Title: the looks, the lure, the sweet, the pure of you
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: The tape player hums out AC/DC in the background, blends in with the buzz of the cicadas. The still earth absorbs every noise, reflects it back as blue sky and white clouds and black asphalt with yellow lines and so much solitude.
Dean doesn't smoke much. He rarely feels the urge–two or three times a day?–and he usually only acts on about half of them.
No, he's not ashamed of being a part-time smoker per se; that's not the embarrassing part.
(It's just…he smokes American Spirits.) Yes, you heard right. Now shut up, pleaseandthankyou.
So yeah, he thinks it's embarrassing, but he likes the flavor better, prefers the bite, even if he would look like a goddamn hippie if he didn't swap out half a pack of Camels to disguise them.
Very rarely, but occasionally, Sam joins him. They sit on the hood of the Impala on the side of the road and they haven't seen another car in hours and the entire horizon is taken up by golden wheat fields and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Sam doesn't smoke enough to know the difference between a Camel and an American Spirit, so Dean gives him one of the Camels that sit in the pack. They're also the ones he gives out at bars if someone wants to bum one.
The tape player hums out AC/DC in the background, blends in with the buzz of the cicadas. The still earth absorbs every noise, reflects it back as blue sky and white clouds and black asphalt with yellow lines and so much solitude.
Dean shakes out another cigarette because he doesn't want to have to get back in the car, start driving again, go back to the adrenaline and killing and blood. He pushes Sam's thigh with his for the lighter but doesn't move his leg after. He's lightheaded with nicotine, and it makes everything sharper and more intense and so beautiful it's stifling.
He turns his head to look at Sam because he needs to share this moment somehow, wants to put it into words, has to tell him that maybe there's some good to their lives after all and he's stopped wanting to give up on them for now.
But Dean can't say anything, since Sam is staring up at the sky with a blissed-out look on his face like he's feeling exactly what Dean is, he's blowing a smoke ring and Dean doesn't know when he figured out how to do that, probably just a few minutes ago the freak. He can't say anything, because that would ruin this tranquility they've just built up around themselves like shields to keep out the ugly world they have to deal with every day, so he settles for pushing his hand into Sam's hair and shifting closer.
Sam looks over. Dean, he says. Dean, he says again. Dean doesn't move, even though they aren't supposed to be like this, they aren't the kind of affectionate family that everyone but them wants to be a part of. Sam just laughs a little when he doesn't get an answer and moves his hand so it's resting behind Dean, flat against the hot black metal of the Impala, leans into him.
Dean takes another drag from his cigarette, flicks a bit of ash onto Sam's jeans. He blows the smoke into Sam's face and grins at the scrunched face he gets in return. He's struck all of a fucking sudden by how beautiful his brother is, so he pulls his hand out of his hair to drag him forward. He kisses his temple then his ear then buries his nose into his neck and just smells the leather of the Impala and the aftershave that most certainly is not his. He pulls back.
Dude, Dean says, I though I told you to stop using my aftershave.
Sam looks at him for a second like he's completely crazy, and he probably is, before leaning in and kissing him on the mouth.
It surprises Dean, of course, because his brother is kissing him and that's not exactly something you plan ahead for, but it's more of a detached observation than a punch in the gut. He knows he should freak out, push Sam away, tell him no, sit miserably through a tense ride to the nearest town and not speak to him for a month.
But it's a beautiful day and it feels nice to be kissed by someone who actually loves you and he wants to skip over all the drama that would come of stopping this.
So he kisses back. He opens his mouth and pushes closer, there's always room to go closer, wraps an arm around Sam's waist and tries to just melt them together. Dean kisses Sam back slowly, as lazy as the day that's dragging by, kisses him because he's caught up in this overwhelming love for him and it's the only thing he can think of wanting to do for the rest of his life. Sam tastes like cigarette smoke, and Dean knows he does too, and it's kind of disgusting, but that doesn't deter him from kissing deeper harder more.
Dean pulls back for a moment. I think there's something in the air, he says. It's such a lazy fucking day and Sammy Sammy Sammy what's gotten into us I've never wanted this before.
Sam's head tilts back because he has to laugh, a joyful bark of noise that jumps out from his throat, and he looks so fucking happy. Fuck so happy, so Dean kisses him quickly, then again, then again, light pecks of kisses on Sam's laughing mouth, and now Dean is laughing too, and now their mouths are pressed together and they're just laughing air into each other's lungs. Dean flicks the cigarette butt away even though there are still probably a few more drags left on it. Flicks it away and wriggles that hand under Sam's shirt so he can hold onto his hot skin and feel the living muscle move under it.
They lie back onto the hood of the Impala and watch the sun creep across the sky and then disappear over the horizon in a loud explosion of pink and purple and yellow and clouds. They lie on the hood of their car while the sky turns dark and stars poke through. Dean lights another cigarette and they trade the smoke back and forth through drowsy kisses.
fin