supernatural : desert road : fiction
Jan. 17th, 2006 12:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenappleDesert Road
Supernatural
Sam/Dean
1850 words
January 2006
Adult content: language and explicit sex, adult concepts and situations
Summary: Sam starts awake on a dirt road in the middle of nothing, bleached limestone hills and fine white dust like smoke under their wheels.
Sam starts awake on a dirt road in the middle of nothing, bleached limestone hills and fine white dust like smoke under their wheels.
His hair lies damp against his cheek; sweat clings in a dark arrow down the front of his tee, under his arms. Dean has taken his off, and he’s glowing with sweat, grainy with dust; one hand on the wheel, the other out the window. A fifth of Wild Turkey between his legs and the sun burning down.
Sweat is slicking him up from asscrack to nuts, and Sam unsticks himself from the seat and shifts in his pants. Rubs the grit from his eyes with his thumb.
“Where are we?” he says.
“Somewhere between.. I Don’t Know, and I Don’t Give a Damn,” Dean says.
Sam squints through the dust on the windshield. Slides the AC lever back and forth, but nothing happens. “Ugh. What’s with the air conditioner?”
“Busted.” Dean lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a swig. Grimacing a little and sucking his teeth when he swallows. “We’ll get it fixed when we get to Vegas.”
“We’re going to Vegas?”
“Why the hell not.”
“Because I thought we were laying low for a while.”
After a little misunderstanding near Laredo, Texas involving the corpse of a thirteen year old migrant worker. Never mind she was already dead when they shot her full of birch and silver.
But it wasn’t just the law they were running from, and there were more of them every day. Some weren’t even bothering to hide in human bodies, anymore.
“Well, wherever we end up, we’ll get it fixed,” says Dean.
Sam nods and yawns. Presses his wrists into the roof. Bangs his knee on the glovebox. “Let’s pull over for a while,” he says. “I need to stretch my legs. Fuck, it’s hot.” He pulls at his tee.
Dean takes another drink and glances sideways at Sam, “Yeah, could use a piss break, myself,” he says. He doesn’t pull over – there’s nowhere to pull over to, just a dirt road in the middle of the desert – he takes his foot off the gas, and they roll to a stop, and the dust slowly settles around them.
Sam sighs and opens the door and sticks his legs out. Bends and ducks to pulls his tee over his broad shoulders. He stands and stretches. Throws his shirt into the backseat. His chest is fair against the tawny tan of his arms and neck. Cut down the middle by an unevenly seeded row of hair, a dark line that disappears under smooth denim. Wild, dark hair under his arms. He rubs a hand back and forth over his damp head, runs his fingers through hair long enough to brush his chin.
He walks off the road and into the sagebrush and unzips his pants, aims at one of the dry, brittle bushes. His piss soaks into the dirt, disappears almost as soon as it hits the ground.
Dean’s boots hit the dirt, he stumbles out of the driver’s seat, his bad knee giving just a little. He leans on the roof, and hisses when he burns his forearms; licks his fingers and rubs them over tender skin. He stands and brings the bottle to his lips for another wet, warm kiss, swaying a little under the heat and the whiskey. Watching Sam. Sam is just standing out there, holding his dick, watching the skyline; and then he gives a couple shakes and puts himself away, zips up. Walks back to the Chevy, shading his eyes, kicking tumbleweeds.
Dean walks around the hood, hand out to steady himself. He leans on the car next to Sam, careful not to touch bare skin to metal. Sets the half-empty bottle on the hood. Sam is staring down at the ground and Dean knocks a shoulder against him affectionately.
Sam grabs an image from Dean’s mind: dark shape of wings against the moon, mask slipping from the face of a pretty blonde, black eyes and an open mouth. Sam jerks his head away and nods, sucking air, breath ragged when he lets it out.
