rivers_bend (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rivers_bend) wrote2010-02-27 11:26 am
rivers_bend) wrote2010-02-27 11:26 am
Entry tags:
shiver, river, quiver (NC-17) Sam/Dean
Title: shiver, river, quiver
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1800
Enticements/Warnings: expressions of adolescent sexuality, allusions to inappropriate adult appreciation of same.
Summary: Dean is always right there to protect his brother, no matter what.
It's never going to stop raining, ever, Sam is certain. He wouldn't mind if he were cozied up somewhere with Dean, windows open to the sound of the water, to the heavy wet air, but he's not. Instead, Dad is intent on drowning them all.
They are in a "borrowed" canoe, guns and a few days' supplies in rubberized duffels at their feet, headed upstream to meet an old friend of Dad's, except he's not someone Sam has ever heard of, so he can't be that good a friend.
Sam's too young to stay alone in their motel apparently (even though he's so totally not), Dad needs Dean's help paddling, the only road to Buck Jordan's place is washed out so they can't take the car, and—no more questions, Sammy, just get in the damn boat.
It's the height of summer, was 82° already when they drove past the bank's display on their way to the river at 8:30 this morning, but after an hour in the rain, with his clothes plastered to his skin and rivulets of water running in constant streams from his hair down his neck, Sam shivers hard enough to feel the pull in his ribs.
They're all lined up in a row, Sam is in the middle, Dad behind him, Dean in front. The view is good—Sam likes watching Dean's shoulders stretch out his wet t-shirt—but Sam still wishes Dean was in the rear so Sam could settle back against his brother's knees, let some body heat seep into his skin instead of just this awful damp air.
"Be there soon," Dad says when Sam shivers a second time.
Sam just keeps his eyes on the spot where Dean's shirt lifts away from the skin under his shoulder blade every time he pulls the paddle to the end of its arc.
Around the next bend, the river bumps wider for a few hundred yards, and Buck Jordan has a short dock there with a ladder on the right side, a cleat for a rope next to it. Dean and Dad get the canoe tied up, then Dad tells Sam to climb out so they can hand him the duffels. But Sam slips in the water at the bottom of the canoe, and falls over the side into the muddy river.
Before he can even get his legs under him and his head above the water, Dean is there, scooping him up, saying, "Sammy! Sammy, talk to me." Dean is steady, upright, obviously standing on the river bottom, but the water comes up to his armpits which is about Sam's mouth level, so Sam doesn't even try to stand, just clings to Dean's shoulders, wraps his legs around Dean's waist. Being in Dean's arms brings a smile to Sam's face, makes him feel both calmer and giddy all at once.
"Hey, hey," Dean soothes, worried eyes flicking over to Dad, who's watching them closely. The water's churned up and murky enough that Dad can't see where Sam's getting hard against Dean's stomach, thank god, because Sam can't help that his hips twitch and his thighs cling. He does do his very best to concentrate on getting out of the river and onto the dock, instead of thinking about how much he wishes Dad would just go away so Sam could kiss his brother.
Buck Jordan appears out of nowhere, offering Dad a hand out of the boat, asking if the boys are okay, and Sam can feel Dean's arms tighten around him, feel Dean's shoulders go tense as the man looks at them. Mr. Jordan looks pretty normal to Sam, but Dean seems like he'd have a gun trained on the guy if he had one handy.
"You're okay," Dean whispers. "Get down now, and just swim to the ladder."
Sam does as Dean asks, ignoring Buck Jordan's hand, making it look like he just didn't see it and not like he's being impolite, because Dad would call him on being impolite. He can feel Dean right behind him and scurries out of the way so Dean can get up on the dock. Instead of putting a hand on Sam's back like he usually would, Dean ducks around him, gets between him and Mr. Jordan. Eyes still on the men, Dean picks up the bag Dad and his friend didn't grab. They all trudge single file up to the house through the deluge.
Though it's drier inside, it's much louder, between the rain on the tin roof and a large machine—Sam thinks it might be a rock tumbler—working in the corner. Mr. Jordan, call me Buck, disappears for a moment and comes back with a handful of threadbare towels.
"Here y'are, boys. Why don't you get changed?" he says, holding them out toward Dean, though it's Dad who grabs them.
"We'll be fine," Dad says, handing a towel to each of the boys, and using his to dry his hair. "Besides," he says to Buck. "We had better head out if we're going to do this thing before night falls."
"Thought you might want to rest first, have something to eat?" Buck is looking at Sam and Dean when he says it, and Sam is starting to see why Dean didn't like him.
