InsaneJournal

Current mood:	tired
Current music:	Iron Maiden : 2 Minutes to Midnight

Fanfic: Supernatural, The Sky Fell, NC-17, Sam/Dean
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Sky Fell
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Yes, please! Any kind of feedback makes me high.
Prompts: (From the strikethrough '07 challenge in forbiddenfic over at LJ) Cut – Cream - Curse (I hope I met the last one)
Author's notes: This is officially a day and one hour late, I'm very, very sorry! I've been rushing around trying to find a beta-reader and failed. So, this is not beta-read. I make some stupid mistakes sometimes, so if you see any please feel free to point them out so I can correct them. Also, this turned out way more differently than I had planned. I wanted blood-play, maybe even food!porn but instead it turned into first time? I blame pesky little things such as the prom and exams swamping me, but I apologise for this being nowhere near as kinky as it should be.
Again, I apologise for submitting this late!
Disclaimer: Never happened, fictional. Don't own, don't sue. No offense is intended.
Summary: Sam wants to leave, Dean wants to play with whipped cream.


Dean hisses and flinches away as Sam tries to clean his wounds. The younger Winchester bites his tongue to stop himself from complaining as he tries again for the umpteenth time to disinfect the huge cut that’s ripped through the skin of Dean’s right arm. He can tell from the look on his older brother’s face that he’s just as irritated as he is and he damn near almost growls when Sam firmly grips his wrist to hold him still. He looks away as Sam presses the cotton wool, which oozes of the sharp smell of chemicals, against his skin; the annoyed expression on his face that clearly says he doesn’t think he needs this, but Sam thinks he does.

“Shit,” Dean winces as Sam presses the cotton wool against a sensitive area of the injury and for a few moments Dean’s curses are the only form of conversation between them.

He rummages through the bag they have full of odd bits of first aid equipment, vaguely listening to Dean’s rant about how he is not going to die from a few measly cuts as he tries to find the roll of bandage. His brother’s snort of protest when he finally finds it almost makes him laugh from the pure predictability of it. He knows Dean’s going to push himself off the hotel bed and tell him not to bother, that he’s fine, that he’s over-reacting, that he’s being wussy but Sam still wants to try. He argues, but seeing the stern resistance in his brother’s face he decides he’s fighting a losing battle and the roll of bandages returns to the bag with the huge gash across Dean’s arm remaining uncovered and bleeding as though it’s begging to be infected.

Sam sometimes wonders what Dean would do without him. He wonders if Dean only made it through his time away as ‘College boy’ because their father was there. It was odd to look at his older brother, someone he looked to for strength, for comfort, for a place to safely fall back on, and to wonder if Dean could actually stand on his own if there was no Sam and there was no John.

Sometimes he dares to consider that maybe he needs to leave again so Dean can learn to be on his own before something happens to either of them, but every time Sam attempts to even map out a plan of action in his head the overwhelming feeling of anxiety claws it’s way up from his gut to tear those thoughts into shreds. The fear of stepping into the unknown keeps him rooted in the constant road trip and he knows he can’t think of any other place to be apart from sat next to his remaining family in the Impala.

Sam grabs his coat, ready to go out and buy something to eat from the supermarket because he feels like one more bag of M&Ms or night at the dinner might just kill him. His hand is already on the door handle when Dean firmly grabs his arm. There’s a under current of fear, maybe even desperation, running through his facial expression as he asks Sam to stay at the motel instead. It’s almost similar to the looks Sam caught Dean wearing sometimes before he left for Stanford and it’s not for the first time that he toys with the idea of his older brother being able to read his mind. Maybe he knows the thoughts that have been plaguing him for weeks now. The look shocks him, makes him feel slightly uneasy that Dean is able to read him that well and there’s the burning after taste of guilt that causes him to comply with his request.

He decides to do some research and search for their next case on the laptop whilst Dean’s at the supermarket buying what-the-hell they can eat without cooking for a typical Winchester style meal. When he returns, Sam realises just from taking a look at the size of the bags it was probably a bad idea to send someone who loves every single piece of food he comes across to the supermarket. He can’t help grinning as he discovers the random contents of the two plastic bags: two sandwiches, a bag of M&M’s (which was all too familiar), an apple (which Dean had insisted he had only brought because Sam had been bitching about their less than healthy eating habits recently), a bag of crisps, pork pies, pop-tarts, some beer and a can of whipped cream.

