Just a Hole in Arizona: 18 and 22
Dec. 28th, 2007 02:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragojustineJust a Hole in Arizona
Header post | 8 and 12 | 15 and 19 | 18 and 22 | 20 and 24 | 26 and 30
Dad was out of town. Not hunting, or Dean would be there, but digging up old land-survey records at the state university library. Dean had offered to help, but the offer was halfhearted and Dad said he’d have plenty of time to help once they knew what the hell he was helping with. Two days, he’d said. Pay the gas bill, make sure Sam eats.
Sam hadn’t offered to go, and Dad hadn’t asked. Dean figured that was for the best, since Sam would just insist he couldn’t miss school. So it was a bit of a shock when Sam barged back in not two hours after Dad left, well before his lunch break. Sam kicked his backpack to a corner and flopped on the couch. Within five minutes he was fighting for the remote, interrupting a perfectly good James Bond marathon and making it clear that he was home for the day.
“What the hell happened to ‘I can’t miss school, Dad, it’s important’?”
“Dude, I graduate valedictorian in two months. You think anybody gives a damn if I skip for the first time all semester?”
“Aw, little Sammy finally admits nobody’ll miss him for a day!”
“Eh, nothing important happening today. And I am NOT spending it watching Sean Connery.”
“Well, I think the next one’s a Roger Moore, so if you’d prefer him--”
Sam paused for an exaggerated shudder before rolling Dean off the couch and trying to pin him, and then it was just grappling and twisting and rolling. Dean managed to give Sam a noogie (“Ow! God-damn Dean!) but then Sam managed to blow a raspberry on Dean’s stomach (“What are you, Sam, six?”) and somebody’s flailing leg knocked over a lamp (“That was totally you, Bigfoot”). Then Dean had Sam pinned well enough to open his jeans and mouth his cock, pressing his lips and warm tongue through the slit of Sam’s boxers. That worked pretty well at getting Sam to let go of the remote (“Dean, you little cocktease”).
By the time Sam had finished paying him back for that, the TV marathon had moved on to Roger Moore anyway. Dean clicked it off, pushed Sam onto the couch, and shoved his knees wide. Sam sat, quivering and jerking, as Dean carefully freed his cock and gave it a long, wet lick.
Sam whispered to him constantly, a steady stream of encouragement from that filthy mouth of his. Dean let it wash over him and sank languidly into the rhythm of stroking and sucking.
“God, Dean, that perfect, cocksucking mouth of yours. Gorgeous, like that, on your knees for me.”
Dean was working in earnest now, moving down to cradle Sam’s balls with his tongue and mouth the wrinkled skin there. Sam’s fingers played over his neck and shoulders, moving light and restless, leaving tingling trails in their wake. Dean returned his mouth to Sam’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard as his hand stroked firm and sure.
“Touch yourself, Dean. Want to see you, see the way you love doing this. See you want me…”
Dean fumbled his jeans open, fisting himself. He looked up, locking his eyes on Sam’s, and as his hips began to pump in earnest against his hand, Sam cupped his head and shuddered.
Afterwards, Dean sprawled out on the couch and grabbed the remote again. Sam was limp and boneless and taking up eight damned feet of space, and Dean figured that glazed-eyed, utterly relaxed half-smile on his face was just about the best thing he’d ever seen.
“So, we’ve got two days till Dad gets back. What did you have in mind, you truant?”
“Huh?”
Dean chuckled and kept flipping channels.
“Nothing in particular. You know, just… a vacation.”
“A vacation?”
“Yeah. Like, whatever you’ve wanted to do in this town, for fun. There’s gotta be something.”
“Not really.”
“Okay, well, there’s that thing down at the fairgrounds. I figure maybe we go and win a lot of crap at the little shooting range?”
“Yeah, that sounds like just a barrel of monkeys.”
“It’s a fair. There’s cotton candy.”
“I’m in.”
Sam laughed, deep and genuine. “You’re so easy.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning after their elephant ears and cotton candy excursion, Sam was trying so hard to ignore the phone that by the third call he might as well have put up a neon sign.
Dean threw it at his head.
"Sam! There's this thing, it makes this annoying noise and that means your geek-friends want to talk to you!"
"It's nothing. I just said I'd go to this game, they'll give up soon."
