May 28, 2007

Disclaimer: 4 x 150, no drabbles here. Written for tvm. Do not archive without permission.

blood sugar sex magic


It doesn't show at all in the way Dean moves, and of course it's not as if Dean hasn't had a lot worse injuries over the years that he's ignored, pretended away, acted as if nothing's happened when anyone else would demand painkillers and sympathy. Every time Dean lifts his arm, or looks back over his shoulder when he's backing the car out, the motion's smooth and easy as always. But Sam knows, and he feels as if he can see through the leather jacket and the shirt and the t-shirt, right through to Dean's pale, freckled skin and the deep bitemark on his shoulder. Sam bit him hard enough to draw blood when they were fucking last night, and Dean yelled and pounded his fist on the wall and came before Sam could even reach around to touch him. Sam wants to do it all over again, right now.


Some things are supposed to be hot but just look kind of dumb, in Dean's opinion. Like when a girl would slide her lips around the neck of a bottle, or her tongue. He never laughed, because he's not stupid and when someone waved a sign at him saying sex here he wasn't about to ruin the whole thing, but that kind of teasing never did much for him. It just seemed pointless. When Dean licks his fingers clean of pancake syrup, it's for practicality, because those paper napkins are crap, and for thrift, because hey, syrup, why waste it? And he really doesn't get it when he looks up and sees Sam staring at him with dark, hungry eyes, looking a lot more into it than he ever does watching porn. Sam's a bit of a freak that way. Dean likes to suck Sam's cock, not his own fingers.


When Dean's just the right kind of drunk, some of the sharp edges wear off, especially if there's tequila involved; he gets warm and relaxed and kind of slutty, if you know how to touch him. Sam can run his hands down Dean's spine and have him practically purring, and sneak in a few of those slow, deep kisses Dean pretends he doesn't like. Only Dean gets really bossy, too, and he licks up Sam's throat to his ear and tells him exactly what he wants and how to do it and how fast and how slow and use your mouth and I want two fingers, dammit, Sam, I said two, are you even listening, can you even count to two, and fuck yes that's better. When Dean's like this it has the same effect on Sam every time: he's laughing helplessly, and so turned on he can barely breathe.


There's salt down by the doors and windows, ragged white stripes of it, and protective runes and sigils chalked on the walls. It's just habit, in a place like this, at a time like this. Gun on the table next to the bed. Knife under the pillow. Amulet around his neck. Sam in the bed with him used to be a habit, too, when they were small enough to share, and then it wasn't, and now... now it's all different, crowded and hot and it should be uncomfortable, two grown men, but. It's not. Sam's sprawled out, licking at Dean's hipbone like he's trying to wear a groove in it with his tongue, write his name the slow way, a mark of ownership. Dean doesn't know how to tell Sam that his name is already written on every part of Dean, inside and out, and that will never, ever change.

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