gwenknight: (chaosgraphicskiss)

Summary: Dean thinks that's when Sam started with the kissing. Looking back, Dean can see how he'd been the victim of Sam's sneaky ways. He knows that people think he's the con-man of the family when it's really Sam all the way.

DISCLAIMER: This is fiction, silly rabbit

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written as a companion piece for this one: Jackhammer Love
But, they'll both stand alone.

Movie Star Kisses

Dean’s kissed a lot of people in his life. A lot of people. The first he remembers is his mom, one day when he was in the kitchen helping her bake a cake for his dad’s birthday. She’d given him the frosting spoon to lick and he’d kissed her on the cheek, getting chocolate on her face. She’d laughed, that high, giggly laugh that had always made Dean feel like there was nothing wrong in the whole wide world. Or, at least in his whole wide world and, back then, there hadn't been.

He’d kissed his dad, too, all the time. Well, before the fire, anyway. Back when he’d come home from work and swing Dean way up in the air, really high, and ask all about his day or when he’d let Dean share the easy chair with him and watch TV. Although, Dad usually did the kissing then, cause no matter how much Dean tried to stay awake and have big-guy time, he’d generally fall asleep halfway during the game. Barely awake, he’d feel his Dad settle him up against him, cover him with the afghan that hung over the back of the chair, and kiss him on the top of the head. Dean almost always had good dreams after that.

Course, that had been before. When it had been only Mom and Dad and Dean and Sammy. Before the demon had slithered into their lives and took his mother away and turned his Dad into someone who didn’t cuddle and kiss. Someone who spent his time with his sons teaching them about monsters instead of watching football games.

But, then had come school and that opened up a whole new frontier as far as kissing was concerned. Dean found out that he could kiss his grade school teachers on the cheek and smile up at them and generally get away with a lot of shit that might normally have landed him in detention. Same thing went for the cafeteria ladies when he wanted extra milk, or the lady in the apartment next door when he knew she'd been baking brownies. He'd kissed girls in high school to get....well, what high schools boys live for.

Once he'd hit the road to hunt full time, kissing was just another weapon. He'd kissed librarians to get help with research, sheriff's secretaries for information, waitresses for extra pie. Lonely-looking girls in random bars who looked like maybe they needed the same things out of a long night that he did and no more. Tall, shaggy-haired college boys who absolutely had not reminded him of Sam.

Dean had made sure, always, that the kissee got as much out of the process as the kisser. Always.

Which was why he had been a legend in 47 states long before he and Sam had crossed The Line That Must Not Be Named.

So, once Dean had gotten over the whole "HOLY CRAP, I'M KISSING MY BROTHER!" part of it and, really, that hadn't taken anywhere near as long as he'd imagined, he'd figured he was bringing a hell of a lot to the table, what with his expertise and all. Sam might have gone off to college and everything and, seriously, he'd scored with Jess, but still. Dean had skills that he'd figured were far beyond Sam's imagination or pornish dreams.

He'd been wrong. Not that he'll ever, ever admit that to Sam in the light of day but. Jesus. If Dean were one of those girly, emo kind of guys, he'd probably be writing songs or poems or some shit like that about Sam's kissing abilities.

Back when they'd first started, he and Sam......back when they'd stopped fighting what they'd wanted longer than they both could remember and had stopped trying to force themselves to think normal when they lived in the fucked-up Winchester world that could never be normal.....well, Dean had gone at it like he did everything else, with a boatload of enthusiasm and not much finesse. And, at first, that had been the exact right way, because, once they'd let go of all the Thou-Shalt-Nots and decided that being SamandDean was so much more than okay, there had been a hell of a lot of sexual tension that had to have somewhere to go.

So, yeah, it had been hot and heavy for a while. Frantic and sweaty with noses bumping and knees gouging all the wrong spaces and sometimes only managing to get half-naked and backseat-car sex in the middle of random fields or up-against-the-wall sex when they'd barely taken time to get inside the room and shut the door and some days coming so many times Dean had seriously thought he might die from it.

