(no subject)

[elinorwise]

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean rages. "You some kind of masochist, or something?"


Sam was pretty sure he knew what the word meant, but he looked it up when he got home.


Knowing what he was felt a lot like falling.


Sam was seventeen.

Изумительное начало.
Потом автор явно запускает руку куда не надо, начинает терять POW, OOCить и скатывать историю в обычное порно - но первая часть очень хороша: живая, чувственная, напряженная.

Sam was tall enough and old enough to put up a fight; he might even have won. But he didn't. He needed this. He needed it one more time before he left; one more time before he could never go home again.

So, when Dean grabbed the collar of his flannel shirt and slung Sam over his knees, Sam pretended to be too drunk to put up much of a fight, but he wasn't.

That time, Dean struck him 18 times. Sam wasn't sure if Dean picked the number on purpose: one hit for every year that Sam had turned Dean's life inside out, or if that's just how long it took for Dean to exhaust his ire.

Просто надо было остановиться где-нибудь вот тут.

The realization hits Sam right in the gut and clears some of the cobwebs from his head.


He makes up his mind to try something.


If he's wrong about this, it will be so much worse than falling; it would be mutually assured destruction.


This time when he moans, he turns it into Dean's name.


He puts every drop of arousal coursing through his veins into the word, so there will be no mistaking it for anything it isn’t.


The amount of relief he feels when he hears Dean's murmured, "Fuck," is absurd.


The next time, he's even louder.


So is Dean.


Still, Sam wants to be sure. He needs to be sure. Because he can't live without this anymore, but he won't live without Dean. Though he's not sure he has the power to choose between the two anymore.


They're on the razors edge of something here, and Sam prays that he hasn't somehow misread the situation.

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