*waves* Hullo! Okay, some of you may remember this little snippet from my drabble collection "Spooks And Shotguns". Well, it's been tempting me to expand, and I finally gave in. I'm gonna set up a collection of Wincest drabbles, all around 500 words, one for each sense. This one, obviously, is sound.

I'm tossing the idea of doing 10 total, 5 for Sam, 5 for Dean. I don't know...let me know what you think. Leave it at 5 and alternate randomly, or do 10 and 5 from each boy?

Anyway, obviously, OBVIOUSLY this is WINCEST...this is the ONLY warning I'm gonna put on this collection, okay? Just bear through this. *nods*


WINCEST WARNING WINCEST WARNING

Dean knows every sound Sam makes. Born of fear, anger, frustration, amusement, joy, sorrow…it doesn't matter. He knows every last one. He started building his library of Sammy-Sounds the first day he saw the small bundle, the startled inhale from the baby as soon as hazel eyes met green.

He became better than Mary at telling what cries meant Sam was wet, or hungry, or cold, or just plain unhappy.

Some sounds he hates. The hiss of breath between clenched teeth as a needle bites deep, or the harsh pant of pain. The gagging retching noise is one that twists his stomach, not just from the event, but the fact that his Sammy is hurting, and there's nothing to make it better. The low, confused groan of consciousness in the hospital, that's another one that adds years of sorrow to the burden on Dean's shoulders. The strangled cries for a lost, dead lover, those are like a dagger to the heart. Those are the sounds that he wishes he never heard; a pile of dark and painful spots that he tries to bury in the recesses of his mind, away from ever hearing again.

Some sounds he goes out of his way to goad. The huff of annoyance at finding his entire list of files on the computer renamed randomly, the smothered laugh as Dean intentionally fumbles a shot at the dartboard, the breathy snort as Sam shakes his head in amusement. The exasperated name as Dean pokes and prods. Those are good sounds, ones that Dean collects like tiny jewels, to run through his fingers as consolation during stretches where Sam doesn't add to them.

Some sounds, he adores. Hoards them like gold, and releases them only in the dark, quiet confines of his mind. They're sounds that he used to escape the torture on the racks, ones he made damned sure no demon ever pried out of him. They're special, and he treasures each and every last one of them.

The soft inhale of worship as Dean mouths a hipbone, Sam's eyes catching stars as he kicks his head back, fingers clenching red and gold and orange leaves under the cover of October skies.

The groan of pleasure as Dean rocks against him, nipping bites along shoulders and soothing them just as quickly with a tongue.

The laugh that's only heard as Dean rubs stubbled-cheeks against sensitive sides, almost a child's squeal of pleasurable-torture, lanky body twisting as the laugh rises.

The impatient sound, not a whine, not a keen, just a sound of demand, of impatience, as Dean teases, drags out the inevitable.

The hoarse cry of his brother's name, as Dean slides him over the edge, Sam shuddering as eyes flutter closed.

The quiet, sleepy murmur of questioning contentment against Dean's back in the dark, whenever Dean moves too far. And the matching breath of pleasure and relaxation as Dean moves back into the warm circle of his brother's arms.

He knows every sound Sam makes.


Drop me a line, kay? ^_^