It had taken a good long while to take the edge off, until they'd realized that this, what they had, wasn't going anywhere. Until Dean had stopped looking at women and stopped using sex as a diversion or a tool. Until Sam had stopped thinking there was anything else he wanted, and had decided that this version of his picket fence dream fit the bill exactly.

Dean thinks that's when Sam started with the kissing. Looking back, Dean can see how he'd been the victim of Sam's sneaky ways. He knows that people think he's the con-man of the family when it's really Sam all the way. Sam with his shy smile and big, brown eyes and aw-shucks attitude. He's a shark. You don't see him coming till you're screwed six ways to Sunday. And, Dean had clearly been the victim of Sharky McSharkster.

Sam had started out slow with the kissing shenanigans. Dean remembers how Sam would corner him sometimes in the bathroom while he was shaving. Crowd him up against the sink and put his ginormous hands on Dean's face and hold him still while he kissed him and kissed him and kissed him till Dean was dizzy and not breathing very well and then he'd just smile and walk the fuck out, leaving Dean clutching the porcelain like a drowning man.

Or, they'd be sitting at a red light, late at night on their way out of town. Everything night-quiet and still, and Sam would just lean over and kiss Dean for long, long minutes, like they were the only two people in the world, like there wasn't a light about to turn green, or a sun waiting to rise, until Dean's hands would slide off the wheel and the Impala would sputter and cough and Sam would back up just far enough to whisper "Light's green" against Dean's mouth before settling back into the passenger seat and closing his eyes. Dean would have to sit there, sometimes through another red light, trying to remember which freaking way he'd been going to turn.

One time, he'd even ambushed Dean in a goddamned cemetery!! Yeah, sure, it had been touch-and-go there with the Spook Of The Night. Nasty zombie that just would not lay the fuck down and hold still for the salt and burn and Dean had come pretty close to losing that one. To a fucking zombie no less but, hey, everyone has their off days, right? Anyway. He totally hadn't been scared so it hadn't been at all necessary for Sam to back him up against that tree and kiss him with so much tongue and sighs and whatnot, until he couldn't think about zombies or graveyards or anything except the feel of Sam's mouth on his. The heat of his body, huge and solid and strong and right the fuck there and not going anywhere, never going anywhere, a silent promise to always be on Dean's side against the crazy-assed zombies of the world.

After that, it seemed like Sam just took it for granted that he could maneuver Dean into marathon make-out sessions whenever he damned well pleased. Which, was fairly often. And, of course, it was just a hop and a skip from making out on the couch or in the car or in a field or wherever struck Sam's fancy to actual *cuddling*. In bed.

Christ. Dean Winchester. A cuddler. If this ever gets out, Dean will have to move to outer Mongolia.

But, he's taking Sammy with him if he does. Because, this right here? This, having Sam all wrapped up around him, all huge and warm and lazy and boneless and fucked-out?

Yeah, he'll take it.

Dean's a smart man. He knows it's not about the kissing at all. It's because it's Sam.

Sam with his sleepy eyes and stupid hair and impossible dreams. Sam, who can pin Dean down and hold him there and see all the way inside until Dean just fucking gives it up. Whatever Sam wants, whatever he needs, Dean's going to give it to him. Sam, with his hands that can hold Dean together when he's bleeding. Hands that can shoot straight and cut clean and, on a good day, behead a vampire with a length of rusty wire. Hands that can soothe and calm and bring Dean back from whatever particular hell he's dealing with.

It's Sam who, despite having highly questionable taste in music and a strange penchant for cuddling, is the strongest man Dean knows.

It's Sam who loves Dean beyond what's probably good for him and makes Dean believe, even after everything they've seen in their crazy, fucked-up lives, in impossibilities and happily-ever-afters.

Dean thinks he's probably found his happily-ever-after, right here. He never thought it would involve cuddling. But, he'd always known it would involve Sam.


gwenknight: (Default)

May 2009

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