Dean steps around Sam to lean through the window, hand on Sam’s chest for balance. He pops the glove box and pulls out a new pack of Luckies. Unwraps them from their plastic, lets the thin transparent shell fall to the ground and shakes out a cig; lifts the box to his mouth and pulls it out with his lips. He sets the pack behind him on the hood and digs in his pocket for his Zippo; flips the lid and runs the wheel across frayed jeans and brings the flame to his face. Flicks the cover shut, pushes the lighter down into his back pocket. Inhales, squinting against the smoke. Picks a piece of tobacco off his tongue with his thumb.
He’d taken it up seriously when Sam left that first time. When Sam came back, quitting had been easy. Sam never said anything. Not about the smokes, and not about why he’d gone in the first place.
But after… Dean cradling Dad’s head in one arm, his palm pressed flat against his chest, Dean’s hands and shirtfront and everything slick with blood…
Sam bought the first pack himself, neither of them able to look the other in the eye when he said, “You could probably use a smoke,” and Dean smoked that first one with shaking, bloody fingers, inhaling the thick, familiar haze, and every one tasted just a little like death, and a whole lot like heaven.
Dean clamps the corner of his mouth around the Lucky and his words are slightly muffled as he says, “We could head up to Elko instead, cross up into Idaho and Wyoming – there’s a few places I know we could squat – stash the car for a while in this old abandoned barn I know.” The end of the cigarette bobs in the air and sends out tiny smokesignals. The tip crackles and glows, turns to ash. Dean slips it between his fingers and exhales, blowing white smoke from his nose.
Sam looks up, at the swimming, melting horizon, rubs a hand on the back of his neck where the sun’s burning his skin. Watches something small sail across the naked blue sky. They used to love to count black birds on the wires when they were kids. Seven for a secret, eight for a wish, nine for a kiss. He can’t even look at a fucking crow anymore. He walks around the passenger door and drops into the seat, feet in the dirt and his head in his hands.
Dean shuffles his boots in the dirt. Squats down between Sam’s knees, his hand on Sam’s cheek. “Hey. You alright? You see something?”
Sam tries to laugh, chokes out a, “No.”
Dean runs the ball of his thumb over Sam’s lip, and there’s a scar there that Dean gave him, and he leans in and kisses it, softly.
“Dean, I know you don’t want to hear this again…”
“Then don’t say it,” and he flicks ash onto the toe of his scuffed boot.
“We need help. It can’t be just us anymore.”
“We’re all there is,” Dean whispers, and puts his mouth to Sam’s knee.
“That doesn’t worry you? It doesn’t terrify you? Just a little?” Sam shakes his head. “Why are we running?” Sam says, quiet. “Are we ever going to be strong enough?”
Dean takes one last drag on his cigarette and flicks it into the dirt. He rests his hands on Sam’s thighs, presses himself in and kisses the line of soft, dark hair above Sam’s waistband, licks his tongue into Sam’s bellybutton. Scrapes his teeth over the tight skin on his stomach. Opens his mouth wider, bites slow and careful, not breaking skin, sinking into muscle.
Sam hisses; he cradles his brother’s head in his hands out of habit; the soft, short hair under his hands like the fur of an animal.
Dean doesn’t ask – doesn’t need to – before he unzips Sam’s jeans, thumbs the flush dark head of his cock pressing against white briefs. With his knees in the pale dirt, Dean wraps his arms around his brother’s waist. With his mouth, he covers his brother’s hard-on through his underwear. Sucking on cotton, traveling along Sam’s shaft with firm, pulsing kisses. His tongue flicking across the silky, dusky head when it pushes free of the material and stands snug against his belly. Sam breathes raggedly in and wriggles his hips under his brother’s mouth. “Dean.. It’s too hot for this, let me go.”
But when Dean reaches through his brother’s briefs with strong, steady hands to free his cock, thumb and fingers running reverent over dark veined skin, Sam bucks his hips up off the seat and into his brother’s mouth.
