Title: Fundamentally Altered, 5/5
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Rating: NC-17 overall
Words: 365 (1450 in total)
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Graphic Wincest
Summary: Repeated near-death experience would affect us all.
Notes: Written for stagesoflove 2006, Round 2, 'Five Stages of Sexual Arousal', stage #5 - resolution.
Also posted here.
Stage #1 - Desire, stage #2 - Excitement, stage #3 - Plateau of Arousal, stage #4 - Orgasm.
You can start from the beginning, Desire, (all stages are linked internally,) or read the final stage here.
The adrenaline has faded and the urgency is quashed now the edge is off your hunger, at least for the moment. You can feel every tremble as it works through his frame, every muffled sob and sigh, every half-assed attempt to pull away. You're not having that shit, not now.
You keep him close and turn you both towards the car, and he lets you lead without a word. That freaks you out - he's never been the biddable type; he always manages to ask that one question you've not thought to find the answer for. He's good at that.
The ride back to the motel is made in total silence. He's pressed so hard against the door he's almost hanging out the window. It's not as funny as it should be.
It's ten feet from the door to the bathroom, but you could swear he covers it in one stride. You hear the bolt snick home before you've even put your bag down.
The loud pounding of the water doesn't muffle all the sobs.
You peel down to shorts and tee shirt and you wait, stripping down the guns you used tonight and cleaning them.
You try your best not to react to the way he doesn't look at you - not once - when he comes out. Instead, you take your turn under the showerhead, sluicing off the only proof you have of what you've done.
It disappears in an instant.
The towel is rough again your skin; you use it violently, trying to flay the guilt from your soul with cheap cotton. It doesn't work.
When you come out, he's turned away from you, curled in on himself, in a knot. You take the other bed.
You're not sure what time it is when you feel the blankets lift, feel that long, gangly body easing in behind you. It's been forever since you touched.
You feel his curls on your neck; hear him whispering apologies, lips warm against your nape.
Your answer is the tangling of your fingers with his, the intertwining of your legs with his longer limbs. You braid your flesh with his so tightly you will never get free.