"Had a good breakfast," Dad says, even though it's a lie. He only had a muffin and a cup of coffee. He grabs the bag with the guns and pulls out a Colt and a PPK, handing the first to Dean and the second to Sam. "You boys take care. Don't let anyone in, and don't touch any of Mr. Jordan—Buck's—stuff."
Dean says, "Yes, sir," and Sam nods, and less than five minutes later, Buck and Dad have disappeared into the rain.
"What was that about?" Sam asks, not liking being alone in a strange house that belongs to someone else. It's not the same as a motel room or the abandoned places they've squatted. It isn't even the same as staying someplace borrowed. It creeps him out.
"Nothing," Dean says, still staring out the window in the direction their dad went. With a satisfied nod, he turns and looks at Sam. He looks relaxed now, happy even. Reaching a hand out to tousle Sam's towel-crazy hair, he says, "Now. Let's get you out of those wet clothes."
Sam is still weirded out, but he does feel clammy and gross, and Dean is looking at him all hungry, and getting dry sounds pretty awesome. He lets Dean pull his shirt over his head and wrap a towel around his shoulders. Dean starts rubbing, fast and good, heating up Sam's skin in a tingly way that feels much better than the sticky heat from the humid air. The machine in the corner stops whatever it's doing, and though the rain is still loud on the roof, the room seems much quieter all of a sudden. That, or maybe it's Dean's hands, which have left the towel draped over Sam's shoulders and moved to the button on his fly, make Sam feel better. Less like this is creepy, and more like it's just space for him and Dean.
Because the wet denim is stiff and unyielding, Sam's shorts don't come off as easily as his shirt. Dean kneels to get better leverage, and then smirks up at Sam when he ends up with Sam's prick popping up to point at his chin. He doesn't say anything, just pulls the towel from around Sam's neck and starts rubbing his legs, as soon as Sam has stepped out of the tangle of shoes and shorts.
Sam feels small without his clothes, Dean fully dressed kneeling at his feet, the sound of the rain huge around them.
"I've got you, baby boy," Dean says against Sam's tummy, kissing the gentle roundness above his belly button, then the spot to the left of where his prick, fully hard now, is standing up straight.
Sam whimpers when Dean pulls back, but Dean's only taking his own soaked shirt off and then he's back, running his hands over Sam's flanks, down his slim legs to the ticklish backs of his knees. "I've got you," he says again, and then stands up, picking Sam up with him and carrying him over to the sagging sofa across the room.
With his legs wrapped around like they were in the water, the last vestiges of discomfort float away, and Sam just feels good and happy. He lies where he's dropped, watching Dean finish stripping off, watching him towel his skin so it's glowing red when he leans over Sam.
Instead of lying down next to Sam or on top of him, Dean kneels on the floor again, starts kissing trails up Sam's hip, up his ribs, nuzzling his wet hair into Sam's armpit and then kissing his way back down, blowing a raspberry which makes Sam thrash and squeal. Then he starts licking, little cat licks, big dog licks, tickling still, but also feeling so good Sam can hardly stand it.
"Dean. Dean," he begs, hands all over Dean's head and neck and shoulders, pulling, pushing, grabbing, he doesn't even know. He wants more, wants Dean to stop, wants him to never stop, wants him to lick Sam's prick that way, isn't sure he could cope if Dean did.
"I got you. You're all mine, I got you," Dean murmurs, licking, licking, hands everywhere except where Sam needs them, leaving trails of heat.
It feels like Sam's dick and balls are on fire or dipped in ice, like they're swelling up to ten times their normal size with wanting Dean to touch them. Sam's quivering under Dean's hands, almost crying with how much he needs.
"Got you," Dean says one last time and then finally, finally, closes his mouth over Sam's cock.
He doesn't even suck once, and Sam's coming, coming so hard he bashes his wrist against the sofa's arm, so hard he bucks up and almost throws Dean off, so hard he shouts loud enough he can't hear the rain anymore.
It's too much. He's gonna fly away. Needs Dean to hold him down.
Dean seems to know all about it, climbs up and covers Sam in the blanket of his body, petting his hair, kissing his face. Sam can feel the sticky cling of come between them, thinks for a minute that Dean did get thrown off, didn't swallow the way he usually does, but then realizes that the jizz is Dean's.
"Mine," Dean whispers against his lips. "Always. Mine."
"Yours," Sam murmurs, before he drifts into sleep, Dean deliciously heavy all around him.
