HE’S METICULOUS, BUT HE KNOWS THE KEY is to play it casual. even if it’s a ruse, and everybody knows it. even if he’s spent the last hour or so working himself up to it, swallowing rejection to gain the CONFIDENCE … staring at himself in the mirror until he feels like the reflection is him again ( because it is ––––– and he’s whole, GOOD ). he can hear dean puttering around the kitchen. this is the new normal: after dinner they retreat to their rooms, and don’t speak again unless one of them gets something in regards to FALLEN ANGELS ; or unless a fresh day is broken. sam doesn’t know what dean does, in there. private space is so new a concept that sometimes the windowless walls feel like a cell. he hears music, sometimes, or gunfire from movies, or nonsense muttered around the clacking of laptop keys. regardless, though, at some point each night, dean’s door opens, and his footsteps trail to the kitchen. he trades his empty bottle for a cold one ; he preps the coffee pot for the morning. this is sam’s window of opportunity.
he spends an hour telling himself that this’ll be different, because it will be. because he’s playing his highest card, so … it has to be. unsocked feet make a funny sound on the cold floor as he pads to the kitchen, softer and lighter than the boots he usually treks around the bunker, and though that’s obvious, it’s harmonious with everything else. it’s a little cold, bare necked and naked legged. the key is to play it casual ; he breezes past dean, thin wispy fabric sliding up his arm as he reaches for a glass, goes to fill it with water.
‘ what’cha up to ? ’ he pauses, waits for an answer. chews on the very corner of peach-flavored lip. ‘ y’locked yourself up in your room pretty early. you’re not going to sleep, are you ? ’ // @ofmurdering likes to suffer
if it’s confidence sam strives for, it’s confidence achieved. not only in his . . . attire, but it’s even sinking into his words. fuck. he only came out to the kitchen for a new beer, maybe a bag of pretzels ---- and realistically, he should have been expecting this. well not this. never this. sam cornering him in the kitchen, with words, and a warm body, yes. with hands reaching out for places they shouldn’t touch . . .. but they can’t. not when they aren’t alone. because they aren’t, not any more. there’s an e l e p h a n t in the room with them, only, it’s visible to dean and dean alone. not the person it concerns the most. he forgets though, honestly, as he so often does when that haze clogs his throat. he coughs, following his brother’s body with dark wide eyes on his walk to the sink.
were dean a good brother, he’d leave. if he cared enough, he wouldn’t give in ---- just hike himself back to his room, lock the door, and leave it all up to his hand in the dark with those legs in his mind. soft pink fabric slipping off broad shoulders, just the way it should when he kisses that neck ---- but dean knows the fantasy of it could never be enough. not as much as this, the real thing, standing here before him, begging. it’s a last resort kind of effort, isn’t it ? dean won’t give it up, no matter how nice sam asks ---- so he’s simply not anymore. it’s a fair play, and it does, exactly what he’s sure it intended. dean’s hard ---- he wants his brother, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop himself this time. ❝ aren’t you cold ? ❞
eyes trail south. down to bare feet, back up, slowly ---- soft pink silk and flesh, exposed neck ---- he’s fucked. ❝ jesus. ❞ he runs a hand over his mouth, up through his hair. it doesn’t even occur to him that he hasn’t answered a damn question sam asked. there’s not much he’s currently comprehending. besides the fact, he didn’t think his brother needed it this bad. ❝ god, sam. ❞
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