![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Six Minutes to Midnight
Title: Six Minutes to Midnight
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count 900
Summary: New Year's Eve Winchester Style
Warning: current canon
For the commentfic meme at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
samdean_otp for cordelia_gray
Dean was asleep.
Sam was drunk, and Dean was asleep.
It was six minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, and Sam was drunk, and Dean had been too, before he’d fallen asleep right in the middle of Justin Bieber singing and Ryan Seacrest grinning white-teethed and what looked like half the world jammed into Times Square on the tiny motel television.
That was fifteen minutes ago, and Sam’s attention had drifted from the screen to the stretch of Dean’s neck as his head lolled back against the couch. Dean didn’t relax these days unless he was sleeping, leftover Purgatory hypervigilance still riding him, and Sam tried to avoid those darting green eyes, afraid he’d see reproach there still. The creases in Dean’s forehead were smoothed out now, the arch of his eyebrows giving away nothing. Sam was used to reading Dean’s expressions as easily – more easily – than he could Dean’s words. He had an eloquent face, Sam thought, and wanted to giggle.
Dean startled in his sleep, lashes fluttering and one fist clenching briefly on the sofa cushion before he settled again. Dean’s eyes were too pretty, too girly for a man so lethal. Sam had often thought it, and Purgatory had done nothing to blunt it. Sam brushed the tip of his finger clumsily across the soft spikes of Dean’s lashes where they lay dark against his freckled skin. They were soft, like he’d thought they probably would be. Dean’s nose twitched; he opened his mouth and smacked his lips a few times like maybe there was a fly on his face and he was making sure he didn’t eat it by mistake.
Sam almost laughed out loud at the thought, but Dean quieted again, his mouth falling open as he sighed and settled more deeply into the sagging cushions. Dean’s lips were as girly as his eyelashes, maybe more. They were pink and plump with a bow in the middle that called out for Sam’s fingertip to poke him right there. Just to see if they were as soft as they looked.
“They are,” Sam whispered, and let his finger run over the swell of Dean’s lower lip where the flesh gave easily, and Sam thought that it would be nice to kiss Dean there, have all that soft swell against his own mouth.
Ryan Seacrest got to three-two-one at the same time Sam thought about kissing his brother, and that seemed like it must be an omen, so Sam leaned down and pressed his lips to Dean’s. They were even softer against his mouth, and it was nice to have someone he loved to kiss on New Year’s Eve, and Sam was smiling when suddenly Dean’s tongue swept over his bottom lip, warm and slick and wet, and Sam felt it all over, a shuddering heat from his toes all the way up to his ears, and Sam was sure they were on fire. There seemed nothing to do but answer with his own, the instinct to rise to any challenge his big brother put out there long ago ingrained, and Sam tangled his tongue with Dean’s, pushed back and licked in, and the fire was all over him now, every inch of him alight with it.
People were singing Auld Lang Syne on television and Sam was making out with his brother on the couch of a crappy little motel in Colorado. Dean woke up enough to close his mouth about the same time the Times Square crowd stopped singing, and said “S’mmy? What?” sort of garbled against Sam’s chin. Sam’s skin was wet and tingly there, slick from Dean’s messy kisses.
Sam leaned back and sat up a little more, trying to remember what the appropriate reaction was. I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it? Let’s do it some more?
“Um, Happy New Year,” he settled on instead. Dean’s eyes were wide and green. The crease reappeared on his forehead, and Sam reached out to smooth his thumb over it.
“Don’t wanna see you worried,” Sam said, because he was maybe even more drunk than he’d been ten minutes ago, and he kept wanting to say things that were true, even if it was against the rules.
“Worried about what?” Dean asked, and his eyes were less wide but no less green.
“Anything,” Sam said, shaking his head sadly. “Everything.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth across Dean’s forehead, then let it drift down Dean’s cheek and over the slightly stubbled line of his jaw. He saw the moment Dean felt the touch for what it was, and everything slowed and tilted and shook a little, the universe trying to decide which way to let the Winchesters’ world turn. Sam wasn’t surprised when it spun in a different direction than everyone else’s; it had always been that way.
When Sam took his hand away, Dean’s forehead was smooth, his expression open.
“Well I guess that helps a little,” Dean said, and Sam combed his fingers through the soft spikes of Dean’s hair, down the nape of his neck, until Dean shivered and Sam knew that they were both catching fire. Dean’s lips parted, his cheeks pinked. Sam could see the bob of his Adam’s apple as Dean leaned his head back again, into Sam’s touch.
“A little is good,” Sam said, and shifted on the couch to press in closer, until he could feel the warmth of Dean’s breath against his cheek, then against his lips. He paused there, savoring the promise of change that for once was theirs to decide on – not angels, not demons, not vampires, not even other people. Dean leaned up and caught Sam’s mouth with his own, and Sam let himself fall.