“Dean, what do you plan on eating this with?” he asks, absently shaking the can of whipped cream in his hand.

He can see the suspicious smirk that graces his brother’s features as he turns away to switch on the television.

“I’m not planning eating it with any of that food, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sam rolls his eyes realising that Dean’s probably saving it for an odd, dirty encounter with a woman he plans to pick up next time he goes to a bar, “You need a fridge or something to put this in if you’re not going to eat it now.”

“Nah, I’ll eat it now,” Dean replies, holding his arm out from where he sits on his bed.

Sam chucks him the can, the question of how Dean plans to eat the whipped cream dies on his lips as he watches his older brother tilt back his head and squirt the can’s contents directly into his mouth.

“That’s disgusting,” he says as he sits next to Dean who merely laughs.

An awkward silence cloaks the room as Sam idly picks at his sandwich, the familiar debate about how and why he should break-free from the mould that encases them raging in his head – the feeling that burns somewhere low in his abdomen as he catches Dean lifting the can to his lips in the corner of his eye as he pretends to be interested in some mundane television show just adding more weight to the long list of reasons why he needs to get away from his brother.

He watches the way Dean’s lips lazily wrap around the nozzle as his finger pulls the trigger on the can; the way his tongue snakes out across his lips and leaves a glossy trail; the way his Adam’s apple slides up and down his neck as he swallows. The tingling sensation it sends to his groin shoots straight to the top of his list of reasons why he should leave as soon as possible. He turns away, tries to concentrate on the television before Dean notices how enthralled he seems to be with watching his brother eat.

He feels like someone’s tipped a bucket of ice-cold water over him when Dean pokes him with the can of whipped cream, “If you wanted some, you just had to ask.”

He concentrates on trying to keep his voice even instead of the slight smudge of cream on Dean’s bottom lip as he declines. He tries not to shiver at the way Dean continues to watch him and tells himself that it’s because he’s concerned, not because he knows. Breaking away from his gaze, he pretends to watch the show flickering on screen, hopes that Dean will stay true to his Winchester roots and as usual decide not to talk about this. Evidently, he misses something, some small change in his brother, because the next thing he feels is Dean’s weight on him, effectively pinning him to the bed. It’s almost surreal as Dean forces their lips to meet. The shock causes Sam to instinctively react by thumping him on the chest, hard, with his fist, but as soon as Dean’s tongue slides against his, as soon as Sam is able to take in the feel of Dean’s lips caressing his own the protesting pushes turn into soft touches.

The words ‘incest’ and ‘wrong’ float vaguely through his head as his older brother’s hands slide underneath his shirt, his mouth practically devouring him as his fingers glide across his skin, but for once Sam isn’t thinking very much at all apart from how good it feels when Dean straddles his waist. They break apart, Sam gasps for air, his chest rising and falling erratically and he blinks up at his brother. His jumbled thoughts are slightly more coherent now and the question that consists of “What the hell?” is dying to be said but he swallows it down with a shaky breath as he realises that Dean is too preoccupied with slipping off Sam’s shirt to take notice of anything else.

“Wanna touch you, Sammy,” he murmurs when he both of their shirts are thrown to some far corner of the room.

Sam finds he can’t ignore how wrong that sounds, how that name his brother’s called him ever since he was a child sounds so warped drowned in the lust of Dean’s voice. He grips Dean’s arms, fingers idly playing over the cut that’s still exposed on his right arm, the dread ripping through him as he waits for him to make the next move. When Dean kisses him again, it’s softer this time, less forceful, his thumb stroking the crook of Sam’s neck, the warmth of their bare skin touching and Dean’s hips beginning to rock.

Sam moans into Dean’s mouth when he feels his brother’s erection against his, the warmth that’s gathered there pressing into him as the older Winchester’s fingers fumble at his belt. His thoughts have all dissolved into a lusty haze; he wants this and what’s more remarkable is that both of them want this. He can feel his brother’s fingers tugging the waistband of his boxers, the frustration practically humming through the air between them.

