ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-03-29 08:20 pm
ratherastory) wrote2011-03-29 08:20 pm
Entry tags:
Death and Taxes
Title: Death and Taxes
Summary: Curtain!Fic. Sam and Dean settle down, which means they have to do things they never even thought of before. Like filing taxes. Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
samdean_otp First Time comment-fic meme, from a prompt by the lovely and talented ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
de_nugis.
Characters: Sam/Dean, established relationship
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,483
Disclaimer: Playing in Sera's sandbox while she has her back turned. Not mine, please don't sue.
Warnings: Wincest (Sam/Dean), explicit sex, swearing
Neurotic Author's Note #1:de_nugis made me write Wincest. IDEK, okay? *sigh* This is just feel-good fluffy porn. No angst, nothing like that. Just boy-lovin'.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Unbeta'd, off-the-cuff comment-fic. You've been warned.
Sam shifts in the bed, cracking open one eye just enough to note that Dean's bedside lamp is still on. Even after all this time, he finds it strange and not a little unnerving to move in a bed whose springs don't creak and which doesn't smell of cheap detergent and mould and overuse by a thousand different people. He rolls off his side and onto his back, nudges Dean's thigh with his elbow.
“Why are you even still awake?”
Dean snorts softly, and Sam hears the rustle of papers by his ears. He resigns himself to not rolling over and going back to sleep, opens his his eyes to find his brother sitting up in bed, several pillows serving to keep him upright, half-glasses perched on the end of his nose and chin propped in his hands. He's in his pajamas, at least, or the boxers and wife beater that serve as such anyway, papers strewn over the bed along with a couple of pencils and a calculator. Sam didn't think they even owned one of those. He's squinting at one of the papers as though it's the greatest unsolved mystery of all time.
“Dean?”
“I swear, it's like they do it on purpose to obfuscate the rules. Why the hell can't they just put the lines in order? Why do I have to jump around from line to line anyway?”
Sam shoves himself up and out from under the nice cosy blankets, which they bought new at the local department store just because they could, basking in the untold luxury of linens that had never been used by anyone else before. He shivers in the nippy spring air, rests his chin on Dean's shoulder, peering at his work. “Why are you trying to fill out tax forms at,” he checks the clock, “two o'clock in the morning?”
Dean shrugs. “Couldn't sleep.”
Sam traces a gentle pattern over his brother's spine with the tip of one finger, gratified when Dean shudders, ever so slightly. “Nightmares?”
“Nah. Just old. Knee's acting up, and I kept worrying about these stupid returns. I don't remember Dad filing tax returns even once. What the hell am I supposed to list under 'Occupation,' anyway? I've spent forty years without filing taxes —eighty if you count hell. Why are we doing this again?” Dean's complaint turns into something perilously like a whine, and Sam chuckles against his shoulder.
“Hey, it's fine. We both have jobs now, so we have to do it. Doesn't mean it has to get done right now. Besides, there are online forms that do all this shit for you,” he presses closer, enjoying the way Dean slots comfortably just under his arm. “Put it away,” he whispers, making sure his breath blows hot against Dean's neck, just at his jaw line. “We'll look at it tomorrow, after we've had coffee. Two a.m. isn't the time for taxes unless it's April 14th. We've got plenty of time.”
Dean shudders again, a little harder this time. “You, uh, have something else in mind?”
“Could be,” Sam reaches over to knock the calculator off the bed, and carefully straddles Dean's thighs, mindful not to put any pressure on the knee that Dean's blown out too many times for their liking. Dean meets his gaze without hesitation —Sam can see the laugh lines collecting at the corners of his eyes, is suddenly ridiculously happy and grateful that his brother even has laugh lines. He can feel a smile tugging at his lips, moves forward to nip a bit at Dean's jaw. “You are very sexy when you're being all responsible and mature and wearing those glasses. Fucking gorgeous,” he adds, alternating kisses and licks along his brother's neck, gratified when he hears Dean's breathing quicken, feels him arch a little at the contact.
