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04 January 2009 @ 10:44 pm
Two Minutes. The Finished Version 1/2  
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Title: Two Minutes
Author: Vesta
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Category: Angst, a little h/c,
Warnings: UST
Feedback: Yes, please. If you would be so kind.
Disclaimers: I don't own much, especially not these fine gentlemen.

Summary: Sam's back at square one again. Dean came and got him and there is no getting away this time. There is definitely no forgetting. Two minutes, two goddamn minutes at the time, that's all he needs. To get his breath back, to try to stay sane.

Notes: Set during Season 1. I wrote this a process and it was meant to stop at tops 2000 words. Let's just say it went a little beyond that.
Many thanks to softbluebuddy, who has done an expert job with the beta. Not to mention has had the patience to handle my horrible grammar. However, I've tweaked it after and all the mistakes still floating around are mine.
Also; thanks to the beautiful persons on my f-list who has been backing me up while I wrote this. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. abx_journal: I still want to adopt you.
My gorgeous fic-banner is originally made by the outstandingly talented ala_tariel. She let me borrow it and tart it up a little.




I.

Two minutes, that was all he needed. Two goddamn minutes. Sam locked himself in the bathroom and unzipped as soon as the door closed behind Dean. Dean would be back soon, he was only doing a coffee-run, but two freaking minutes were enough.

Sam's dick practically leapt into his hand, already wet at the tip and he hadn't bothered with grabbing the lotion from his toiletry bag. It was enough with spit, had to be. Two minutes to clean the pipes and he would be good to be around Dean for another few hours.

He worked himself hard and fast, images of Dean's naked body flashing in his head. There was no thinking about the wrongs in this. It was like when you owe money, a couple of thousand bucks can mess up your life, but owe a million and it's so far from reality it doesn't even register. This? This was in a different universe. A universe where he could want, and touch, and do all the things he thought about. Sam hated this universe; he didn't want to be there. He had escaped for a brief moment, but then Dean came for him and he was back to square one.

Sam was pretty certain that he would have come with Dean, no matter what. Jess's death was just an excuse. And here he was again, wanting, not having. Being forced to watch Dean trot of with any random woman, biting his tongue until it bled so he wouldn't get up and claim what was his. Because it wasn't, Dean wasn't. Never would be.

Sam leaned against the sink, jeans pushed down just enough to reach. There was no pleasure in it. Just get off, fast, be able to function for a little longer. Get the stress out off his system enough to not go grab Dean. And touch. He came with a strangled grunt, refusing to acknowledge the syllables slipping through. And he refused to look at himself in the mirror. Sam knew far too well by now what his eyes looked like, a little haunted, begging, pleading.

Sam had just had the time to arrange himself on the bed, laptop open, looking industrious, when Dean breezed in. Bag with coffee in one hand, bag of donuts in the other. If he thought Sam looked weird, he didn't say anything. The day before he had said something though, he had asked why Sam refused to look at him. The answer was so simple and so impossible to give. Sam had just shrugged it off.

The coffee burned his tongue and the donuts tasted like sawdust. Sam did not look at Dean.


II.

Two minutes. If he only could close his eyes and sleep for two goddamn minutes, he might be able to clear his head. No matter what he did, he couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, sweating the sheets translucent. No sleep. Not with Dean in the next bed, dressed in no more than boxers.

At night the thoughts came. The thoughts that told of sick and twisted desires. Wrong, so very wrong. The ones he held at bay during the day, not touching Dean, not thinking when he rubbed himself off.

Dean on his belly, hand under the pillow, grasping the knife. Sam could see the line of his bent leg, the curve of his ass, the long, strong stretch of his broad back. What made his mouth water was the tender, vulnerable spot just where Dean's shoulder met his neck. Soft skin on his throat, thin enough for Sam to see the steady pulse beating.

It was killing him. Slowly and gently, but killing him. 'You shall not covet…' The words echoed in his head, loud enough to make his back spasm. Every time he closed his eyes he saw flames crawl over the ceiling, saw Jess there. Accusing him. She must have known that she was only second best, even when Sam didn't know it himself. Gets you for wanting, for being greedy.