He’s not exactly sure how it happened when Dean’s bare leg skims across the bare skin of his leg, he was too lost in the thirsty mist that’s fallen over him as his tongue breaches the places of his brother he never thought he would, but at some point Dean’s been able to shimmy off their clothing in between the thrusts, curious tongues trailing across skin and desperate hands pressing into solid flesh daring to believe this is real. He feels like the heavy warmth of Dean must be constricting his breathing because none of the gulps of oxygen his lungs are managing to draw in seem to be reaching his brain at all. If he was thinking clearly, he’d know this is wrong, that Dean must be as carried away as he is, that neither of them could possibly be thinking straight to be doing this; but, fuck, when Dean’s touching him, tongue darting across all the right places, what does it matter?

He tries to pretend he didn’t make a small sound that was almost like a whimper when Dean tears himself away from him to rush to the other side of the room to retrieve some unknown object. Sam’s already decided that if it’s the whipped cream he’s going to hit Dean over the head with it when he feels the mattress groan with the other’s presence as he crawls over. He wonders if Dean’s done this before with another guy because it’s lubricant he returns with and he doesn’t seem as dazed by how new this is as eases open Sam’s legs. It’s probably better that at least one of them knows what they’re doing, even if he does have mixed feelings about his brother having done this before.

The obligatory slick and stretch he’d imagined was always the part to be rushed, something that has to be done, and something people would want to get over and done with, but clearly he was wrong. Dean takes his time and at first it feels weird, but the feelings slowly melt into something shockingly good when Dean’s finger twists so that it drags over his prostate. This time he does whimper and he can see the grin on his brother’s face in the dim light. Soon one finger became two, then three and Sam continues making soft noises in response to the strange sensations, because there’s really not much else he can do when the only thoughts flooding his mind are the ones that are urging him to move back and take more of it in.

He can hear Dean trying to reassure him, his voice low in his ear as he mutters and Sam jumps when his tongue swipes across his earlobe. Now Sam’s just willing Dean to hurry up, he needs more, he needs to feel more and he needs to feel it now. When it finally starts, he can’t help but inhale sharply. The pain is dull; an insistent press that doesn’t really hurt at all, but it just feels wrong. He bites his lip, Dean’s voice calming him down and he squeezes his eyes shut to focus on the steady sounds of his brother’s words.

Then Dean moved forward.

Sam’s hands grasps Dean’s shoulders and he realises his fingernails are digging into the sweaty flesh there. He’s vaguely aware that his brother’s muttering something to him, the sounds drenched in lust as Sam experimentally moves in time with him. From the string of broken curses that Dean spits out, he’s done something right. Dean’s thrusts are gradually becoming faster and Sam can practically see his orgasm climbing as he watches his face, slick with sweat and etched with concentration. They moan together when Dean’s fingers grasp his cock, Sam’s hands still clutching the other’s shoulders, little bloody moons from his nails that Dean will probably bitch about later, but none of it matters as Dean slams into him and the pleasure that rips through him as he comes erasing every other thought from his mind. Dean follows not soon after and they end up lying next to each other, their harsh panting filling the silence. He can feel his brother’s body heat vibrating off of him as they both lie in a stunned daze.

When Sam finally feels as though he can manoeuvre his lips and mouth to form a sentence, he turns to face Dean only to see his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling softly and a content expression fixed onto his face. He’s clearly asleep and Sam worries what the hell will happen when he wakes up, but the subject’s too much for his brain to digest right now. The huge gash is still glaring at him from his brother’s arm, as though it’s just daring him to bandage it up as Dean’s sleeps. Instead he rolls over, nestling himself into his brothers warmth.

He knows that he’s just traded any hope he has of slowly easing them apart and pushing them into the rest of the world. He knows they’ve both just pushed themselves into a dark trap where they’re never going to be able to climb out. He used to think that if Dean ever knew how Sam thought about him sometimes, the way that breaks all the boundaries brothers should have, the world would shatter, the sky would fall and the Sun would burn out. It’s still just the two of them. Sam and Dean, in some nameless motel room trapped in one constant road-trip. The sky fell but astonishingly their world is still intact.