apocalypsos | Fic: This Life'll Be The Death of Me (Supernatural)

Title: This Life'll Be The Death of Me
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,100 words
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers for: "Shadows"
Warnings: Wincest, bad language, sexual situations
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: Dean's best work is done with his hands.

*****

This Life'll Be The Death of Me

****

Four

The number of shots Dean has to fire into the thing to get it to die.

Sam's gun is long gone by the time the thing barges through the rotted closet door, pink-tinged teeth bared and black claws swiping in their direction. Dean doesn't even stop to flinch, the shots popping off one-two-three-four like he's counting off the beat of some rock anthem only he can hear. There's a flicker of that muscle in his jaw when the creature slumps to the ground, a good four hundred pounds of dying flesh that slams to the ground and makes the walls shudder against Sam's back.

Sam's fingers clench around the two-by-four in his hands, mindless of splinters and old chipping paint. His blood's humming and he contemplates bringing down the plank of wood with enough force to crush a skull, human or not, but it's Dean's hand on his shoulder that snaps him out of it.

"Let's go, Sam," he says after they've disposed of the body, and then there's this twisted quirk of his lips that's too fucking cool to pass as a smile. "I'd say this calls for a little celebrating, wouldn't you?"

His hand grips the shotgun with sure and relaxed fingers, and something about it sets a flash fire in Sam's veins.

*****

Seventeen

How many dollars they've got left between the two of them.

And it's not like it would even matter if the credit cards were still working, but they're down to their last one that isn't going to pan out the next time they use it. Dean rumbles about being able to pick up a new card in the next town over but until then there's three fives and a pair of ones burning a hole in his pocket. That might even be literal, the way Dean's fidgeting in the driver's seat.

"My turn at the tables, little brother," Dean says, like Sam's going to argue him on it.

His fingers barely tighten on the steering wheel as he turns the Impala into the bar's parking lot, as if the car can drive its own damn self, and that fire in Sam's veins surges and roars.

*****

Eight

The number on four of the five cards the asshole in the cowboy hat spreads across the table right before the kid who introduced himself as Dean lets a cocky grin come out to play and that straight flush of his makes its grand appearance.

And ain't nobody in that bar stupid enough to try anything, not with that tall buddy of Dean's sitting at the bar barely touching his beer as he watches the game with a casual indifference. Casual indifference, shit. Like that gangly bastard's not paying attention to every fucking move, those girly brown eyes of his going narrow and hard every time his gaze flickers in the direction of the game. Stare at him long enough and you catch it.

Just like you catch the breaths he lets out whenever Dean's fingers play over the cards, the muted exhales that shudder just enough to count.

*****

Two

The number of billiard balls the redneck in the feed store T-shirt's still got to sink when the punk with the smug twinkle in his eye knocks in the eight-ball.

The string of curse words that erupts past the redneck's lips weave together in a threatening tapestry, and the punk's fists go through a preemptive clench a split second before that tall baby-faced stranger walks out of the men's room behind the redneck. The kid bumps into him before he flashes the redneck a look both sharp and ominous, and the redneck ain't the brightest bulb, but can't miss a partnership like this, not with the look baby boy over here is giving him.

Wonder if a week's pay's worth a broken nose and a few cracked knuckles, the redneck thinks.

Almost six and a half feet of harmless college kid hovers nearby quietly willing to take him on either way, and the punk leans on his pool cue with this overconfident smirk on his face like he's already watching in his head as the redneck loses the fight under the combined impact of the punk's fists and the kid's.

The punk's grip slides along the cue as he quits leaning on the damn thing, and behind the redneck it feels and sounds a little like there's a furnace hissing out air where the baby-faced kid's standing.

*****

Twenty-four

The number of states Sam can probably get arrested in for what he's doing to Dean, blowing his brother behind some bakery at three in the morning in the Bible Belt.

Funny, Dean thinks, how Sam will sneer about credit card scams and fake IDs but he never has a problem going down on Dean like a fucking porn star.

Dean's fingers slip through Sam's hair, grasp and tug and slide, and Sam moans at a pitch that's going to set Dean off just thinking about it from now on.

*****

Twelve

The number of doors or walls Dean's pressed him against since leaving Stanford before he's shoved his tongue in Sam's mouth or his hand down Sam's pants.

Dean's the complete opposite of subtle like that.

Dean does it, Sam thinks, to compensate for the height difference, as if jerking Sam off between a wall and his own brother really makes it all that much better. It keeps Sam as still as Dean can make him with Sam writhing like that, makes for the most of Dean's body pressed against the length of him as Dean's fingers slide over him. Dean's knee tucked between his, one of Dean's hands working him over with the same dexterity he has with every other goddamn thing on the planet, and fuck, if he keeps flicking his thumb over Sam's cock like that, things are going to end and end fast.

Dean's hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, and if they're taking Sam over by inches he's not about to complain.