Sam forced his eyes shut. Stuck between a rock and a hard place was a tender spot to be, compared to the saggy bed he was lying in. The springs dug into his back, small stings of hurt. He had tried to concentrate on them, on the crack in the ceiling, anything to draw his mind to a place without thoughts. Had been no use. He was still hard, leaking a little on his belly where his dick rested. His eyes were open again.

Hard, so hard he was aching. The crack in the ceiling caved and yawned when he stared too long at it. Dean snored, small snuffling noises. Sam remembered them from before, when he was little and still slept beside Dean. They had always meant safe, warm. Now, when he knew what his body could do, what the tingling, tensing sensation meant, they brought only more hurt, leaving him hotcold, skin goose-bumped in the humid night air.

Sam could barely stifle the groan when he turned over on his belly and shoved a pillow underneath his hips. He had to be fast and not make any noises, Dean could seem dead to the world but he woke at the slightest 'wrong' noise. Sam's half-sobs were 'wrong' noises.

He pushed two fingers, wet with saliva, into his ass. It burned, he wasn't ready. Other hand pushed under him, holding his dick. It was quick work, thrusting into his hand -the pillow a poor substitute for a body- and back onto his fingers. When he came with his face pressed into the mattress, he had a bitter taste in his mouth and his eyes burned.

It was impossible to get comfortable. Sam had tossed the soiled pillow on the floor; the sheets were damp and wrinkled. Dean so close but yet so far away. The clock on the bedside table blinked 4:22, green angry numbers. His eyes still burned when he forced them shut again.

5:05. Sam stared at the clock. 40 minutes. He had slept for 40 minutes. Somehow he could still smell the smoke from his dream. He sat up on the side of the bed and reached for his jeans.

Sam tried to be quiet when he got back, but as he closed the door, Dean woke up. Wrong noise.

"What time is it?" Dean sounded groggy.

"A quarter to six. I got coffee." Sam handed over the cup, he really didn't want to answer anymore questions. The same questions, every morning.

Dean took the cup, and sat up, leaning against the headboard. Sam studiously did not look at him. What he felt would be too obvious on is face. He stared at the cup instead.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Sam nodded. He wasn't lying, he had slept. Then Jess had been back, staring at him from the ceiling. Dean grunted in response and took a sip of coffee.

"Don't lie to me, Sam." Dean didn't sound groggy anymore. Razor-sharp. "I know you didn't. You have to...you have to tell me what's going on. I know about the nightmares. Alright? It's about Jess, I know that too. But there is more and I can't help you if you don't talk to me." The last words were shouted, Dean had jumped up from the bed.

Sam kept his eyes on his cup of coffee and shook his head. "There's nothing more. Just...just that."

He heard the footsteps, expected a thwap at the head. Instead Dean's hand landed on his neck, gripping lightly. "Talk to me, Sammy. I can't stand to see you like this. Please. Just talk to me."

How could he ever tell? Sam shook his head again. "I can't Dean. Not...not about this."

Dean's fingers tightened around his neck, thumb rubbing just under Sam's ear, the motion strangely soothing. Sam wanted to arch his neck, press into the touch, but that was another thing he couldn't have.

"It's nothing, Dean, I promise." Sam pulled his head away from the touch and looked up at Dean. "I promise," he repeated. "It's nothing."

Sam poured the coffee in the sink. His throat was so tight he couldn't even swallow.


III.

"Could you stop for two goddamn minutes? I'll eat when I want to. Stop fucking nagging."
Sam could hear the brittle whine in his voice. But he couldn't stand another second of Dean's 'You gotta eat, come on man, at least something'.

Dean didn't stop. He kept talking and Sam, he just sat there. He had heard it before. The same tone, the same words. Dean had been on repeat the last few days. But he hadn't seen that look on Dean's face before though. That one was new. A little worried, a little tense. Dean had even cut the waitress off when she came back to refill the coffee. A waitress with a D-cup, and Dean brushed her off. Amazing.