"Well then, go to the game. Sounds like they're dying for the pleasure of your company. Why the hell not?"
"Dean, us. You, me, vacation, remember?" and that was halfway between the "how are you such an idiot" voice and the "innocence abused" voice, but Dean wasn't interested in the charity that second one implied.
"Man, go to the game. That crazy-ass friend of yours pitching? It'll be great, eat some peanuts for me."
Sam’s jaw tightened in anger, and that was just not on.
"Sam. Seriously. You know we're laying down rubber the instant you get your diploma, and you haven't even bitched about it once. Two months, you're gonna have all the vacation you can deal with. World's biggest ball of twine, Grand Canyon, dorky history museum central, you name it. Just... go see your friends."
And that was about the most magnanimous concession speech Dean had ever managed, every ounce of "I'm sorry we're gonna move again" and "Thanks for not bitching at Dad about it, thanks for being so cool this last year" and "You and me, forever man, you never have to worry about that" that he could possibly muster. Which was why it was so intensely, monumentally unfair that Sam gave him an utterly unreadable look and just said, "Yeah. Guess so."
And despite the blankness in his look and flat tone of his voice, Dean knew Sam was still pissed when he walked out, carefully not slamming the door behind him.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
When Sam wasn't in hunting mode- which was most of the time, these days-- he tended to walk like an elephant, or maybe a whole herd of elephants. Dean didn't even have to listen to hear the whole story play out at the front door, without stepping out of the kitchen to look.
Rattling of keys.
Heavy thumping and scuffing, that would be baseball diamond mud on his boots.
One heavy, clomping, still pissed-off step.
And then-- the sudden silence as Sam stopped dead.
Gentle click as the door swung shut on its own, instead of being pushed. A light, muffled thud as his jacket slipped to the floor. Time for two deep breaths.
Footsteps, not remotely pissed-off anymore.
Yes, Dean reflected, the smell of freshly-baked lasagna does interesting things to a man. Possibly more so if that man grew two inches in the last nine months alone.
"You cooked?"
"Yup."
"No, really. You cooked."
"Heard you the first time."
Sam didn't want to grin, but something a whole lot like a grin was showing up anyway. It's great to watch, Dean thought, the part of him that's trying to remember to be pissed warring against the part that just wants to light up like Christmas lights, and losing the battle one tooth and dimple at a time.
"And you set the table. With place mats. And napkins and crap."
"We're civilized human beings sometimes."
"Aw, Dean, where's my single red rose and mood music?"
The grin was uncontested now, and Dean loved that Sam's "this is the greatest thing ever" grin was completely indistinguishable from his "I am going to give you so much shit about this" grin, loved that most of the time, it was both.
"There's no mood music, Samantha. But there is" --and this required a proper showman's flourish, here, as he opened the oven and watched Sam just about fall over as the smell hit him-- "garlic bread!"
Sam didn't collapse right into his chair, didn't fall on the food like the vulture Dean knew he was around food that didn't come in Styrofoam. Instead, he gave Dean an odd look (suspicious, obviously, but if Dean didn't know better he'd call it afraid) and asked, "Why?"
"Because I wanted to. Eat."
The question stayed buried until the garlic bread was all gone and Sam was dishing out the second helping of lasagna. Dean set a bottle on the table by his hand, and Sam glanced up quickly through a curtain of bangs.
"Dean, why?"
"Man, you're 18 and Dad's out of town. What the hell did you think you were drinking?"
Sam opened it (and Dean tried not to watch the way the tendons on the back of his hand stood out briefly, the way the muscle in his forearm tensed) and took one long, deliberate pull. When he spoke, his tone was careful.
"No, Dean. Why all of this?"
"Aw man, are you gonna make me do this?"
Sam took another drink, impassive.
"You're graduating in two months. That's huge! You think I'd do girly shit like this with Dad around? Consider this the early graduation celebration."
Sam was still watching him with a steady, unsettling gaze, and Dean tried to tear his eyes away only to have them caught on the way Sam's long fingers rested on the neck of his bottle, the way his other hand lay casually on his thigh.
