jumping is easy, falling is fun (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} cormallen) wrote,@ 2009-01-06 14:55:00 |
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FIC: Why Don't You Cry About It
First of all, huge thanks to all of you for putting up with my computer woes! Replacement Number Two seems to be working out so far (oh, god, please don't let me jinx it). I'm still at skip a whole lot on all your posts and very behind on answering comments, but I did spend some time over atwendy's delightful Love Meme!
Title: Why Don't You Cry About It
This is a follow-up to Kiss it Better (I Want You To). Sam/Dean. Kissing, cursing and doubts. 666 words.
rejeneration, honey, when you said I want the place where they pull off under the overpass, and Dean pulls Sam a little closer, I don't think this is exactly what you had in mind, but I hope it works anyway.
Fat raindrops crash into the windshield, plink-plink-plonk and only getting faster, heavier, clunk-thump-clunk, angry drumbeats into the glass.
"I don't believe it. Is that... hail? That's fucking hail. Already can't see a goddamn thing, not driving in this shit."
"Why don't you cry about it," Sam suggests, fingers still resting over Dean's wrist. "You can pull over up ahead, I think that's a parking lot."
When he kills the engine, the windows fog up almost immediately, and the hailstones pound on the roof like they're going to break through, drown the both of them in sharp, heavy cold.
"I fuckin' hate New England."
"We're not in New England. We've crossed into New York about five minutes ago, actually."
"I fucking hate the northeast. Happy now?"
"Nope, not yet," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, lets his brother shuffle over across the seat until they're mashed together, shoulder to shoulder, hot line of Sam's arm pressed tight against his.
"Better," Sam nods sagely, and then he's twisting, the leather under him creaking, and Dean closes his eyes, waits for it, Sam's breath over his cheek, nearer and nearer.
He turns his head into the kiss, but fists his hands into his sleeves, doesn't dare move them. If he does, something might happen. Something he can't let happen, not like this, in the car, in some half-flooded parking lot, Dad waiting somewhere miles up the road. Last week, he was still thinking can't ever, but he's given it up since.
Sam tastes like spice and salt, scrape of teeth over his lip. It's a little sloppy, wet, slick tongue, and he can't breathe, his chest tight, but Sam keeps moving, shifting, pressing into his mouth like he wants the ache to grow.
"Fuck," he sighs, biting at the inside of his cheek when Sam pulls away.
"So, that wasn't awful," Sam pronounces, settling down. "I think it's back to just rain now."
When they get back on the road, water's still crashing down over the windshield, wipers working double. But they've already wasted too much time, and it's not as bad as the hail; the wind's calmed down some, and he can see more than two feet in front of him. Dean fiddles with the heater, turns the radio up, hits the brakes in time with the ruby taillights ahead.
"Downed power line," Sam says, rolling his window down. "See?"
"Yeah, I fuckin' see," he bites back, stares at the wire hanging down into the road, at the cars clogging up both directions, taking turns slowly circling around onto the shoulder. Northbound, red pick-up, Jersey plates, dipping into the grass. Southbound, little green Honda hatchback, tree branches swiping against the muddied paint job. Slow crawl, and they're eighth in line; Dean leans back into the seat, wipes a sweaty hand over his forehead.
"Wonder if someone called it in already," Sam says, bag of jerky rustling, holds out a strip. "Last piece, split it?"
He leans over the seat and bites, comes up chewing, piece of jerky hanging from his lip.
"Nasty," Sam says, popping the remainder into his mouth. "You were supposed to break it off, dude, not drool all over my hand."
"You liked it and you know it," Dean says jovially, honks the horn at a white Nissan with Connecticut tags. "Go already, goddammit! You waitin' for an engraved invitation?"
First of all, huge thanks to all of you for putting up with my computer woes! Replacement Number Two seems to be working out so far (oh, god, please don't let me jinx it). I'm still at skip a whole lot on all your posts and very behind on answering comments, but I did spend some time over at
wendy's delightful Love Meme! Title: Why Don't You Cry About It
This is a follow-up to Kiss it Better (I Want You To). Sam/Dean. Kissing, cursing and doubts. 666 words.
rejeneration, honey, when you said I want the place where they pull off under the overpass, and Dean pulls Sam a little closer, I don't think this is exactly what you had in mind, but I hope it works anyway. Fat raindrops crash into the windshield, plink-plink-plonk and only getting faster, heavier, clunk-thump-clunk, angry drumbeats into the glass.
"I don't believe it. Is that... hail? That's fucking hail. Already can't see a goddamn thing, not driving in this shit."
"Why don't you cry about it," Sam suggests, fingers still resting over Dean's wrist. "You can pull over up ahead, I think that's a parking lot."
When he kills the engine, the windows fog up almost immediately, and the hailstones pound on the roof like they're going to break through, drown the both of them in sharp, heavy cold.
"I fuckin' hate New England."
"We're not in New England. We've crossed into New York about five minutes ago, actually."
"I fucking hate the northeast. Happy now?"
"Nope, not yet," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, lets his brother shuffle over across the seat until they're mashed together, shoulder to shoulder, hot line of Sam's arm pressed tight against his.
"Better," Sam nods sagely, and then he's twisting, the leather under him creaking, and Dean closes his eyes, waits for it, Sam's breath over his cheek, nearer and nearer.
He turns his head into the kiss, but fists his hands into his sleeves, doesn't dare move them. If he does, something might happen. Something he can't let happen, not like this, in the car, in some half-flooded parking lot, Dad waiting somewhere miles up the road. Last week, he was still thinking can't ever, but he's given it up since.
Sam tastes like spice and salt, scrape of teeth over his lip. It's a little sloppy, wet, slick tongue, and he can't breathe, his chest tight, but Sam keeps moving, shifting, pressing into his mouth like he wants the ache to grow.
"Fuck," he sighs, biting at the inside of his cheek when Sam pulls away.
"So, that wasn't awful," Sam pronounces, settling down. "I think it's back to just rain now."
When they get back on the road, water's still crashing down over the windshield, wipers working double. But they've already wasted too much time, and it's not as bad as the hail; the wind's calmed down some, and he can see more than two feet in front of him. Dean fiddles with the heater, turns the radio up, hits the brakes in time with the ruby taillights ahead.
"Downed power line," Sam says, rolling his window down. "See?"
"Yeah, I fuckin' see," he bites back, stares at the wire hanging down into the road, at the cars clogging up both directions, taking turns slowly circling around onto the shoulder. Northbound, red pick-up, Jersey plates, dipping into the grass. Southbound, little green Honda hatchback, tree branches swiping against the muddied paint job. Slow crawl, and they're eighth in line; Dean leans back into the seat, wipes a sweaty hand over his forehead.
"Wonder if someone called it in already," Sam says, bag of jerky rustling, holds out a strip. "Last piece, split it?"
He leans over the seat and bites, comes up chewing, piece of jerky hanging from his lip.
"Nasty," Sam says, popping the remainder into his mouth. "You were supposed to break it off, dude, not drool all over my hand."
"You liked it and you know it," Dean says jovially, honks the horn at a white Nissan with Connecticut tags. "Go already, goddammit! You waitin' for an engraved invitation?"