Blue Memories

Interlude: Bonelessly

Dean/Sam, NC-17 

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Go inside, I'm coming through
Into our world that you surround
Show me now, I'm here with you
For you
I could not be more gone

 ~ "Living Rooms" by Revis

They tiptoe around each other, suspense a thick fog in the air. Sam isn't entirely sure how to proceed from where Dean's last bar visit left them, which is a little ridiculous since it was Sam who pushed Dean into this.

Whatever this is.

Sam is a little unclear on it all.

Dean avoids any head-on encounter with Sam, keeps his distance, flinches away when Sam steps too close and – he supposes that's it, anyway – sends out signals of let's talk. In fact they talk little and train less, even though Sam's ankle is almost healed up now. There is a lot of awkward silence lingering around them when Dean gives him a ride or John has them do whatever together, and Sam doesn't know how to break it. On the other side – and that is what confuses Sam so much - Dean spends a lot of time running around their apartment half-naked. Sam can't help but stare then, follow his brother with his eyes as he progresses from their tiny bathroom to the kitchen. He stares at the remaining drops of water running down Dean's chest just to disappear teasingly in the towel slung low around his hip. He's seen this sight a thousand times before, maybe looked a little too, but the impact has never been like this. His mouth feels dry, and he has to swallow against the sudden lump that's building in his throat and threatening to rush south.

Dean is being an exhibitionist, and Sam's all in favor of it.

Dean tips his head back as he turns around to face Sam, cup of coffee against his lips as they make eye contact, and Christ if Sam doesn't get hard in point four seconds flat. He's got a direct view of Dean's chest, hair sparsely littered across taut skin, a few scars, ghostly white, sprinkled here and there, and he watches his brother's Adam's apple bob as he drinks the contents of the cup.

Sam kinda wishes he was that cup; wants to reach out and touch the scars so freely marring Dean's skin, make them go away - better than he could with fumbly stitches, anyway. Mostly, though, he just wants to have his hands on Dean's skin and their mouths connecting. He feels a blush creep up from his neck, feels hot all over as his cock half-seriously begins to flirt with his zipper. Somewhere deep down he knows the road his thoughts take is inconvenient, but who ever said teenaged boys had any kind of control over their sexual appetite? He's mesmerised, stands rooted to the spot even as Dean puts down the cup again, half-turning away from Sam and the muscles of his arms flexing.

Sam swallows again, and that's exactly when Dean's eyes meet his again, his amusement evident. There is also something guarded there, however, a haunted look that Sam can't quite place and that makes him hesitate. They hold each other's eyes for a moment, Sam staring wide-eyed at the crinkles around his brother's eyes, and that's just when a smirk starts to spread across Dean's features.

A jerk goes through Sam's body, and he feels the sudden, inexplicable urge to flee the scene of his doom for some alone-time in the bathroom. He blushes, averts his eyes from his brother, and starts stiffly down the hallway. Dean's chuckle follows him through the closed door.

Leaning against the closed bathroom door, Sam closes his eyes and carefully breathes. He doesn't know whether his advances would be welcome, anyway. He strongly suspects not, judging from how jumpy Dean has been lately. Pushing himself off the door, he chucks his clothes with a blank mind and steps into the shower stall.


The cold shower doesn't exactly work, like Sam had hoped it might. Blocking Dean from his thoughts turns out to be quite impossible. The more he tries to push his brother out of his head, the more the visual of a half-naked, wet Dean invades his thoughts, making his cock throb and the tips of his fingers, longing to touch, tingle. But he can't – won't – do anything about that now. When he is finished and dressed he still feels on edge, like it's just going to take one precise touch - God, not true, just that little bit of pressure would be enough, Jesus, Dean's hand against the outline of his erection, palming him through the jeans, and Christ no Sam is not going there, he is not, that is not the path of redemption - and he'll be coming down the front of his pants. He flushes just from thinking about it. That the possibility of stumbling upon Dean again is too great to contemplate doesn't exactly help calm down his agitation. No sir, definitely not.