"Look, Sam. You graduate, it's the first time our lives don't revolve around the school year. We can do anything, go anywhere. And I know you haven't been crazy about stuff, but it doesn't have to be bad. Maybe once in a while we handle jobs ourselves, let Dad take an old-dude break. I know you're gonna miss school, I know you liked geeky crap like that, but you can get a fucking PhD in creature studies just from the books under Caleb's bed, and that's before you even start in on Pastor Jim's minor gods stuff and Bobby's demonology. Now you'll have time for that, if you want. It doesn't have to be bad, Sam, it doesn't have to be war all the time. The two of us, man, we can save people. We don't have to take any crap, we can do good, you could be happy, Sam, I swear to you--"
Dean was suddenly, acutely aware that he was babbling. Sam hadn't moved an inch, not the fingers around his beer bottle or the hand resting on this thigh. His gaze was still steady and intense, Dean knew, but he couldn't bring himself to meet it.
Dean wished Sam would move-- brush back his stupid hair, take a drink, something-- because for every moment that he sat there like that this thing grew heavier in the air between them and Dean was aware of every stupid twitch of his hands, every time his gaze shifted with nowhere to rest.
"You don't know SHIT, Dean."
Just like that, the spell was broken. Sam was on his feet now, coming around the table, drawn up to his full height and shoulders thrown back. He was yelling now, even as he grabbed Dean by the collar. "You don't understand a GOD DAMNED THING!"
And Dean didn't know why, didn't understand what had happened, but he knew his role. He knew when he had to simply stand and endure and let Sam's rage crash over him like heavy surf, like he was some kind of fucking retaining wall at the shore. Stand up and stand in its way and take it, protect the town behind. Protect the family.
Without Dad there, getting slammed from only one side, Dean felt unbalanced. Without the goal of brokering a peace, absorbing enough anger so they could talk to one another again, he didn't have a clue what to do.
But it wasn't until Sam had him shoved back against the kitchen counter, until the hands on his collar were suddenly clutching the back of his neck, that Dean realized he had it all wrong. For all the sound and the fury, for all the towering thunderclouds in Sam's face, the darkness in his eyes wasn't rage. It was desolation.
One of Sam’s hands was leaving bruises on his scalp and the other was pressed flat to the cupboard behind him, closing him in. His kissing was a mess of sharp bites and suction and rough, invasive tongue and Dean was trapped, riding the rough denim of Sam’s thigh shoved between his legs and opening and yielding as Sam’s tongue fucked his mouth.
He didn’t understand a god damned thing and it didn’t matter, because this was what Sam needed now. Every time he stood between Sam and Dad and let their shouts beat against him he felt himself eroding away bit by bit, but this… He opened and took it and let it wash over him and it felt like Sam rebuilding him.
He was moaning and rutting against the crease of Sam’s hip by the time Sam finally reached for the buttons on his jeans. He tried to help but Sam grabbed him, wrapped that huge hand all the way around his wrist and pressed his palm to the counter with a demanding growl, and all Dean could do was buck against him harder and let his head fall back against the cupboards.
Sam was sucking savagely on the curve of his shoulder and Dean writhed. He couldn’t seem to make his hands move from where they were pressed flat to the counter, and Sam let his bite mark go with a loud pop and moved up to gasp right over Dean’s ear.
“So good Dean, keep them right there, being so fucking good for me… Have you like this, all spread out and moaning. Dean, I want--”
Then Sam had that huge hand on Dean’s cock, pulling and twisting a little, letting his thumb play over the slit. His other hand was gripping Dean’s hip, his fingernails digging little half-moons in over the bone. He was riding Dean hard now, and the zipper of his jeans pinched and bruised between them.
Dean wanted to pull Sam’s jeans off, suggest the couch, a bed, do something to quiet the brutal squeeze of Sam’s hands. But the little voice of what Sam needs, what Sam needs kept echoing in his head. Sam was talking again, whispers and filthy growls against his neck. “Just like this, God. Dean, your cock” “take you here, spill over my hand right here,” “hurts, doesn’t it? Should hurt, the two of us.”
Then Sam’s mouth covered his, greedily swallowing his broken moans. Dean arched and spasmed, pressed full-length against Sam and scrabbling at the linoleum. Dimly, he felt Sam’s teeth nip at his lip hard enough to draw out a bead of blood, and Sam gasped out, “fuck Dean yes like that” as he came.
