
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6597043.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Rowena, Crowley
  Additional Tags:
      Exhibitionism, slight_s11_spoiler
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-19 Words: 1397
****** Between the Comfort ******
by framedhim
Summary
     This is where they'll rage and lie, fallen wounded in the small
     expanse of empty space between rooms and lips and thighs.
      
      
 
 
Written for the Salt_Burn_Porn_Challenge on Livejournal.  Prompt :  reckless
behavior
Disclaimer:  Don't own them/Not for profit
 
~ * ~
Typically, most of the time, they'll forget the chatter of the streets and meld
into the sidewalks, long-legged strides synced within a solitary bubble.
 Calloused hands in pockets, elbows nudging against one another's soft cotton
fabrics of lifted designer coats and familiar flannels.
Pay no mind to the helmet heads on bicycles whizzing by, nor the traffic along
Main Street, USA with its obnoxious growls of large pickup trucks and the soft
engine purrs of sedans.   Only the wafting aroma of a greasy spoon two blocks
down, underneath their noses to lure them in.  Basic, rote rituals-eat, drive,
save the world, sleep.
Dean will order first, interest these days waning on actually smiling at the
servers, and if Sam takes too long, Dean'll order for him too.  Choke down eggs
and bacon, a few spoons of yogurt and fruit.
"I miss our kitchen."
Sam misses it more, that Dean cooks him the best egg white omelettes and
refills his coffee cup with a pride so strong in intensity that Sam doesn't
dare to question.  Sam's mouth ignores the not-quite-ripe taste of honeydew,
waters for ripened strawberries on french toast made from a recipe Dean spent a
week perfecting.  That acknowledgement, however.  Why he can't let it slip out
his mouth-
"Meh."
It must be a Tuesday.  There are Wednesdays and Sundays on occasion.  Fired up
tension hot, bowstring taut.  Or a Saturday when the weather is just right.
 Mondays, with the gloom of an entire week ahead of them because hunters may
hunt but they're not wild animals, without a schedule.  Thursday, then, with
blood beneath their nails--only Sam's showered and Dean doesn't have a
concussion.  Friday.  Friday with its jacked up status, the heralding day of
the debauchery to come.  
Sam sticks the blame on Friday, petulance in his stance for no good reason, but
oh, now that it's there, his hands ache with the promise of a good Friday.
Most of the time, they'll shrug off the furrowed brows of strangers and focus
on being the two hot-headed brothers bickering across the booth.  Aching knees
knocking beneath the table, brown boots and a wide-legged stance that frames
the other's.
But it's Friday, and Dean can see cautious eyes darting their way when he
catches Sam's reflection in the diner window, Sammy's tamed chestnut hair and
stubborn chin visible behind the 'E' in Emilia's.  
A quick shiver travels along Sam's shoulders as Dean turns to glare at him,
master-in-the-kitchen pride wounded, Dean's utensils down and Dean's face
leaning into his brother's across the table.  The vibe near them spikes, that
panicky thrum of hearts and defense mode body language always when a Winchester
has something to knock heads about the state of things.
~ * ~ 
Sam chokes.
The bathroom has a door handle lock and a sliding one too, mounted soap
dispenser, and a dispenser for hand sanitizer.  A Gerber daisy arrangement is
placed next to a trendy basket with a chalkboard label that reads 'Paper
Towels', all situated on top a not-cheap wooden corner cabinet placed against
the wall opposite the toilet and sink.  For a joint with such nice decor, it's
funny how the food still sucks.  That's not a question, not something Dean
really even cares to discuss.  
"Not Ina Garten.  Rubbing that in, Sammy?"  Dean spares a hand from the back of
Sam's head to finger tilt his brother's chin up.  Sam fights against the heave
the angle causes, straining tears down stubbled cheeks, his hands locked tight
onto Dean's jeans with the effort to not fight the line of Dean's dick down his
throat.  Column of it visible and hard as Dean strokes against it through the
taut skin of Sam's neck.  
Dean takes the fluttery spasms of Sam's throat as an apology, loosens his grip
with the knowledge that Sam will be good.  Sam will hold his nose against