Sam carefully creeps forward, his feet silent against the carpet. He lurks around the corner to see if anyone is in the kitchen, but it's blessedly empty.


There is still hope of getting through the day alive, then. Seating himself at the breakfast table he starts to pour milk into his bowl of cornflakes, and as he begins to shovel food into his mouth - slightly more gracious than Dean would, but Sam is a growing boy, too - just his luck, the apartment's door opens and Dean casually walks in.

Mid-swallow, Sam puts his every muscle on hold and keeps his eyes trained on his brother. This is not how he had planned this. He has had no time to get back to normal so he won't make Dean even more uncomfortable. He feels the hungry itching in his limbs starting up again and begins to dread every inch of distance Dean might close between them.

"Hey Sammy," Dean says, bright fake smile plastered on his face. Sam watches, carefully, as his brother's grip on the paper bag in his hand tightens, his knuckles whitening. Slowly Sam puts the spoon down. All his senses are fixated on Dean as trepidation casts out the desire previously running through him.

"What's in the bag, Dean?" he asks, slowly, quietly, but still as normally as possible, as if afraid of spooking a nervous horse. Sometimes this tone of voice works with Dean, makes him angry enough that he just spills.

"Oh," Dean says, with that curl of the upper lip that alerts Sam to the highest degree, "just a couple chocolate croissants." As he walks forward to the fridge, his back a tense line turned toward Sam, Sam continues to gape at him.

Dean. Bought chocolate croissants.

The world must have ended.

Sam keeps gaping even as Dean settles beside him, too surprised to register the fact his brother is sitting beside him, which at the moment doesn't exactly mean good things. Clear things. Sam has no idea what he's allowed to do around Dean, with Dean. This, right now, is the total opposite of what Dean has been doing, namely not coming close to Sam.

That doesn't matter right now though, because Dean got Sam chocolate croissants. He got Sam his favorite breakfast even though since an incident Sam can't even remember Dean hasn't be able to look at them with less than pure, utter disgust.

"Stop blinking, you look like an idiot," Dean says, voice low, eyes diverted, as he butters himself some of the bread that needs to be finished up before it's gone completely dry.

"But -"

"Gimme the milk," Dean demands, dangerous glint alight in his eyes, and Sam has to swallow, hard. He studies Dean from aside, unsure where to place this defensiveness. Sam hasn't tried to push him into a corner, to make him talk. He's been giving Dean his room.

But, maybe, Sam thinks as Dean waits him out, uncharacteristically patient, he's been going about this all wrong. Maybe Dean isn't any clearer on what's happening than Sam is. Nodding to himself, he takes heart, and as he passes Dean the carton of milk he shifts to press his thigh against Dean's.

"Thank you."

Dean chokes a bit on the slice of bread he's been feeding himself, and Sam smirks to himself, satisfied.

The rest of the day he keeps accidentally touching Dean, hand on his elbow, chest against back when Dean's preparing dinner, puffing warm breath against the skin of Dean's neck. Dean keeps fidgeting against him, but doesn't pull away. He never stands a chance against Sam.

How is that for a comeback.


"You're a bitch, you know that?" Dean asks when they lie in bed – separate beds – the longing between them stretching through the distance, and judging from the sound of Dean's voice, frustration is running high in him. Sam smiles indulgently into the darkness, fondness mixing with the desire for more, goddammit Dean, make up your mind already.

"Jerk," he tells Dean and then turns to face the wall.

The ball is in Dean's court now.


Two nights later, after two more days of the same game, the mattress dips under Dean's weight as he settles at the edge of Sam's bed.

"You're still a bitch. A fucking teasing bitch that should know better," he murmurs, and Sam goes tense, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Really?" he whispers into the dark, still facing the wall.