Dean is hot and wet and sloppy with booze, his tongue spread wide and pressing up against the underside of Sam’s cock, spit running down into the stubble on his chin. “You taste so good,” he whispers onto flushed skin, and Sam opens and closes his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, flailing, seeking balance. When Dean takes him deep, Sam presses down with both of his hands on Dean’s head, trapping him on his cock, until Dean lowers his teeth down gently around the base of Sam’s cock in warning, and Sam lets him up, both of them gasping for air.
Dean tugs Sam’s underwear and jeans down to his knees and buries his nose into his thick dark hair, strokes him lazily, licks under his balls and sucks the shifting, velvety skin into his mouth. Sam’s sweaty fingers clutch and slip over the black vinyl. With one splayed hand, Dean gently lifts cock and balls; he licks the fingers of his other hand, until they shine with spit, stringing thick between the pads, tiny bubbles over the surface. He slides in, he pushes up; he finds Sam’s asshole and teases, rubs just a little, over the tight muscle there. “Oh, fuck, man,” Sam breathes, and Dean wraps his hand around the base of Sam’s dick, pulls the delicate, satiny skin taut, and slides his brother’s dick in his mouth again, moving hand and mouth in a steady, quick rhythm. He presses a finger into Sam, and Sam opens his mouth like he’s drowning, sucking air but not breathing, and then he’s coming hard into the back of Dean’s throat and thick on his tongue and Dean swallows and swallows; and then pulls off while Sam’s still pumping come, glossy and thick down over the head and the shaft and into his curling pubes.
Dean stands, leans dizzily on the doorframe. Then stretches and grabs the hot glass neck of the bottle with three fingers, and chases the dark acrid taste of his brother’s come with the sharp sting of alcohol.
He stands in front of Sam. He curls his fingers around Sam’s jaw and says, “Ask me again, Sammy. Ask if we can do this, just you and me.” Sam, chest still heaving, breath ragged, turns his head and kisses his brother’s palm in benediction.
And Sam nods. He says, “Let’s go.”
Supernatural
Sam/Dean
1850 words
January 2006
Adult content: language and explicit sex, adult concepts and situations
Summary: Sam starts awake on a dirt road in the middle of nothing, bleached limestone hills and fine white dust like smoke under their wheels.
Sam starts awake on a dirt road in the middle of nothing, bleached limestone hills and fine white dust like smoke under their wheels.
His hair lies damp against his cheek; sweat clings in a dark arrow down the front of his tee, under his arms. Dean has taken his off, and he’s glowing with sweat, grainy with dust; one hand on the wheel, the other out the window. A fifth of Wild Turkey between his legs and the sun burning down.
Sweat is slicking him up from asscrack to nuts, and Sam unsticks himself from the seat and shifts in his pants. Rubs the grit from his eyes with his thumb.
“Where are we?” he says.
“Somewhere between.. I Don’t Know, and I Don’t Give a Damn,” Dean says.
Sam squints through the dust on the windshield. Slides the AC lever back and forth, but nothing happens. “Ugh. What’s with the air conditioner?”
“Busted.” Dean lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a swig. Grimacing a little and sucking his teeth when he swallows. “We’ll get it fixed when we get to Vegas.”
“We’re going to Vegas?”
“Why the hell not.”
“Because I thought we were laying low for a while.”
After a little misunderstanding near Laredo, Texas involving the corpse of a thirteen year old migrant worker. Never mind she was already dead when they shot her full of birch and silver.
But it wasn’t just the law they were running from, and there were more of them every day. Some weren’t even bothering to hide in human bodies, anymore.
“Well, wherever we end up, we’ll get it fixed,” says Dean.
Sam nods and yawns. Presses his wrists into the roof. Bangs his knee on the glovebox. “Let’s pull over for a while,” he says. “I need to stretch my legs. Fuck, it’s hot.” He pulls at his tee.
