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[personal profile] elohvee
you can have it.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. R. Approx. 570 words. Set during 1x12, "Faith". I was working three other fics and then [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure gave me this prompt (which I'm not sure is even medically possible but I don't really care anymore) and this ficlet was like, Bitch, fuggedaboutit, I pwn you. So it pushed its way to the front of the queue and...happened. Title from Philip Levine.


      Give me back my young brother, hard
      and furious, with wide shoulders and a curse
      for God and burning eyes that look upon
      all creation and say, You can have it.



It's like a trick of light. Daytime and it's all too harsh, too sharp, too focused. There's too much to look at all at once, too much to hear or say, so they push it all under and it only breaks through when their guard goes down, and that's not often.

Nighttime and blue moonlight or the cheap yellow of a streetlamp, a disco ball for the moths, and it's softer. Muted. Enough so that Sam can only just make out the line of Dean's body. Enough so that loud and fierce and obnoxious becomes soft-spoken and pleading, enough so that Sam forgets normal and forgets to argue back.

Dean slips into Sam's bed and presses up close behind him and whispers, Please. Sammy, please. I want it. I'm not, not fucking broken enough that I can't. Come on.

And Sam says, No, Dean, you can't, I can't, I'll hurt you, it'll—

And Dean says, No. Please. Sammy.

And so there's this. There's the blue light through the window and the sheets growing damp beneath them, Dean's head tilted back and his mouth halfway open and Sam's hand flat over his heart, Sam pushing inside him too fucking slow, afraid he'll hurt Dean worse, somehow, but he's counting beats and measuring heart rate in his head. He tries it again, stopping when they're as close as they can get, and he says in his brother's ear, Dean, please, you can't handle it, not yet, but after, once we find—

Do it, Dean growls. Almost an order. He lifts his hips and turns his head to scrape his teeth over Sam's throat.

It comes down to this: Sam refuses to believe there might not be an after. Dean's not sure he wants one. And they're both too fucking stubborn to consider alternatives.

Sam bows his back and watches his brother. He hitches his hips and Dean's eyes close.

And it's this. It's the curve of Dean's throat and the light through the window. This, the stubble burns left on their skin when it's over. This, this, this, Dean's moan when Sam moves just right, Dean's hand reaching for his own dick, Sam's fingers closing tight around his wrist and pulling him away.

He pins Dean's arm above his head and says, Stay like this. Just like this. He licks his palm, moves his left hand to Dean's cock, the other never leaving his brother's chest.

Faster, Dean says, and he arches into Sam's grip and the slide of Sammy inside him. Sam ignores his brother's pleas, holds tight to the measured rhythm they've got, like he's afraid Dean will shatter beneath him if he moves faster, like he thinks Dean's teetering on an edge, ready to fall and break into a million slivers of glass and bone. Dean says, Harder. Please, Sammy, I want it—and Sam kisses his throat and does something with his hand and wrist, moves his whole body and once, and Dean thinks he's coming apart at the seams.

Later, they lay curled around each other like they haven't since they were kids. Tangled arms and legs and the sheets twisting over sleep-warm bodies and moving with the steady rise-fall of their breathing.

The light outside the window goes off and a cloud drifts in front of the moon. Dean half-mumbles something in his sleep and rolls onto his side, and Sam stays awake for hours, counting heartbeats instead of sheep.
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