“You like it, huh?” Dean sounds pleased, a little breathless. “Shoulda tried... doing taxes years ago... if that's what gets you going.”
“You have no idea,” Sam assures him, slipping a hand under his undershirt and toying with a nipple, rubbing the pad of his thumb over it so that he can enjoy Dean's hissing intake of breath.
“Sam... fucking tease,” the complaint is half-hearted, his eyes already closing in pleasure. “You're interrupting... my being a —oh fuck!— responsible citizen, here... fucking forms...”
Sam lets his hand trail along Dean's stomach, a little softer now that they don't make a habit of two hundred crunches a day out of necessity, inches his fingers under the waistband of his boxers to tangle them in the wiry hair beneath. “I can stop anytime, you know. Just say the word.”
Dean's hips buck a little and he grins, turning his head to catch Sam's mouth in a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and laughter. “Such a little bitch,” he teases, dropping his papers in favour of wrapping both his hands over Sam's hips, fingers digging into the skin just enough to be pleasurable, the feeling grounding, reassuring Sam that he's not going to float away, that his brother's got him and never letting go.
“You know it, jerk. You still going to obsess over taxes?” he asks, Dean's cock warm and heavy on his fingers as he begins to jerk him slowly, watching his brother's chest rise and fall with increasing rapidity, face flushing, pupils blown wide behind his glasses. Dean shakes his head.
“Nuh-uh. No obsessing. Just...” he makes a slightly strangled noise as Sam keeps moving, his gestures unhurried, not bothering to find lube. It's just enough, hot and dry and perfect, with Dean obviously trying not to simply grab him and fuck against him until he's spent. It's a heady feeling, still being able to do this to his brother after all this time. “Sammy... do you... I can...” Dean tries to shift his hands, but Sam uses his free hand to hold him in place.
“It's fine, I got this.”
He doesn't pick up speed, licks his hand a little just to watch Dean swallow convulsively, to feel the buck of his hips, the full-body shiver it produces, and returns to what he was doing. He's hard and aching in his own sleep sweats, can feel moisture beginning to soak through the thin cotton as he adds a small twist to his movements. Dean's eyes close again —it's involuntary, Sam knows this now, rather than a rejection of whatever intimacy he's offering— and his teeth worry at his lower lip, leaving it bright red and glistening. He's breathing loudly, now, raggedly, and Sam's name spills from his lips, supplication and mantra and promise all at once until Sam moves up his body to swallow the sounds with a lingering kiss, tasting his name at the back of Dean's tongue and Dean comes with a muffled moan, spilling hot and easy over Sam's fingers.
He looks up at Sam, pupils still blown, looking wrecked behind his glasses, lips still berry-red from being bitten, and the sight by itself is almost enough to put Sam over the edge. He smiles. “Come on, Sam. Do it. Lemme see.”
It's a matter of less than a minute. Sam's been raring to go from the start, and he barely manages to get a hand down his pajama pants before his own climax takes him almost by surprise, head pressed against Dean's collarbone, Dean's arms wrapped around his shoulders. He lets himself sag down onto Dean's chest, hooks their legs together so his weight won't be on Dean's bad knee, waits for his heartbeat to return to a normal rate. One of the papers comes loose from its pile, floats to the floor with a quiet whisper. Dean kicks the rest of them off the bed in a wild flutter.
“You're helping me with that tomorrow.”
“Mm-hmm,” Sam buries his nose in Dean's ribcage, inhaling the familiar scent of home and love, slings his arm across Dean's ribcage just in case he gets any notions of moving away.
“Sex still makes you stupid. And cuddly, but mostly stupid. How am I supposed to do our taxes when you've gone stupid?”
“T'morrow,” Sam mumbles.
“You're a bad influence.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “I'll figure out how to let us claim the Impala as an expense.”
“Awesome. Hey, Sam?”
“What?”
“If I was Death for a day, does that mean you have to take your turn as Taxes?”
He snorts. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
The light switches off. A moment later Dean's arm snakes over his and a hand twists itself in the back of his shirt. In the dark Sam smiles and lets himself drift back to sleep.