"Yeah. Keep touchin' me even though I try to be good, don't ya? Keep lookin' at me with those eyes, goddammit, Sammy -"

Sam turns around, captures Dean's hands that he knows are reaching up to thread through his hair with his. His grip on Dean's wrists is strong and sure.

"You're one to talk," he says, voice going husky. "You're the one who runs around as good as naked all the time when Dad's not around."

Dean flinches when Sam brings up John, tries to jerk back a little, but Sam's not going to have it anymore. He's way past fed up with the confusion and the suspense and the not-knowing, and Dean's sitting on the edge of his bed, now. Sam's not going to let him go.

"You're the one who keeps flirting with gorgeous girls when you're supposed to pick me up after school, and after you won't look at me. You're the one who's the tease here."

Silence lingers after that, their breathing synching up. Sam should be surprised at this development, but he isn't. He and Dean - they've always been more in tune than they should be, and this is just taking it a step further.

"Sammy -"

"No," Sam says. Then he drags Dean forward by his hands and leans in, angling for Dean's lips and missing by inches in the dark. Dean makes a sound low in his throat that Sam takes as encouragement, and the next time they meet, their mouths fit perfectly together. It's slow and it's intimate, the way they come together like this; still hesitant, still unsure, but determined. Sam lets his lips explore Dean's, keeps his hold on his brother tight, needs to have him there, feel for himself that this is where we belong.

Sam feels heat spread through him when Dean leans into him all the way and starts to kiss back thoroughly, his tongue licking away at Sam's mouth and then asking for entrance. They twist and tangle, and the slowness changes into passion, the uncertainty into sureness. The longer the kiss goes on, the more Sam loses himself in it, only aware of the places he and Dean are touching. He trembles a little, feels the slight motion catch at where his hands are linked with his brother's.

Dean breaks the kiss, tries to draw back, and Sam already knows what's going on inside his brother, easy and certain. But Sam is alright. He's alright, more alright than he thought he'd ever be, and goddammit he wants to keep kissing Dean, wants more of that tongue-fucking that feels way more satisfying than any of the, admittedly few, blowjobs he's received yet. He releases one of Dean's hands to touch the fine hair at the nape of Dean's neck and pulls him back in. Dean grunts a little, making Sam smile against his lips. This is how it's gonna be.

Dean's free hand begins to explore then, up to grip Sam's shoulder, touch his cheek, down to his chest. Sam lets his brother's other hand free as well, too caught up in the moment to care much what he's doing himself; he just wants more of what Dean is doing. The heat he's been feeling since Dean settled against him builds in his veins, becomes a raging fire as Dean lets his hands creep under Sam's shirt; touching; spreading fire. Sam moans, and that has Dean chuckling against his lips.

"Feel good?" he asks between kisses, breathlessly. Sam only has room for one more thought in his brain: I did this. He nods wordlessly. The next moment an idea strikes him, and he lets himself fall to the side, no chance to settle back before he pulls Dean with him, half on top of him. Dean steadies himself with one hand against Sam's waist, the other on the mattress besides Sam's head, and Sam feels his brother's arm brush against the cock impatiently awaiting its due attention. He arches his back at the touch, groan escaping past his lips, and feels himself blush.

He can see the outline of a smirk on Dean's face before his brother pushes him down fully and draws back.

"Something you want?"

The sudden cockiness in Dean's voice startles a laugh out of Sam. "Oh fuck you," he says, as decisively as he can while short on air and high on life, and then he yanks Dean down again, past embarrassment just as quickly as the emotion assaulted him. This time Dean presses into his side with his whole body, and Sam can feel his hard cock against his thigh. He grins, then turns to fit himself against Dean and lets his hands begin to wander.

Dean's body is like an addiction, and Sam doesn't think he's ever going to let that go.

Dean is quicker, his hands already bunching up Sam's shirt and travelling all over his skin. His touch makes Sam feel hot and cold in quick succession, shivering as his whole being focuses on the sensations Dean wakes on his skin. His coordination falters the more Dean lets his hands trail south. He tries to press up, find Dean's hand with his aching cock, and he moans with relief when Dean palms him through the pajama pants he's wearing, thin material not hiding the state he's in, at all.