Header post | 8 and 12 | 15 and 19 | 18 and 22 | 20 and 24 | 26 and 30
Dad was out of town. Not hunting, or Dean would be there, but digging up old land-survey records at the state university library. Dean had offered to help, but the offer was halfhearted and Dad said he’d have plenty of time to help once they knew what the hell he was helping with. Two days, he’d said. Pay the gas bill, make sure Sam eats.
Sam hadn’t offered to go, and Dad hadn’t asked. Dean figured that was for the best, since Sam would just insist he couldn’t miss school. So it was a bit of a shock when Sam barged back in not two hours after Dad left, well before his lunch break. Sam kicked his backpack to a corner and flopped on the couch. Within five minutes he was fighting for the remote, interrupting a perfectly good James Bond marathon and making it clear that he was home for the day.
“What the hell happened to ‘I can’t miss school, Dad, it’s important’?”
“Dude, I graduate valedictorian in two months. You think anybody gives a damn if I skip for the first time all semester?”
“Aw, little Sammy finally admits nobody’ll miss him for a day!”
“Eh, nothing important happening today. And I am NOT spending it watching Sean Connery.”
“Well, I think the next one’s a Roger Moore, so if you’d prefer him--”
Sam paused for an exaggerated shudder before rolling Dean off the couch and trying to pin him, and then it was just grappling and twisting and rolling. Dean managed to give Sam a noogie (“Ow! God-damn Dean!) but then Sam managed to blow a raspberry on Dean’s stomach (“What are you, Sam, six?”) and somebody’s flailing leg knocked over a lamp (“That was totally you, Bigfoot”). Then Dean had Sam pinned well enough to open his jeans and mouth his cock, pressing his lips and warm tongue through the slit of Sam’s boxers. That worked pretty well at getting Sam to let go of the remote (“Dean, you little cocktease”).
By the time Sam had finished paying him back for that, the TV marathon had moved on to Roger Moore anyway. Dean clicked it off, pushed Sam onto the couch, and shoved his knees wide. Sam sat, quivering and jerking, as Dean carefully freed his cock and gave it a long, wet lick.
Sam whispered to him constantly, a steady stream of encouragement from that filthy mouth of his. Dean let it wash over him and sank languidly into the rhythm of stroking and sucking.
“God, Dean, that perfect, cocksucking mouth of yours. Gorgeous, like that, on your knees for me.”
Dean was working in earnest now, moving down to cradle Sam’s balls with his tongue and mouth the wrinkled skin there. Sam’s fingers played over his neck and shoulders, moving light and restless, leaving tingling trails in their wake. Dean returned his mouth to Sam’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard as his hand stroked firm and sure.
“Touch yourself, Dean. Want to see you, see the way you love doing this. See you want me…”
Dean fumbled his jeans open, fisting himself. He looked up, locking his eyes on Sam’s, and as his hips began to pump in earnest against his hand, Sam cupped his head and shuddered.
Afterwards, Dean sprawled out on the couch and grabbed the remote again. Sam was limp and boneless and taking up eight damned feet of space, and Dean figured that glazed-eyed, utterly relaxed half-smile on his face was just about the best thing he’d ever seen.
“So, we’ve got two days till Dad gets back. What did you have in mind, you truant?”
“Huh?”
Dean chuckled and kept flipping channels.
“Nothing in particular. You know, just… a vacation.”
“A vacation?”
“Yeah. Like, whatever you’ve wanted to do in this town, for fun. There’s gotta be something.”
“Not really.”
“Okay, well, there’s that thing down at the fairgrounds. I figure maybe we go and win a lot of crap at the little shooting range?”
“Yeah, that sounds like just a barrel of monkeys.”
“It’s a fair. There’s cotton candy.”
“I’m in.”
Sam laughed, deep and genuine. “You’re so easy.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning after their elephant ears and cotton candy excursion, Sam was trying so hard to ignore the phone that by the third call he might as well have put up a neon sign.
Dean threw it at his head.
"Sam! There's this thing, it makes this annoying noise and that means your geek-friends want to talk to you!"
"It's nothing. I just said I'd go to this game, they'll give up soon."
"Well then, go to the game. Sounds like they're dying for the pleasure of your company. Why the hell not?"