The noises from the diner, Dean's voice, a white noise in his ears. They had all tuned together, tuned out, to a low buzz. Dean's mouth was still moving, spouting words but Sam didn't hear. He watched Dean's lips, caught by how soft they looked, how pink, a little wet, the small crumb of bread in the corner of Dean's mouth. The tip of Dean's tongue flicked out, swiped it away, and left his mouth clean, lips glistening lightly.

He wanted to touch, to reach out and press his thumb against the full lower lip, press and feel teeth behind. Sam's vision narrowed to Dean's lips, the rest of his face going dim like an old photograph, blurry edges. But the lips were sharp, outlined, moving soundlessly. Sam's fingers twitched.

Dean's hand waved in front of Sam's face. "….and you're zoning. Come on! Wake up. Fucking zoning. Are you high? What the hell's the matter with you?"

Sound came back in a rush, hurt his ears, made his temples ache. He realised that he had his own hand extended, half way lifted, on his way to touch. He yanked it back, put both hands in his lap, knotting them together. "I have to…" Sam swallowed thickly, his tongue was too big, his throat so dry. "Bathroom."

He almost tripped over a chair on his way, bumped his hip instead. The bathroom was empty, but Sam checked under the doors to the stalls anyway. You could never be too careful. Careful, Sam sighed and leaned against the wall. Careful was getting impossible. One of these days Dean would catch him- staring, wanting- and then what? Careful was shot to hell. Sam looked down at his hands. Big, clumsy hands. What the hell was he thinking? Letting it slip like that, reaching out. He couldn't even keep his shit together in public. It really was just a matter of time now.

If it wasn't so wrong it would almost be funny. This obsession. Eating him alive. At first, he had blamed it on hormones, being fourteen and horny, with the newly discovered knowledge of what to do with himself. Popping a boner as soon as Dean even looked at him. He hadn't questioned it then, the obsession. Dean had been so 'Dean' already, cocksure, bowlegged, hip swaying gait, driving Sam nuts. There had never been any room left for anyone else. But that was long ago. Sam didn't know what to blame it on now. He just wanted. Everything.

The water was cool, gurgling through the pipes, making the silence in the restroom less loud. Sam splashed his face, felt his hair plaster against his forehead. Glared at himself in the spotty mirror, at the too dark shadows under his eyes. Only a matter of time.

He took a deep breath, tried to get at least a semblance of a hold of himself, and pressed a hand hard at his semi-stiff dick, willing it to wilt. It strained a little under the heel of his hand, twitched. Even now, on the brink of exhaustion, panic, whatever, he was still yearning for what he couldn't have. Couldn't stop his body from reacting. Couldn't stop his mind from making images. Couldn't stop being hard.

Dean didn't say anything when Sam sat down at the table again and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry, not for food at least, and he couldn't bear to put anything in his mouth. But there was something in the way Dean looked at him, that made Sam's skin crawl. Too knowing, too on edge. Too…expectant.

The coffee was lukewarm, tasted like acid. Sam couldn't swallow; he spit it back in the cup.


IV. Now

If the sun would cloud over for just two goddamn minutes, Sam would cry from relief. But it doesn't. The sky is clear, almost white in the heat, here, close to the Mexican border. And it's hot. Too hot.

Sam is sweating rivers, shirt wet, hair wet, sticky. The upholstery is burning his ass through his jeans; he sits behind the wheel, waiting for Dean to give him the sign. But Sam doesn't complain, doesn't move, tries to not look at Dean's legs, the curve of his ass, bent over the engine, halfway under the hood. Sam can see skin, Dean's shirt has ridden up, got stuck on his sweaty back. Sam wants to lick. So he doesn't look. At all.

It's the touching. Sam feels like he's going crazy, crazier. Dean is touching him. Nudges of his hand when he takes the paper from Sam. Shoulders bumping when they walk side by side. Thigh pressed against thigh when Dean sits too damn close. Crazy.

And now this. The car needs an emergency repair, at the side of the road, in the blistering heat. Dean's working, economic, graceful movements almost like a dance. Sam wants to touch back. Run his finger along the low riding waist of Dean's jeans. Trail the inseam from knee to groin. Rip the shirt open. Dean might as well be bare; his shirt is so wet it's plastered on him, showing every little ripple in his back.