Author:
runedgirlRating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count 900
Summary: New Year's Eve Winchester Style
Warning: current canon
For the commentfic meme at
samdean_otp for cordelia_grayDean was asleep.
Sam was drunk, and Dean was asleep.
It was six minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, and Sam was drunk, and Dean had been too, before he’d fallen asleep right in the middle of Justin Bieber singing and Ryan Seacrest grinning white-teethed and what looked like half the world jammed into Times Square on the tiny motel television.
That was fifteen minutes ago, and Sam’s attention had drifted from the screen to the stretch of Dean’s neck as his head lolled back against the couch. Dean didn’t relax these days unless he was sleeping, leftover Purgatory hypervigilance still riding him, and Sam tried to avoid those darting green eyes, afraid he’d see reproach there still. The creases in Dean’s forehead were smoothed out now, the arch of his eyebrows giving away nothing. Sam was used to reading Dean’s expressions as easily – more easily – than he could Dean’s words. He had an eloquent face, Sam thought, and wanted to giggle.
Dean startled in his sleep, lashes fluttering and one fist clenching briefly on the sofa cushion before he settled again. Dean’s eyes were too pretty, too girly for a man so lethal. Sam had often thought it, and Purgatory had done nothing to blunt it. Sam brushed the tip of his finger clumsily across the soft spikes of Dean’s lashes where they lay dark against his freckled skin. They were soft, like he’d thought they probably would be. Dean’s nose twitched; he opened his mouth and smacked his lips a few times like maybe there was a fly on his face and he was making sure he didn’t eat it by mistake.
Sam almost laughed out loud at the thought, but Dean quieted again, his mouth falling open as he sighed and settled more deeply into the sagging cushions. Dean’s lips were as girly as his eyelashes, maybe more. They were pink and plump with a bow in the middle that called out for Sam’s fingertip to poke him right there. Just to see if they were as soft as they looked.
“They are,” Sam whispered, and let his finger run over the swell of Dean’s lower lip where the flesh gave easily, and Sam thought that it would be nice to kiss Dean there, have all that soft swell against his own mouth.
Ryan Seacrest got to three-two-one at the same time Sam thought about kissing his brother, and that seemed like it must be an omen, so Sam leaned down and pressed his lips to Dean’s. They were even softer against his mouth, and it was nice to have someone he loved to kiss on New Year’s Eve, and Sam was smiling when suddenly Dean’s tongue swept over his bottom lip, warm and slick and wet, and Sam felt it all over, a shuddering heat from his toes all the way up to his ears, and Sam was sure they were on fire. There seemed nothing to do but answer with his own, the instinct to rise to any challenge his big brother put out there long ago ingrained, and Sam tangled his tongue with Dean’s, pushed back and licked in, and the fire was all over him now, every inch of him alight with it.
People were singing Auld Lang Syne on television and Sam was making out with his brother on the couch of a crappy little motel in Colorado. Dean woke up enough to close his mouth about the same time the Times Square crowd stopped singing, and said “S’mmy? What?” sort of garbled against Sam’s chin. Sam’s skin was wet and tingly there, slick from Dean’s messy kisses.
Sam leaned back and sat up a little more, trying to remember what the appropriate reaction was. I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it? Let’s do it some more?
“Um, Happy New Year,” he settled on instead. Dean’s eyes were wide and green. The crease reappeared on his forehead, and Sam reached out to smooth his thumb over it.
“Don’t wanna see you worried,” Sam said, because he was maybe even more drunk than he’d been ten minutes ago, and he kept wanting to say things that were true, even if it was against the rules.
“Worried about what?” Dean asked, and his eyes were less wide but no less green.
“Anything,” Sam said, shaking his head sadly. “Everything.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth across Dean’s forehead, then let it drift down Dean’s cheek and over the slightly stubbled line of his jaw. He saw the moment Dean felt the touch for what it was, and everything slowed and tilted and shook a little, the universe trying to decide which way to let the Winchesters’ world turn. Sam wasn’t surprised when it spun in a different direction than everyone else’s; it had always been that way.
When Sam took his hand away, Dean’s forehead was smooth, his expression open.
“Well I guess that helps a little,” Dean said, and Sam combed his fingers through the soft spikes of Dean’s hair, down the nape of his neck, until Dean shivered and Sam knew that they were both catching fire. Dean’s lips parted, his cheeks pinked. Sam could see the bob of his Adam’s apple as Dean leaned his head back again, into Sam’s touch.
“A little is good,” Sam said, and shifted on the couch to press in closer, until he could feel the warmth of Dean’s breath against his cheek, then against his lips. He paused there, savoring the promise of change that for once was theirs to decide on – not angels, not demons, not vampires, not even other people. Dean leaned up and caught Sam’s mouth with his own, and Sam let himself fall.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 2 of 2