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[personal profile] and_i_waited
[a living dance upon dead minds]
818 words

notes: this is for [personal profile] lightthesparks, based on this picture.

It wasn’t anything worse than they’ve been through before. Before this year – before hell, and losing Dean, and getting him back and being so terrified to lose him again – before now, it would have barely registered on Sam’s radar. Dean will walk away with some bruises and scrapes, maybe a pulled muscle, but Sam’s heart is still racing, the pulse thudding heavy in the vein in his neck. They finish, pack the wet dirt back into the grave, and walk away mostly unscathed, but Sam still can’t breathe; he’s still thinking that it could have happened different, Dean could be laying back there in that dirt just the same as he was last year, before he came back to Sam – after Sam fell apart and had to live without him.

At the car, Dean stoops to unlock the doors and Sam grabs fistfuls of jacket, breathing heavy the smell the Dean, the feel of him, the heat of him. He hears the air go out of Dean’s lungs when they tumble back against the car, Sam’s weight too much on Dean. “Too close,” Sam murmurs, nose against Dean’s neck, mouth moving against his skin.

“I’m okay, Sammy,” Dean says softly, fingers carding through Sam’s damp hair. Sam bites down, sucks at the skin, knows he’ll be leaving a mark for everyone to see.

“Can’t lose you again,” Sam says into Dean’s skin, his hands already fumbling with Dean’s belt.

“M’right here,” Dean mumbles as Sam’s mouth pushes against his. It’s at the wrong angle, slick and dry all at once, warm with their heat, cool from the drizzle, but it’s so good.

It feels like a race to get their clothes off. Sam pulls at Dean’s shirt, tosses it on the ground and knows it will be wet when Dean puts it back on; he tosses his own shirt on top of it. Sam’s the one that doesn’t need to be naked for the sex to be good, he always has been, but this time, he needs to feel Dean skin-on-skin and no other way. The grass is cool and wet on his bare feet when he gets his boots on socks off.

“Wanna fuck you,” Sam mumbles, biting Dean’s scapula, leaving teeth marks that will bruise by morning. “Can I?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, fisting his cock. “Yeah.”

There isn’t a whole lot of prep, but Dean doesn’t need it; he’d tell Sam if he did. Sam pushes his fingers into Dean’s mouth while Dean jerks himself slow and hard, and Sam’s cock twitches heavy and wet at the tip against Dean’s ass. He pulls his fingers out of Dean’s mouth and Dean sighs loud and uncontrolled when Sam presses two fingers behind his balls, sliding back, finding Dean’s hole and pushing in.

It’s not slick enough, but Sam pushes Dean’s leg up, bent at the knee to rest on the hood of the car and lines up, pushing in until he’s so far inside of Dean he feels like he’s suffocating. “Feel so good,” he says, hands dropping to Dean’s hips. Dean cranes his neck, tries to see Sam, but it’s not the right angle; Sam shifts forward, sliding up just enough, and Dean curses, hips jerking against the car. Sam fucks him slow at first, a slow pull-out and a grinding slide back in, but it’s too much.

Sam digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, thrusts harder, faster. Dean tips his head back, one hand on his cock, pushing back against Sam. “God, fuck,” Dean whispers. “Come on.”

Sam wants it to lasts longer, God he wants it to last so much longer, but he can’t – not when it’s desperate like this, too good and too real. His nails will leave crescents in Dean’s skin. Sam shudders, whispers fuck, fucking himself into Dean as deep as he can go. “Come on, Sammy,” Dean says. “Almost there.”

Sam reaches down, wraps a hand around Dean, helps him stroke his cock in time with Sam’s thrusts, until Dean’s breath hitches and Sam can feel it, and Dean comes, spurting over their hands and on the hood. “Jesus…fuck, Dean,” Sam says, thrusting his cock into Dean so hard and so fast he’s afraid Dean might break. He comes like that, as far as he can get inside of Dean.

Their clothes are wet and dirty when they pull them back on, and it starts to rain in fat, heavy drops. Dean fixes the collar on his jacket and picks his keys up out of the grass. “Hey,” Sam says softly, a hand on Dean’s arm to turn him around. They don’t really need to say much more than that; the look on Dean’s face says he gets it, maybe more than Sam realizes in that moment.

Dean unlocks the doors. They climb in, turn on the radio, and they drive.


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February 2010

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