It never, ever fucking stops. Sam thought he would get past it, get over the obsession, but he hasn't. Dean is crawling under his skin, getting into his head and Sam can't stop thinking. Can't stop obsessing. There is nothing sane about this. But Sam isn't sane. Not by a long shot. Long years of wanting, leaving, trying to forget, haven't helped at all. He's still at square one, hasn't moved one bit.

The time with Jessica- sweet, sweet Jessica- loving, caring Jessica, going up in flames and that was Sam's fault. But she was never enough, never the real thing. Sam knew she knew, she looked at him sometimes, so sad, so betrayed. And he could not bring himself to change that, couldn't make himself tell her she was the only one. Because there was already an 'only one'.

Sam sighs. The car is not cooperating; Dean is getting pissed under the hood. Sweat is dripping and Sam wants to lick. Trace Dean's back with his tongue, sweep off the drops gathering at the waistband of his boxers. Catch the trickle from his face that ends up pooled in the hollow of his throat. It never, ever fucking stops and god knows that Sam has tried to make it stop. But to sit in the diners, hands trembling, watching Dean as he inhales the fries, that is not helping. Watching Dean in whatever motel room they are shacked up in, Dean fresh from the shower, flopped on the bed. It never, ever fucking stops!

Dean stands up, stretches his back. Sam stares at him, at the soft skin of his belly when Dean pulls his shirt up and wipes his face.

He sits there, in the car, hand between his legs. Gave up, he just gave up. There is no getting out of this. Dean is back under the hood, bending over, and Sam can't help but think about how easy it would be to just step up behind him. Press close. Hands on Dean's slim hips, pushing his jeans down and press even closer.

Sam traces his dick with thumb and forefinger. He's so hard, again. Has to have some relief. There has been no chance for privacy these last few days. Dean has been watching him like a hawk. Turned down gigs, kept close, and not letting Sam out off his sight. The twitching and tingling in Sam has gone from painful to pure torture. He has to let a little steam off.

He presses his hand against himself. Feels the hard ridge lined up against his belly, cockhead almost sticking up over the waist of his pants. Sam slips a finger inside, rubs gently over the wet head. Just have to, just a little, before he explodes. Dean leans forward, back and legs tensing and Sam can't stop. He rubs a little harder, thumb joining in the rhythmic squeezing. Just this, no more. Until Dean spreads his legs, tilts his ass up, then Sam has to. More. He's using his hand now, not just the fingers, squeeze, release. Dean doesn't notice, busy with the engine.

Would be so easy to just step up. Wouldn't take much to fit his hips against Dean's, drop his pants, feel skin. Harsh breaths are wheezing out off him, thundering in the desert silence, and he doesn't care. Sam works his hand a little faster, the other one white knuckle gripping the steering wheel. Just a little push and he would…

"Sam!"

The world stutters back in, Sam goes completely still, hand unmoving, trapped. 'He' is trapped. "Sam, wake up. Try to start her. I think I got it now."

Fingers clamping down, thumb over the slit, sliding in the wetness, he's so close his teeth ache.

"Sam, I said start her up. Now!"

Sam comes. The 'now' shoots sparks from head to toes in him and he can't hold back. He bites down on his lip, almost bites through it. Cock jerking in his hand, thick spurts of come soiling the inside of his boxers, and feels like it never, ever stops. As though he's wringing his spine out, leaving him boneless and stupid, curled over the steering wheel. But still there is no pleasure in it, just steam erupting.

"What the hell? You dead in there?" Dean is annoyed, Sam can tell. Heat's getting to him too. He croaks something back, could be 'yes', could be 'fuck me, take me'. His hand, when he pulls it out, is sticky and wet, he wipes it on his shirt before reaching for the key. The car starts on the first try and Sam is out in a heartbeat.

He yanks the trunk open, rummages for a clean shirt in his bag. Has to hide the shameful spots, hide what he has done. There is no helping the wet patch on his pants though, he settles for pulling the shirt down as far as it goes. Should be able to sit in the car now, for a few hours, keeping it down.