Dean takes another drink and glances sideways at Sam, “Yeah, could use a piss break, myself,” he says. He doesn’t pull over – there’s nowhere to pull over to, just a dirt road in the middle of the desert – he takes his foot off the gas, and they roll to a stop, and the dust slowly settles around them.
Sam sighs and opens the door and sticks his legs out. Bends and ducks to pulls his tee over his broad shoulders. He stands and stretches. Throws his shirt into the backseat. His chest is fair against the tawny tan of his arms and neck. Cut down the middle by an unevenly seeded row of hair, a dark line that disappears under smooth denim. Wild, dark hair under his arms. He rubs a hand back and forth over his damp head, runs his fingers through hair long enough to brush his chin.
He walks off the road and into the sagebrush and unzips his pants, aims at one of the dry, brittle bushes. His piss soaks into the dirt, disappears almost as soon as it hits the ground.
Dean’s boots hit the dirt, he stumbles out of the driver’s seat, his bad knee giving just a little. He leans on the roof, and hisses when he burns his forearms; licks his fingers and rubs them over tender skin. He stands and brings the bottle to his lips for another wet, warm kiss, swaying a little under the heat and the whiskey. Watching Sam. Sam is just standing out there, holding his dick, watching the skyline; and then he gives a couple shakes and puts himself away, zips up. Walks back to the Chevy, shading his eyes, kicking tumbleweeds.
Dean walks around the hood, hand out to steady himself. He leans on the car next to Sam, careful not to touch bare skin to metal. Sets the half-empty bottle on the hood. Sam is staring down at the ground and Dean knocks a shoulder against him affectionately.
Sam grabs an image from Dean’s mind: dark shape of wings against the moon, mask slipping from the face of a pretty blonde, black eyes and an open mouth. Sam jerks his head away and nods, sucking air, breath ragged when he lets it out.
Dean steps around Sam to lean through the window, hand on Sam’s chest for balance. He pops the glove box and pulls out a new pack of Luckies. Unwraps them from their plastic, lets the thin transparent shell fall to the ground and shakes out a cig; lifts the box to his mouth and pulls it out with his lips. He sets the pack behind him on the hood and digs in his pocket for his Zippo; flips the lid and runs the wheel across frayed jeans and brings the flame to his face. Flicks the cover shut, pushes the lighter down into his back pocket. Inhales, squinting against the smoke. Picks a piece of tobacco off his tongue with his thumb.
He’d taken it up seriously when Sam left that first time. When Sam came back, quitting had been easy. Sam never said anything. Not about the smokes, and not about why he’d gone in the first place.
But after… Dean cradling Dad’s head in one arm, his palm pressed flat against his chest, Dean’s hands and shirtfront and everything slick with blood…
Sam bought the first pack himself, neither of them able to look the other in the eye when he said, “You could probably use a smoke,” and Dean smoked that first one with shaking, bloody fingers, inhaling the thick, familiar haze, and every one tasted just a little like death, and a whole lot like heaven.
Dean clamps the corner of his mouth around the Lucky and his words are slightly muffled as he says, “We could head up to Elko instead, cross up into Idaho and Wyoming – there’s a few places I know we could squat – stash the car for a while in this old abandoned barn I know.” The end of the cigarette bobs in the air and sends out tiny smokesignals. The tip crackles and glows, turns to ash. Dean slips it between his fingers and exhales, blowing white smoke from his nose.
Sam looks up, at the swimming, melting horizon, rubs a hand on the back of his neck where the sun’s burning his skin. Watches something small sail across the naked blue sky. They used to love to count black birds on the wires when they were kids. Seven for a secret, eight for a wish, nine for a kiss. He can’t even look at a fucking crow anymore. He walks around the passenger door and drops into the seat, feet in the dirt and his head in his hands.
Dean shuffles his boots in the dirt. Squats down between Sam’s knees, his hand on Sam’s cheek. “Hey. You alright? You see something?”