"God," Dean breathes out. The sound helps Sam snap back into himself, still pushing against Dean's hand, but now he lets his hands roam, too, across what he can reach of Dean's back, his chest, stopping a moment to flirt with Dean's nipples through his shirt. Dean's breathing grows more erratic, speeds up just like Sam's did when he travels further down.

"C'mon, Dean," he murmurs.

Dean complies. He starts pushing at Sam's pajama bottoms, and Sam helps him by shimmying around until they're sliding down and Sam's on his back. Then, no time to feel insecure, it's Dean's hand on his cock, skin on skin, making Sam hiss. Pre-come leaks from the tip of his cock as Dean slowly starts stroking him, and Sam has to close his eyes to prevent them from rolling back into his head. His hand's endeavour is forgotten as he concentrates with all his mind to stop himself from coming, unceremoniously, right then, right there. Dean's establishing a steady rhythm, pressure and little twists of his fingers that feel amazing, and Sam knows he's writhing on the bed against Dean, wanting, begging noiselessly for more. His blood sings in his veins.

For a moment Dean takes his hand away. Sam almost starts to protest, but then Dean's hand is against his lips and he knows what his brother wants. Sam licks the palm of his hand, fingers too, and he can't help but swirl his tongue around Dean's pointer and draw it into his mouth as far as it will go. Dean's breathing hitches audibly, and with a pop Sam lets his finger free again.

Mission accomplished.

Dean starts to work him for real then, the slip-slide of skin on skin easier, better than before. Sam can't help himself; he arches up into the touch with a moan. Dean reduces him to a panting and whimpering mess as he gets driven so much closer to release. It doesn't take long; another swipe across his head, another bit of pressure just on the underside of his head, and Sam's coming, spurting over Dean's hand and his thighs and his belly. Only in that moment does Dean lean down to him, plying his lips open with his tongue, and they keep kissing, sharing lazy, languid kisses through Sam's orgasm, right until Sam's back to himself and catches up to reality again. They keep kissing as Sam moves, his hand hesitantly inching closer to Dean's cock. The first touch, Sam thinks into the kiss, his concentration faltering, is weird; not unlike touching himself, but unlike touching himself. Dean feels different in his hand, heavy and hot and like Dean.

"You don't have to," Dean says, roughly, but Sam's already shaking his head.

"I want to."

He tightens his grip around Dean's hard-on as Dean lies back. Sam follows his movement with their lips still locked and turns to his side, weighing him in his hand. Then he starts to move his hand. Dean moans encouragingly and pushes up into Sam's hand. Sam takes this as his cue for more, and he goes for quicker, surer, tighter movements. He knows the way he's moving his hand is awkward, but Dean's kissing has still grown much sloppier. He's breathing into Sam's mouth, and where they press together - lips chest hips thighs feet - Sam can feel Dean shaking, needing, wanting.

He never knew there could be so much power in bringing someone else off.

He tightens the grip of his hand more, bites at Dean's lip and then sucks on it. "Fuck, Sam," Dean whispers then, brokenly, and with another stroke he comes, a surprise to both of them if Dean's groan is any indication.

Sam is with him all the way.


Afterwards, they are still lying together. Sweat and come are drying on their bodies, making them sticky. Dean lies on his side, facing Sam, head tucked against Sam's neck, arm around Sam's middle and clutching possessively at his hip. Dean isn't asleep, but it's a close call. He's going to want to move before the night is over.

Satisfied and feeling boneless, his skin prickling pleasantly and his breath still going short, Sam decides to fuck it and stay exactly where he is. When Dean starts to stir, he'll hold onto him, not let him go. Dawn's going to be there quickly enough, leaving them enough time to separate. Sam, smiling happily, turns a little into Dean, making him grunt dazedly.

The real world can spare them for a moment longer.

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