____________________________________________________________________________
If curiosity about Dean and Buck is killing you, you can find out more in Shadows of the World Appear.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1800
Enticements/Warnings: expressions of adolescent sexuality, allusions to inappropriate adult appreciation of same.
Summary: Dean is always right there to protect his brother, no matter what.
It's never going to stop raining, ever, Sam is certain. He wouldn't mind if he were cozied up somewhere with Dean, windows open to the sound of the water, to the heavy wet air, but he's not. Instead, Dad is intent on drowning them all.
They are in a "borrowed" canoe, guns and a few days' supplies in rubberized duffels at their feet, headed upstream to meet an old friend of Dad's, except he's not someone Sam has ever heard of, so he can't be that good a friend.
Sam's too young to stay alone in their motel apparently (even though he's so totally not), Dad needs Dean's help paddling, the only road to Buck Jordan's place is washed out so they can't take the car, and—no more questions, Sammy, just get in the damn boat.
It's the height of summer, was 82° already when they drove past the bank's display on their way to the river at 8:30 this morning, but after an hour in the rain, with his clothes plastered to his skin and rivulets of water running in constant streams from his hair down his neck, Sam shivers hard enough to feel the pull in his ribs.
They're all lined up in a row, Sam is in the middle, Dad behind him, Dean in front. The view is good—Sam likes watching Dean's shoulders stretch out his wet t-shirt—but Sam still wishes Dean was in the rear so Sam could settle back against his brother's knees, let some body heat seep into his skin instead of just this awful damp air.
"Be there soon," Dad says when Sam shivers a second time.
Sam just keeps his eyes on the spot where Dean's shirt lifts away from the skin under his shoulder blade every time he pulls the paddle to the end of its arc.
Around the next bend, the river bumps wider for a few hundred yards, and Buck Jordan has a short dock there with a ladder on the right side, a cleat for a rope next to it. Dean and Dad get the canoe tied up, then Dad tells Sam to climb out so they can hand him the duffels. But Sam slips in the water at the bottom of the canoe, and falls over the side into the muddy river.
Before he can even get his legs under him and his head above the water, Dean is there, scooping him up, saying, "Sammy! Sammy, talk to me." Dean is steady, upright, obviously standing on the river bottom, but the water comes up to his armpits which is about Sam's mouth level, so Sam doesn't even try to stand, just clings to Dean's shoulders, wraps his legs around Dean's waist. Being in Dean's arms brings a smile to Sam's face, makes him feel both calmer and giddy all at once.
"Hey, hey," Dean soothes, worried eyes flicking over to Dad, who's watching them closely. The water's churned up and murky enough that Dad can't see where Sam's getting hard against Dean's stomach, thank god, because Sam can't help that his hips twitch and his thighs cling. He does do his very best to concentrate on getting out of the river and onto the dock, instead of thinking about how much he wishes Dad would just go away so Sam could kiss his brother.
Buck Jordan appears out of nowhere, offering Dad a hand out of the boat, asking if the boys are okay, and Sam can feel Dean's arms tighten around him, feel Dean's shoulders go tense as the man looks at them. Mr. Jordan looks pretty normal to Sam, but Dean seems like he'd have a gun trained on the guy if he had one handy.
"You're okay," Dean whispers. "Get down now, and just swim to the ladder."
Sam does as Dean asks, ignoring Buck Jordan's hand, making it look like he just didn't see it and not like he's being impolite, because Dad would call him on being impolite. He can feel Dean right behind him and scurries out of the way so Dean can get up on the dock. Instead of putting a hand on Sam's back like he usually would, Dean ducks around him, gets between him and Mr. Jordan. Eyes still on the men, Dean picks up the bag Dad and his friend didn't grab. They all trudge single file up to the house through the deluge.
Though it's drier inside, it's much louder, between the rain on the tin roof and a large machine—Sam thinks it might be a rock tumbler—working in the corner. Mr. Jordan, call me Buck, disappears for a moment and comes back with a handful of threadbare towels.
"Here y'are, boys. Why don't you get changed?" he says, holding them out toward Dean, though it's Dad who grabs them.
"We'll be fine," Dad says, handing a towel to each of the boys, and using his to dry his hair. "Besides," he says to Buck. "We had better head out if we're going to do this thing before night falls."
"Thought you might want to rest first, have something to eat?" Buck is looking at Sam and Dean when he says it, and Sam is starting to see why Dean didn't like him.