But when he closes the trunk and turns back to Dean he is so screwed. The sun is playing over Dean's naked chest; he's standing with his arms stretched over his head, shirt in one hand. Sam can hear the pop in his back when he bends a little backwards. Sam stares, can't turn away and Dean catches him. Stares back. If it wasn't so unbelievable, Sam could swear he's seeing hunger in Dean's eyes. And just like that, he's hard again, dick straining painfully against the wet fabric. He tears his eyes away and walks over to the passenger side, sits down, tries to breathe.

They leave in a cloud of dust. The water bottle Sam finds in the glove compartment is so hot the water is almost boiling. He forces down a gulp. Does not look at Dean again for miles.



Right here is Part two of Two Minutes. Go forth and read!
 
 
 
glimmerellaglimmerella on January 6th, 2009 11:15 pm (UTC)
Oooh, such UST. Hot!
Vesta: vadå?biggelois on January 7th, 2009 03:00 pm (UTC)
It's building here :)
Thanks.
dahlianna: Locker!Catdahlianna on January 8th, 2009 04:33 am (UTC)
You DO know how much I love you, right???? I make it clear enough? :-)

*tackle hug*
Vesta: vadå?biggelois on January 8th, 2009 02:14 pm (UTC)
I'm beginning to really like those tackle hugs you dish out :)

Yup, I'm sorta getting you like me. But feel free to repeat yourself anytime.

::tackles back:: Smooch!!
Mae: quill bloodazryal on January 8th, 2009 04:49 pm (UTC)
Jesus
I'm with Sam. The way you describe Dean and the way Sam feels is so visceral, so hungry; it's damn good writing on top of damn good tension and I really shouldn't be reading this at work, but I can't stop now that I've started. I'll catch you on the flip side with more feedback.

Mae
Vesta: vadå?biggelois on January 10th, 2009 10:59 am (UTC)
Re: Jesus
Oops. I dunno what to say. Thank you! I'm really glad you like what I've written. I tried for a shortshort version of a 'stream of conciousness' and it seems like it worked.
Thanks, again, for you superkind words !
lollipop disease .. ♥: GLURBLE!applepie_x0 on January 8th, 2009 08:44 pm (UTC)
this is freakin' perfect. hot and achey. LOVE it. <3
Vesta: vadå?biggelois on January 10th, 2009 11:00 am (UTC)
Thank you very much! Glad I could provide a happy moment there :)
Unofficial Supplier of Fine Czech Footballers: SPN - Evil!Sammymittelfeld on January 9th, 2009 12:31 am (UTC)
Oh my. *fans self* That was awesome.
Vesta: vmanbiggelois on January 10th, 2009 11:00 am (UTC)
O dear! Heatflushes! Thank you very much!
jasonsnene: Forbidden_Awardsjasonsnene on January 22nd, 2009 07:43 pm (UTC)
Nomination for "Two Minutes"
Congratulations! Your story "Two Minutes" has been nominated at the Forbidden Awards! http://community.livejournal.com/forbiddenawards/profile

To accept this nomination, and any others you receive this round, you must send a statement of acceptance to: kindreddemons@hotmail.com

Thanks!
Nene
Forbidden Mod
doveslanddovesland on June 29th, 2010 09:16 pm (UTC)
Yeah its the whiny moron again struggling to find part 2 lol
It's me again the whiny bitchy fan who cant seem to get to any of your part twos...lol....can you help me out again, I cant get the link to work. it says that the page does not exist. please please please.....

Your writing just tends to leave wanting and almost demanding more the way you stir and drag us through the emotions and the tension.

please help me......
Vesta: twitchy3biggelois on June 30th, 2010 04:58 am (UTC)
Re: Yeah its the whiny moron again struggling to find part 2 lol
Whine away :) Seriously, thank you for the heads up again. Next part is unlocked. Stupid of me to not check it properly.
Of course you're allowed to see it
I'm thrilled you enjoy my writing enough to whine about not getting at it :)
doveslanddovesland on June 30th, 2010 01:45 am (UTC)
Hey
it's me again, lol.

the page is now showing up but it is saying that I am not allowed to view it now. tee hee....

Sorry to be a pain in the ass I really am, but can ya check it for me...again lol.....