Halfhearted
halfhearted
Supernatural
Sam/Dean UST
600 words
adult content: sexuality
Sam knocks his hand against Dean’s head and says, “Move over.”
Dean snorts instantly awake, hand on the hilt of his knife. Sam pushes one knee into the thin mattress, leans down over his back and says, “It’s me, dumbfuck, move over.” Having anyone else, even his own brother, leaning over him like that in the dark makes the back of his neck prickle, unease collect down between his shoulderblades in a way he really doesn’t like. He tries to roll onto his side, but Sam is quick, has his knifehand pinned, his face pressed into the pillow. And then Sam moves off him, releasing him with a parting hard shove that Dean shakes off, snarling. He twists and scoots over to the edge of the double bed, facing Sam, who is finding a place for his legs and elbows under the sheet. It puts him with his back to the door, which feels wrong. But facing Sam.
“What’s wrong with your bed, princess? Find a pea?” Dean grumbles.
“That’s so hilarious, every time.” Sam folds one of the tiny pillows under his head. Makes himself comfortable. And is abruptly still. They watch each other in the dark, they listen to rainwater sluicing through tires on the highway. The pause and stutter, muttering soliloquy of a television on in the room next door. Each waiting for the other to speak first. Neither of them willing to look weak. To feel less than.
Sam vents a pent-up sigh and rolls his eyes. Says quietly, “Yeah, okay, you wanna—“ and Dean pushes the front of his briefs out of the way, takes his dick in hand, and Sam does the same under the blankets on his side of the bed.
They start slow. Dean thinks of a lot of things: women they’ve met, favorite porn scenarios, the warm, slick grip of barely legal pussy. Of an illegal one. The images tumble over each other, loose and sweet and undemanding. Or he thinks of nothing, just the sensation of his hand on his dick, the sound of Sam breathing out hard through his nose, the sticky sound of their spit on skin.
Eye to eye, always, in an unwinnable game of chicken. To look away would imply guilt, guilt would imply desire, desire would imply. That every time Sam isn’t there, next to him, watching him, moving with him, he feels it. That every year, every month, day, minute that Sam was gone, he felt it. That they were each other’s first, and each hunt, each battle means they could be each other’s last. That this means anything.
That they feel something.
Sam comes first, teeth bared, neck bared; and out of habit, or conditioning, or courtesy, Dean is only seconds behind.
Sam hums, low, loose and sleepy. Sprawls on his back with one hand behind his head; the other, cupped and messy on his chest. Dean does the same, and blindly searches with his free hand on the floor for his discarded tshirt. Uses it to wipe off; chases his come around on his belly, spreading it around more than cleaning it up, before giving up and tossing his shirt back on the floor.
Sam is falling asleep. Dean listens to his breathing change. Slow and deepen. Watches the halfsmile still on Sam’s face. The way he curls his hand protectively against his chest. There are always those few moments. Just before he nudges Sam in the arm, just hard enough to get him moving. “Out of my bed, Sammy,” he’ll say. Before Sam wakes, and tumbles, slides headfirst into his own bed. Just those few moments, when he watches; and wishes, sometimes, that loving someone didn’t make him feel so alone.