Summary: Curtain!Fic. Sam and Dean settle down, which means they have to do things they never even thought of before. Like filing taxes. Written for the
samdean_otp First Time comment-fic meme, from a prompt by the lovely and talented de_nugis.Characters: Sam/Dean, established relationship
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,483
Disclaimer: Playing in Sera's sandbox while she has her back turned. Not mine, please don't sue.
Warnings: Wincest (Sam/Dean), explicit sex, swearing
Neurotic Author's Note #1:
de_nugis made me write Wincest. IDEK, okay? *sigh* This is just feel-good fluffy porn. No angst, nothing like that. Just boy-lovin'.Neurotic Author's Note #2: Unbeta'd, off-the-cuff comment-fic. You've been warned.
Sam shifts in the bed, cracking open one eye just enough to note that Dean's bedside lamp is still on. Even after all this time, he finds it strange and not a little unnerving to move in a bed whose springs don't creak and which doesn't smell of cheap detergent and mould and overuse by a thousand different people. He rolls off his side and onto his back, nudges Dean's thigh with his elbow.
“Why are you even still awake?”
Dean snorts softly, and Sam hears the rustle of papers by his ears. He resigns himself to not rolling over and going back to sleep, opens his his eyes to find his brother sitting up in bed, several pillows serving to keep him upright, half-glasses perched on the end of his nose and chin propped in his hands. He's in his pajamas, at least, or the boxers and wife beater that serve as such anyway, papers strewn over the bed along with a couple of pencils and a calculator. Sam didn't think they even owned one of those. He's squinting at one of the papers as though it's the greatest unsolved mystery of all time.
“Dean?”
“I swear, it's like they do it on purpose to obfuscate the rules. Why the hell can't they just put the lines in order? Why do I have to jump around from line to line anyway?”
Sam shoves himself up and out from under the nice cosy blankets, which they bought new at the local department store just because they could, basking in the untold luxury of linens that had never been used by anyone else before. He shivers in the nippy spring air, rests his chin on Dean's shoulder, peering at his work. “Why are you trying to fill out tax forms at,” he checks the clock, “two o'clock in the morning?”
Dean shrugs. “Couldn't sleep.”
Sam traces a gentle pattern over his brother's spine with the tip of one finger, gratified when Dean shudders, ever so slightly. “Nightmares?”
“Nah. Just old. Knee's acting up, and I kept worrying about these stupid returns. I don't remember Dad filing tax returns even once. What the hell am I supposed to list under 'Occupation,' anyway? I've spent forty years without filing taxes —eighty if you count hell. Why are we doing this again?” Dean's complaint turns into something perilously like a whine, and Sam chuckles against his shoulder.
“Hey, it's fine. We both have jobs now, so we have to do it. Doesn't mean it has to get done right now. Besides, there are online forms that do all this shit for you,” he presses closer, enjoying the way Dean slots comfortably just under his arm. “Put it away,” he whispers, making sure his breath blows hot against Dean's neck, just at his jaw line. “We'll look at it tomorrow, after we've had coffee. Two a.m. isn't the time for taxes unless it's April 14th. We've got plenty of time.”
Dean shudders again, a little harder this time. “You, uh, have something else in mind?”
“Could be,” Sam reaches over to knock the calculator off the bed, and carefully straddles Dean's thighs, mindful not to put any pressure on the knee that Dean's blown out too many times for their liking. Dean meets his gaze without hesitation —Sam can see the laugh lines collecting at the corners of his eyes, is suddenly ridiculously happy and grateful that his brother even has laugh lines. He can feel a smile tugging at his lips, moves forward to nip a bit at Dean's jaw. “You are very sexy when you're being all responsible and mature and wearing those glasses. Fucking gorgeous,” he adds, alternating kisses and licks along his brother's neck, gratified when he hears Dean's breathing quicken, feels him arch a little at the contact.
“You like it, huh?” Dean sounds pleased, a little breathless. “Shoulda tried... doing taxes years ago... if that's what gets you going.”
