title: this moment is mine
characters: sam, dean
words: 991
warnings: incest. that's pretty much it.
for kiwi, just because i could. also, happy national sex day, bitches~
and as always, i own not a thing.
-o-
Sam is back.
Sam is back.
Dean's still so damn stuck on that simple fact that it's all he can think about. Even when it's four in the morning and everyone else is asleep – he's lying there on the couch in Bobby's study with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might actually form a mouth and start talking to him. Ask him how he's doing. How the weather's been.
Or why he isn't down in the basement on that tiny cot with his brother.
Sam. Sammy.
Sammy's back.
He keeps telling himself it's because Sam needs his space. Needs time to readjust. (Which is complete and utter bullshit, because he doesn't remember anything anyway, and this is just Dean making excuses – but what else is new?) Even given the fact that Sam hadn't seemed like he'd wanted to be very far from his brother in the first place, which is no big surprise because he's such a damn girl –
Fuck, what the fuck, why aren't you down there right now reminding him why he's always belonged to you –
He doesn't think Sam's forgotten that part. If he ever did? Well.
Perfect excuse to drive that point home. Like he's ever needed one.
The way he slinks downstairs on bare feet is unlike him; he's too quiet, too careful not to make any noise at all, lest he cause enough of a disturbance to wake Bobby. (Though, if he really thinks about it, the guy sleeps like the damn dead most of the time. That isn't going to be the problem. So why is he even bothering? He doesn't know.) The way he pauses just outside the door to the panic room is even less like him, but he does anyway – he just stands there for a second, taking in the way Sam is face-down on the cot with his head buried beneath the pillow, probably sleeping as hard as he ever has.
Hell, he hasn't needed to sleep for so long, it's probably caught up to him. Maybe he should just .. leave him alone and go back upstairs, because he doesn't want this to turn out to be awkward, or any kind of bullshit like that –
Fuck that. This is Sam.
When has he ever worried about shit getting awkward?
Dean steps inside that stuffy room, pushing the door shut behind him as quietly as he can, which is no small feat considering the amount of WD-40 the hinges need to keep from squeaking. (He'll remind Bobby about that later. Maybe. If he can remember.) And when he kneels next to the cot, the tips of his fingers automatically find the small of his brother's bare back, tracing along the familiar lines of his spine up to the nape of his neck, the tiny shudder it brings accompanied with a slight hum from under the pillow is enough to tug the corner of the older's mouth into a smug little grin.
Who says Dean Winchester is incapable of subtlety?
Sam mumbles something, half in sleep as he drags his head out from under the pillow, hazel eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused when they settle on his brother. "Dean?" he asks, voice all muzzled and soft and goddamn, that kind of thing shouldn't be so damn attractive. And when Dean presses close, lips tracing over the edge of an unshaven jaw, growling out a simple, "don't talk"?
He doesn't say another damn word.
Dean thinks he probably shouldn't enjoy the taste of that level of authority, but whatever.
He kisses him like this is the one thing he's been waiting for for the past year and a half. All teeth, the slick slide of his tongue, hard enough to bruise. (Because this is what it's supposed to be like. It's supposed to be that lean body pressing up into him when he shoves him down onto his back, it's supposed to be the touch of large hands pressing into the small of his back to encourage the rock of his hips against him. It's supposed to be this, all of this, the taste of his skin and the upward tilt of his hips that tells him he wants him deeper without ever opening his mouth, the pressure of long legs curling around his waist to bring him closer, the sound of his voice –)
Maybe there isn't as much authority to his tone as he'd originally thought, or maybe Sam just can't help it – whatever the case, it's just one word, and one that his brother can't exactly say he minds hearing like that. Stunted and breathless, like a prayer to a god that isn't listening.
"Dean."
It's fucking beautiful. It's twisted and sick and full of sin, but this is who they are, this is how they are, and it might be buying them a one-way ticket to hell when their time is finally up but fuck it – they've both seen the other side of that fence, and at least from Dean's perspective?
It's fucking worth it. Worth it to be able to have him like this, to be able to bring that body as close to the edge as he possibly can before holding off, just to see that would-be scowl turn his brother's mouth down. To be able to offer just a smug grin in response before he gives him what he wants, and loses himself in the sound of a scream muffled against his shoulder.
This.
This.
Is what he'd been made for. And barring hell and having to spend the better part of six months with something that had not been his brother, the ache in his chest that surfaces from realizing that it had still been better than nothing at all?
If he doesn't let go as soon as he thinks he should, it's all just a matter of perspective.