"Dean, us. You, me, vacation, remember?" and that was halfway between the "how are you such an idiot" voice and the "innocence abused" voice, but Dean wasn't interested in the charity that second one implied.
"Man, go to the game. That crazy-ass friend of yours pitching? It'll be great, eat some peanuts for me."
Sam’s jaw tightened in anger, and that was just not on.
"Sam. Seriously. You know we're laying down rubber the instant you get your diploma, and you haven't even bitched about it once. Two months, you're gonna have all the vacation you can deal with. World's biggest ball of twine, Grand Canyon, dorky history museum central, you name it. Just... go see your friends."
And that was about the most magnanimous concession speech Dean had ever managed, every ounce of "I'm sorry we're gonna move again" and "Thanks for not bitching at Dad about it, thanks for being so cool this last year" and "You and me, forever man, you never have to worry about that" that he could possibly muster. Which was why it was so intensely, monumentally unfair that Sam gave him an utterly unreadable look and just said, "Yeah. Guess so."
And despite the blankness in his look and flat tone of his voice, Dean knew Sam was still pissed when he walked out, carefully not slamming the door behind him.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
When Sam wasn't in hunting mode- which was most of the time, these days-- he tended to walk like an elephant, or maybe a whole herd of elephants. Dean didn't even have to listen to hear the whole story play out at the front door, without stepping out of the kitchen to look.
Rattling of keys.
Heavy thumping and scuffing, that would be baseball diamond mud on his boots.
One heavy, clomping, still pissed-off step.
And then-- the sudden silence as Sam stopped dead.
Gentle click as the door swung shut on its own, instead of being pushed. A light, muffled thud as his jacket slipped to the floor. Time for two deep breaths.
Footsteps, not remotely pissed-off anymore.
Yes, Dean reflected, the smell of freshly-baked lasagna does interesting things to a man. Possibly more so if that man grew two inches in the last nine months alone.
"You cooked?"
"Yup."
"No, really. You cooked."
"Heard you the first time."
Sam didn't want to grin, but something a whole lot like a grin was showing up anyway. It's great to watch, Dean thought, the part of him that's trying to remember to be pissed warring against the part that just wants to light up like Christmas lights, and losing the battle one tooth and dimple at a time.
"And you set the table. With place mats. And napkins and crap."
"We're civilized human beings sometimes."
"Aw, Dean, where's my single red rose and mood music?"
The grin was uncontested now, and Dean loved that Sam's "this is the greatest thing ever" grin was completely indistinguishable from his "I am going to give you so much shit about this" grin, loved that most of the time, it was both.
"There's no mood music, Samantha. But there is" --and this required a proper showman's flourish, here, as he opened the oven and watched Sam just about fall over as the smell hit him-- "garlic bread!"
Sam didn't collapse right into his chair, didn't fall on the food like the vulture Dean knew he was around food that didn't come in Styrofoam. Instead, he gave Dean an odd look (suspicious, obviously, but if Dean didn't know better he'd call it afraid) and asked, "Why?"
"Because I wanted to. Eat."
The question stayed buried until the garlic bread was all gone and Sam was dishing out the second helping of lasagna. Dean set a bottle on the table by his hand, and Sam glanced up quickly through a curtain of bangs.
"Dean, why?"
"Man, you're 18 and Dad's out of town. What the hell did you think you were drinking?"
Sam opened it (and Dean tried not to watch the way the tendons on the back of his hand stood out briefly, the way the muscle in his forearm tensed) and took one long, deliberate pull. When he spoke, his tone was careful.
"No, Dean. Why all of this?"
"Aw man, are you gonna make me do this?"
Sam took another drink, impassive.
"You're graduating in two months. That's huge! You think I'd do girly shit like this with Dad around? Consider this the early graduation celebration."
Sam was still watching him with a steady, unsettling gaze, and Dean tried to tear his eyes away only to have them caught on the way Sam's long fingers rested on the neck of his bottle, the way his other hand lay casually on his thigh.