Dean's pubes, let the girth of Dean's cock slip past his gag reflex, as far as
this angle will allow.  Sam will do that because he started this.  He's so
good.  So, so good until the levee breaks.  Itch under their skin from the
monotony.
Sam knows Dean comes for the sigh on his lips, a whisper of a threat as Dean's
dick gives one last twitch.  
~ * ~
Emilia's manager meets them at the door, ready to have them arrested.  Turns
bright red at the cough Sam gives, voice wrecked as he makes up a polite excuse
despite the fact he's rock hard.  The manager may not see it, some people have
scruples-Dean's never much cared for them, thanks-but Dean, he watches Sam
shift, the grind of his 'r's in 'sorry.'  And there.  It's obvious; a neon
blinking sign of bulge that Dean laughs at, carefree swagger and shouldering
past them and out the door.  
There's a fight looming on the horizon.
~*~
It's always been.  Choreographed dance of theirs that stumbles onward in fits
and starts.  
15 and 19 alone in Boulder, Colorado.  A span of three inches, boredom and
loneliness and ugly words thrown out in jest until someone broke.  A foot
jammed under a blanket, chicken leg thighs and lean muscle biceps wrestling
because.  
Because puberty, "Bite me, Dean!  Stupid- you don't say shit when you should!"
The first time acknowledgment of a boner that wasn't going away.  Spit on the
head of his brother's dick, sucked him off until the numbness eased the angry
line of his back.  
A hundred other turns, once the sickness sets in good and strong.  No Hell to
wipe away any vestiges of guilt, not enough guilt to stop because they bicker
about movies. Fight about sodas and whose turn it is to clean Dad's blood off
the leather seats.  
16 and 20, parked in an abandoned Mobil station lot off I-95, bare-assed
against the Impala's hood.  Jerking off under the stars.  Dean's frustrations
bleeding black up and up into the universe and moonlight, toes curled in his
boots and his baby brother's head tilting down and down onto Dean's shoulder.
"I lied."  
Panting words, furiously beating off with the headlights of the interstate
traffic behind them.    
"I know."
19 and 23, one of many godforsaken, drunken calls.  
"Why?"
Bar patrons in the background, a Zeppelin tune to the sound of Dean's whiskey-
soaked hurt and confusion.
Normal.  The plea for normal despite the slip of Sam's hand down past the waist
of his pajama pants, creaky dorm bed singing out. 
"I can't.  Just... just listen."
30 something and 30 something, the Bunker a place to rest their heads and lord,
they're hellfire cleansed beyond a shred of don't-give-a-fuck with who knows.
 Crowley mentions it in jealousy, Sam says one night to the war table and Dean
grunts a response or a disclaimer.  Rowena bats her lashes and plays them up in
her mind like two gladiators dueling and fucking.  They know this because she's
explained in full detail before they could shut her mouth for her.  
It is.  It was and it is and there's no use fighting now but to fight and lie
to get that fix.
~ * ~ 
This is where they'll rage and lie, fallen wounded in the small expanse of
empty space between rooms and lips and thighs.
Dean smirks when midnight comes and goes, hears Sam's feet pad slowly down the
hallway towards Dean's room.  
They shove, the Empty above their head, Amara and the Darkness one more plot
twist.  It's no use, the loving kisses that see them in bed together most
nights as sanctuary. Most nights, a hand across the backseat of the Impala to
touch.  Typical nights, gentle rubs on a freckled stomach, mile of hairy leg
tossed over a shorter one.  Soft, spent cock on an ass tucked close in
exhaustion.
They go to the mattress, sweat slicked skin and biting teeth.  Three finger
stretch too quick, a knife's edge sliver of pain.  
Slamming home--grunting, rutting between shaking thighs and, "Fuck me, asshole!
 Fuck-"
It's catharsis.  It's another day, another moment, one more smack across Dean's
plump, freckled ass.  
One more yelp, a bite and a flip, Sam trembling with the stretch.  Sam tight
and grinding down and forward until the world blots out one more time.
Between the comfort, one more time, this is where they'll fight to stay.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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