it is. Even drunk, neither of them is soft, and both of them know it.
They’re hugging now, lips safely turned away from each other’s sweat-slick skin and the tentative tangle of tongues and all the things that shouldn’t happen between them. They’re hugging like brothers, and Sam feels the truth of his brother’s love in the grip of Dean’s strong fingers around his neck, the possessive press of his other hand to the curve of Sam’s spine. Benny doesn’t get this; not this, not Dean’s cheek damp against Sam’s.
Sam’s other hand wraps around Dean’s back and pulls him in even closer, no space between them. His fingers slip beneath the warm leather of Dean’s belt just barely, and Dean shivers the way Amelia never did.