Sam tries to laugh, chokes out a, “No.”
Dean runs the ball of his thumb over Sam’s lip, and there’s a scar there that Dean gave him, and he leans in and kisses it, softly.
“Dean, I know you don’t want to hear this again…”
“Then don’t say it,” and he flicks ash onto the toe of his scuffed boot.
“We need help. It can’t be just us anymore.”
“We’re all there is,” Dean whispers, and puts his mouth to Sam’s knee.
“That doesn’t worry you? It doesn’t terrify you? Just a little?” Sam shakes his head. “Why are we running?” Sam says, quiet. “Are we ever going to be strong enough?”
Dean takes one last drag on his cigarette and flicks it into the dirt. He rests his hands on Sam’s thighs, presses himself in and kisses the line of soft, dark hair above Sam’s waistband, licks his tongue into Sam’s bellybutton. Scrapes his teeth over the tight skin on his stomach. Opens his mouth wider, bites slow and careful, not breaking skin, sinking into muscle.
Sam hisses; he cradles his brother’s head in his hands out of habit; the soft, short hair under his hands like the fur of an animal.
Dean doesn’t ask – doesn’t need to – before he unzips Sam’s jeans, thumbs the flush dark head of his cock pressing against white briefs. With his knees in the pale dirt, Dean wraps his arms around his brother’s waist. With his mouth, he covers his brother’s hard-on through his underwear. Sucking on cotton, traveling along Sam’s shaft with firm, pulsing kisses. His tongue flicking across the silky, dusky head when it pushes free of the material and stands snug against his belly. Sam breathes raggedly in and wriggles his hips under his brother’s mouth. “Dean.. It’s too hot for this, let me go.”
But when Dean reaches through his brother’s briefs with strong, steady hands to free his cock, thumb and fingers running reverent over dark veined skin, Sam bucks his hips up off the seat and into his brother’s mouth.
Dean is hot and wet and sloppy with booze, his tongue spread wide and pressing up against the underside of Sam’s cock, spit running down into the stubble on his chin. “You taste so good,” he whispers onto flushed skin, and Sam opens and closes his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, flailing, seeking balance. When Dean takes him deep, Sam presses down with both of his hands on Dean’s head, trapping him on his cock, until Dean lowers his teeth down gently around the base of Sam’s cock in warning, and Sam lets him up, both of them gasping for air.
Dean tugs Sam’s underwear and jeans down to his knees and buries his nose into his thick dark hair, strokes him lazily, licks under his balls and sucks the shifting, velvety skin into his mouth. Sam’s sweaty fingers clutch and slip over the black vinyl. With one splayed hand, Dean gently lifts cock and balls; he licks the fingers of his other hand, until they shine with spit, stringing thick between the pads, tiny bubbles over the surface. He slides in, he pushes up; he finds Sam’s asshole and teases, rubs just a little, over the tight muscle there. “Oh, fuck, man,” Sam breathes, and Dean wraps his hand around the base of Sam’s dick, pulls the delicate, satiny skin taut, and slides his brother’s dick in his mouth again, moving hand and mouth in a steady, quick rhythm. He presses a finger into Sam, and Sam opens his mouth like he’s drowning, sucking air but not breathing, and then he’s coming hard into the back of Dean’s throat and thick on his tongue and Dean swallows and swallows; and then pulls off while Sam’s still pumping come, glossy and thick down over the head and the shaft and into his curling pubes.
Dean stands, leans dizzily on the doorframe. Then stretches and grabs the hot glass neck of the bottle with three fingers, and chases the dark acrid taste of his brother’s come with the sharp sting of alcohol.
He stands in front of Sam. He curls his fingers around Sam’s jaw and says, “Ask me again, Sammy. Ask if we can do this, just you and me.” Sam, chest still heaving, breath ragged, turns his head and kisses his brother’s palm in benediction.
And Sam nods. He says, “Let’s go.”