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[candles hunger in silence/
sam/dean; hard r
644 words




candles hunger in the silence


---


The heat isn’t unbearable, it’s the friction that’s the worst; Dean scrapes along his insides, he’s burning with pleasure/pain, and he doesn’t open his mouth to say a word because all that’s there is please and he doesn’t know if he’ll mean please, yes or please, don’t (but always always means please, Dean). He turns his head, eyes closed, and Dean bites at his neck hard enough to bruise and then soothes with his tongue. Sam doesn’t try to swallow Dean’s moans with his mouth this time, getting off on Dean’s breathy Sammy… He doesn’t want this to end, but he wishes it could start over.



---


This time it’s heading steadfast out of Alabama, a hasty tip over the phone from Ash, and then packing and hauling ass to make sure they catch it in time. Sam doesn’t say a word, sits in the passenger seat and stares out the window. Dean’s jaw his set, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. They can’t win this – not yet – and there’s no point in trying to talk Dean out of it. He doesn’t have much hope left that they’ll get through this alive, but at least they can try. At least we’re still together. And that’s not saying much.



---


Sam uses bits of cloth, ripped from old pairs of jeans, from tee-shirts, anything that will work, while Dean sits with his back to him, hands fisted tight in the scratchy coverlet. His skin is stained with blood and so are Sam’s hands, their clothes, the floor; they're alive and maybe more broken than they were. Sam can’t think about the alternative. He sets to taking a basin of warm water, a washcloth, and washing Dean’s wounds first; he eases over broken, bloody and bruised flesh, fixing what he can and not thinking about what he can’t. They don’t speak, but, what’s there to say now? We lost; I’m sorry.



---


Stopping by the Roadhouse was more a necessity than Dean will admit, but Sam lets it go, doesn't say a word. They’re beat to hell, and Ellen has warm beds and a hot shower, and Ash might be able to find It again; Sam doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care to finish it anymore because he’s losing Dean to the Fight and fuck if that’s worth any of this. Dean needs to know because he doesn’t have anything else left. Ellen bathes and dresses Sam’s wounds and he doesn’t shower, goes to the back where the beds are separated by more space than he’s willing to notice. Dean’s lying face down on one of the beds, the one closest to the wall, furthest from the door, and his head’s turned away from the rest of the room. It’s been like this, and god it hurts. Sam eases down onto the opposite mattress feeling like his skin is stretched too tight. There are no sounds but breathing and the silence of I miss you while he lies still, craving Dean’s heat.



---


He’s lying there so still it takes him a moment to realize I’m still here, still alive, still with Dean. Dean’s hands make familiar paths down his sides when Sam doesn’t speak, doesn’t say I’m losing you, and whispers please… instead. Dean’s skin is heated, alive, dotted with a map of freckles and scars that Sam traces with his fingertips. Dean grabs his face, crushes his mouth to Sam and Sam breathes him in; Dean kisses him hard and bites at his lips. It’s almost too hard, too fast, but Sam takes it, feeling tears burn his eyes because we used to have more than this. Dean’s hands used to smooth his skin, soothe his scars, mouthing each one and pressing forgiveness and absolution with his lips. That was the past, and now Dean’s fingers leave bruises on Sam’s hips.

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May 2010

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