“You have no idea,” Sam assures him, slipping a hand under his undershirt and toying with a nipple, rubbing the pad of his thumb over it so that he can enjoy Dean's hissing intake of breath.
“Sam... fucking tease,” the complaint is half-hearted, his eyes already closing in pleasure. “You're interrupting... my being a —oh fuck!— responsible citizen, here... fucking forms...”
Sam lets his hand trail along Dean's stomach, a little softer now that they don't make a habit of two hundred crunches a day out of necessity, inches his fingers under the waistband of his boxers to tangle them in the wiry hair beneath. “I can stop anytime, you know. Just say the word.”
Dean's hips buck a little and he grins, turning his head to catch Sam's mouth in a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and laughter. “Such a little bitch,” he teases, dropping his papers in favour of wrapping both his hands over Sam's hips, fingers digging into the skin just enough to be pleasurable, the feeling grounding, reassuring Sam that he's not going to float away, that his brother's got him and never letting go.
“You know it, jerk. You still going to obsess over taxes?” he asks, Dean's cock warm and heavy on his fingers as he begins to jerk him slowly, watching his brother's chest rise and fall with increasing rapidity, face flushing, pupils blown wide behind his glasses. Dean shakes his head.
“Nuh-uh. No obsessing. Just...” he makes a slightly strangled noise as Sam keeps moving, his gestures unhurried, not bothering to find lube. It's just enough, hot and dry and perfect, with Dean obviously trying not to simply grab him and fuck against him until he's spent. It's a heady feeling, still being able to do this to his brother after all this time. “Sammy... do you... I can...” Dean tries to shift his hands, but Sam uses his free hand to hold him in place.
“It's fine, I got this.”
He doesn't pick up speed, licks his hand a little just to watch Dean swallow convulsively, to feel the buck of his hips, the full-body shiver it produces, and returns to what he was doing. He's hard and aching in his own sleep sweats, can feel moisture beginning to soak through the thin cotton as he adds a small twist to his movements. Dean's eyes close again —it's involuntary, Sam knows this now, rather than a rejection of whatever intimacy he's offering— and his teeth worry at his lower lip, leaving it bright red and glistening. He's breathing loudly, now, raggedly, and Sam's name spills from his lips, supplication and mantra and promise all at once until Sam moves up his body to swallow the sounds with a lingering kiss, tasting his name at the back of Dean's tongue and Dean comes with a muffled moan, spilling hot and easy over Sam's fingers.
He looks up at Sam, pupils still blown, looking wrecked behind his glasses, lips still berry-red from being bitten, and the sight by itself is almost enough to put Sam over the edge. He smiles. “Come on, Sam. Do it. Lemme see.”
It's a matter of less than a minute. Sam's been raring to go from the start, and he barely manages to get a hand down his pajama pants before his own climax takes him almost by surprise, head pressed against Dean's collarbone, Dean's arms wrapped around his shoulders. He lets himself sag down onto Dean's chest, hooks their legs together so his weight won't be on Dean's bad knee, waits for his heartbeat to return to a normal rate. One of the papers comes loose from its pile, floats to the floor with a quiet whisper. Dean kicks the rest of them off the bed in a wild flutter.
“You're helping me with that tomorrow.”
“Mm-hmm,” Sam buries his nose in Dean's ribcage, inhaling the familiar scent of home and love, slings his arm across Dean's ribcage just in case he gets any notions of moving away.
“Sex still makes you stupid. And cuddly, but mostly stupid. How am I supposed to do our taxes when you've gone stupid?”
“T'morrow,” Sam mumbles.
“You're a bad influence.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “I'll figure out how to let us claim the Impala as an expense.”
“Awesome. Hey, Sam?”
“What?”
“If I was Death for a day, does that mean you have to take your turn as Taxes?”
He snorts. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
The light switches off. A moment later Dean's arm snakes over his and a hand twists itself in the back of his shirt. In the dark Sam smiles and lets himself drift back to sleep.
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