"Look, Sam. You graduate, it's the first time our lives don't revolve around the school year. We can do anything, go anywhere. And I know you haven't been crazy about stuff, but it doesn't have to be bad. Maybe once in a while we handle jobs ourselves, let Dad take an old-dude break. I know you're gonna miss school, I know you liked geeky crap like that, but you can get a fucking PhD in creature studies just from the books under Caleb's bed, and that's before you even start in on Pastor Jim's minor gods stuff and Bobby's demonology. Now you'll have time for that, if you want. It doesn't have to be bad, Sam, it doesn't have to be war all the time. The two of us, man, we can save people. We don't have to take any crap, we can do good, you could be happy, Sam, I swear to you--"
Dean was suddenly, acutely aware that he was babbling. Sam hadn't moved an inch, not the fingers around his beer bottle or the hand resting on this thigh. His gaze was still steady and intense, Dean knew, but he couldn't bring himself to meet it.
Dean wished Sam would move-- brush back his stupid hair, take a drink, something-- because for every moment that he sat there like that this thing grew heavier in the air between them and Dean was aware of every stupid twitch of his hands, every time his gaze shifted with nowhere to rest.
"You don't know SHIT, Dean."
Just like that, the spell was broken. Sam was on his feet now, coming around the table, drawn up to his full height and shoulders thrown back. He was yelling now, even as he grabbed Dean by the collar. "You don't understand a GOD DAMNED THING!"
And Dean didn't know why, didn't understand what had happened, but he knew his role. He knew when he had to simply stand and endure and let Sam's rage crash over him like heavy surf, like he was some kind of fucking retaining wall at the shore. Stand up and stand in its way and take it, protect the town behind. Protect the family.
Without Dad there, getting slammed from only one side, Dean felt unbalanced. Without the goal of brokering a peace, absorbing enough anger so they could talk to one another again, he didn't have a clue what to do.
But it wasn't until Sam had him shoved back against the kitchen counter, until the hands on his collar were suddenly clutching the back of his neck, that Dean realized he had it all wrong. For all the sound and the fury, for all the towering thunderclouds in Sam's face, the darkness in his eyes wasn't rage. It was desolation.
One of Sam’s hands was leaving bruises on his scalp and the other was pressed flat to the cupboard behind him, closing him in. His kissing was a mess of sharp bites and suction and rough, invasive tongue and Dean was trapped, riding the rough denim of Sam’s thigh shoved between his legs and opening and yielding as Sam’s tongue fucked his mouth.
He didn’t understand a god damned thing and it didn’t matter, because this was what Sam needed now. Every time he stood between Sam and Dad and let their shouts beat against him he felt himself eroding away bit by bit, but this… He opened and took it and let it wash over him and it felt like Sam rebuilding him.
He was moaning and rutting against the crease of Sam’s hip by the time Sam finally reached for the buttons on his jeans. He tried to help but Sam grabbed him, wrapped that huge hand all the way around his wrist and pressed his palm to the counter with a demanding growl, and all Dean could do was buck against him harder and let his head fall back against the cupboards.
Sam was sucking savagely on the curve of his shoulder and Dean writhed. He couldn’t seem to make his hands move from where they were pressed flat to the counter, and Sam let his bite mark go with a loud pop and moved up to gasp right over Dean’s ear.
“So good Dean, keep them right there, being so fucking good for me… Have you like this, all spread out and moaning. Dean, I want--”
Then Sam had that huge hand on Dean’s cock, pulling and twisting a little, letting his thumb play over the slit. His other hand was gripping Dean’s hip, his fingernails digging little half-moons in over the bone. He was riding Dean hard now, and the zipper of his jeans pinched and bruised between them.
Dean wanted to pull Sam’s jeans off, suggest the couch, a bed, do something to quiet the brutal squeeze of Sam’s hands. But the little voice of what Sam needs, what Sam needs kept echoing in his head. Sam was talking again, whispers and filthy growls against his neck. “Just like this, God. Dean, your cock” “take you here, spill over my hand right here,” “hurts, doesn’t it? Should hurt, the two of us.”
Then Sam’s mouth covered his, greedily swallowing his broken moans. Dean arched and spasmed, pressed full-length against Sam and scrabbling at the linoleum. Dimly, he felt Sam’s teeth nip at his lip hard enough to draw out a bead of blood, and Sam gasped out, “fuck Dean yes like that” as he came.
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Date: 2007-12-31 03:23 am (UTC)I owe you feedback on each wonderful part, but for now, see gushing at above link. :)
Thanks for a lovely story.
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