"Had a good breakfast," Dad says, even though it's a lie. He only had a muffin and a cup of coffee. He grabs the bag with the guns and pulls out a Colt and a PPK, handing the first to Dean and the second to Sam. "You boys take care. Don't let anyone in, and don't touch any of Mr. Jordan—Buck's—stuff."
Dean says, "Yes, sir," and Sam nods, and less than five minutes later, Buck and Dad have disappeared into the rain.
"What was that about?" Sam asks, not liking being alone in a strange house that belongs to someone else. It's not the same as a motel room or the abandoned places they've squatted. It isn't even the same as staying someplace borrowed. It creeps him out.
"Nothing," Dean says, still staring out the window in the direction their dad went. With a satisfied nod, he turns and looks at Sam. He looks relaxed now, happy even. Reaching a hand out to tousle Sam's towel-crazy hair, he says, "Now. Let's get you out of those wet clothes."
Sam is still weirded out, but he does feel clammy and gross, and Dean is looking at him all hungry, and getting dry sounds pretty awesome. He lets Dean pull his shirt over his head and wrap a towel around his shoulders. Dean starts rubbing, fast and good, heating up Sam's skin in a tingly way that feels much better than the sticky heat from the humid air. The machine in the corner stops whatever it's doing, and though the rain is still loud on the roof, the room seems much quieter all of a sudden. That, or maybe it's Dean's hands, which have left the towel draped over Sam's shoulders and moved to the button on his fly, make Sam feel better. Less like this is creepy, and more like it's just space for him and Dean.
Because the wet denim is stiff and unyielding, Sam's shorts don't come off as easily as his shirt. Dean kneels to get better leverage, and then smirks up at Sam when he ends up with Sam's prick popping up to point at his chin. He doesn't say anything, just pulls the towel from around Sam's neck and starts rubbing his legs, as soon as Sam has stepped out of the tangle of shoes and shorts.
Sam feels small without his clothes, Dean fully dressed kneeling at his feet, the sound of the rain huge around them.
"I've got you, baby boy," Dean says against Sam's tummy, kissing the gentle roundness above his belly button, then the spot to the left of where his prick, fully hard now, is standing up straight.
Sam whimpers when Dean pulls back, but Dean's only taking his own soaked shirt off and then he's back, running his hands over Sam's flanks, down his slim legs to the ticklish backs of his knees. "I've got you," he says again, and then stands up, picking Sam up with him and carrying him over to the sagging sofa across the room.
With his legs wrapped around like they were in the water, the last vestiges of discomfort float away, and Sam just feels good and happy. He lies where he's dropped, watching Dean finish stripping off, watching him towel his skin so it's glowing red when he leans over Sam.
Instead of lying down next to Sam or on top of him, Dean kneels on the floor again, starts kissing trails up Sam's hip, up his ribs, nuzzling his wet hair into Sam's armpit and then kissing his way back down, blowing a raspberry which makes Sam thrash and squeal. Then he starts licking, little cat licks, big dog licks, tickling still, but also feeling so good Sam can hardly stand it.
"Dean. Dean," he begs, hands all over Dean's head and neck and shoulders, pulling, pushing, grabbing, he doesn't even know. He wants more, wants Dean to stop, wants him to never stop, wants him to lick Sam's prick that way, isn't sure he could cope if Dean did.
"I got you. You're all mine, I got you," Dean murmurs, licking, licking, hands everywhere except where Sam needs them, leaving trails of heat.
It feels like Sam's dick and balls are on fire or dipped in ice, like they're swelling up to ten times their normal size with wanting Dean to touch them. Sam's quivering under Dean's hands, almost crying with how much he needs.
"Got you," Dean says one last time and then finally, finally, closes his mouth over Sam's cock.
He doesn't even suck once, and Sam's coming, coming so hard he bashes his wrist against the sofa's arm, so hard he bucks up and almost throws Dean off, so hard he shouts loud enough he can't hear the rain anymore.
It's too much. He's gonna fly away. Needs Dean to hold him down.
Dean seems to know all about it, climbs up and covers Sam in the blanket of his body, petting his hair, kissing his face. Sam can feel the sticky cling of come between them, thinks for a minute that Dean did get thrown off, didn't swallow the way he usually does, but then realizes that the jizz is Dean's.
"Mine," Dean whispers against his lips. "Always. Mine."
"Yours," Sam murmurs, before he drifts into sleep, Dean deliciously heavy all around him.
____________________________________________________________________________
If curiosity about Dean and Buck is killing you, you can find out more in Shadows of the World Appear.
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