Land of Trembling Earth
by Maygra

NC17, PWP, schmoop, outtake from Midnight at the Majestic.

Summary: A year after they lose their father, and take on the demon, Dean and Sam hit the road again.

Many thanks to coiledsoul for the beta and to poisontaster for making me hold the line..

The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.

(Word count: 3,279)


They came south to escape the cold, maybe to outrun some memories, but that never worked. Moving worked; did work to distract them both and the heat worked to ease the stiffness in Dean's muscles and joints. There was nothing chasing them; not the demon that had wreaked havoc in their lives, not the ghost of their father. They were free, maybe, for the first time in their lives and yet it still held the bitter taste of failure.

Or maybe it was the bitter taste of fear. Sam had a hard time telling the difference most days.

"Figures we'd end up here in the monsoon season," Dean grumbled quietly. Thunder rattled the roof in agreement and Sam grinned, darkness hiding his smile as Dean continued to stroke lightly over his shoulder.

He did it unconsciously, like once he'd fully given himself permission to touch, he fell back on the old habits interrupted by six or seven years of Sam's teen age rebellion and post adolescent defense of personal space.

That same pattern -- stroke, stroke, rub in a circle, slow brush of fingers and again -- had eased Sam's much younger self through any number of childhood fears from creaking houses and near misses with ghosts, ghouls and beasties of all kinds to the Midwestern thunderstorms that always sounded like the sky was crashing down on them. Dean's hands said what his mouth never would. There, there. It'll be okay. Shhhh.

Then and there, wherever home was for the moment, Sam would be tucked up against Dean's side, Dean usually between Sam and where the source of his distress was, be it outside the door or rattling the windows. He'd taught Sam to count the seconds between the flashes of light and the rumble of thunder, Sam learning the speed of sound before he'd learned to read or taken his first science class. He learned to calculate distance in seconds, five seconds to a mile, counting over and over as the storms moved away. Other fears were settled with different facts, things Sam learned before he ever went on his first hunt, before he ever saw his first ghost.

He was a little too big to comfortably fit against the curve of Dean's side and hip any longer; had proclaimed himself so long before he actually physically could no longer be settled next to Dean so completely, but even so, Dean still took the bed or side of the bed closest to the door, closest to the windows, unconsciously and forever putting himself between Sam and even the vaguest of threats.

Too big to fit there, even if Dean would still allow it now, but Sam could and did tuck head and shoulders against Dean's side, pretty much the only way he could lay on the bed without his feet hanging of the edge -- or so he said. If Dean had suspicions about Sam's stealth cuddling, he was keeping them to himself except for the occasional grumble that when Sam thought too hard, it made his head heavier on Dean's chest. But even in his bitching, his hand found a natural rest at the nape of Sam's neck, or along his shoulder.

"I like thunderstorms," Sam said and shifted a little. Not enough to dislodge Dean's hand but enough that he could let his own hand stroke and trace ridges of bone and muscle without awkward twisting.

"You used to be terrified of them." Dean never said anything about whatever Sam was saying with his hands either but he pulled a knee up so Sam wouldn't have to reach so far, down and across his body. Dean's hand swept lower as well, along the full length of Sam's back instead of just his shoulder, fingertips just grazing the hollow at the base of Sam's spine where he lay almost perpendicular across Dean's body. Same pattern though.

"I saw it roll in across the Pacific once. Could see it coming for miles, for hours," Sam said quietly and felt the twitch in Dean's chest, the sudden intake of air, but Dean's other hand came up, pushing back Sam's hair from crown to nape. He didn't need to say Jessica's name. If Sam talked about California or the ocean it was almost always about Jess and while Dean hadn't quite stopped flinching at the mention, he was getting better at it, the way he was (slowly) getting better about Dad. Someday, Sam hoped they could both talk -- about Dad and about Jess -- the way they could about their mother, with the same fond wistfulness as opposed to an echo and sear of pain or guilt or anger.

"I never minded you crawling in bed when there was one." It was said quietly and Sam closed his eyes, turned his mouth against Dean's belly, felt the muscles there flutter under his kisses. He wasn't going to tell Dean that Jessica had loved making love during thunderstorms, that Sam had come to love it too, distracted and aroused, entranced by what he saw in the flashes of lightning, how the rumbling of thunder had become like the beat of drums. How the hiss and slide of rain against the terra cotta tiles on the roof had always seemed to perfectly echo the soft, quick breaths and moans Jessica made when he thrust into her slow, slow, slow, fast, fast, fast, slow, slow…

He wondered what patterns he'd find this time, if Dean would seek out or use the same incessant and irregular rhythms of the storm to match against his own desire. Sam's hand spread wide across the inside of Dean's thigh to brace himself, shifting his head just enough to nose the soft hairs below his brother's navel, stroking along the taut muscle of Dean's thigh when he pulled his knee up, rolling slightly toward Sam, curving in toward him, the curve of his body deepening that already purple shadows of the room. .

They'd lost power an hour ago but it wasn't night, only the darkness of cloud cover, and in the lightning flashes Dean's skin still gleamed pale, too pale. Without electricity, the ceiling fans in the room only spun slowly from the air being pushed through open windows.

Sam smelled the heavy wet of the swamp a hundred yards away, the lush vegetation that made it seem like there was more land than water. Even with the storm, and so early in the season, the air felt heavy and rich. Bullfrogs called out in between the thunderclaps and the alligators were barking out their displeasure--or pleasure--at the rain beating down.

Dean's cock was heavy and dark against paler skin, flushing more when Sam mouthed the base with soft, open mouthed caresses of lips and tongue. He didn't use his hands at all, waiting for the flesh to thicken and harden before angling to take the head in his mouth. He had to lift his head and shoulders and Dean's fingers tightened in his hair and then released, repeated. His other hand slid further along Sam's spine, palm edging between Sam's buttocks and spreading him. Gone again but only for a moment before returning, fingers slick and wet sliding along the crease and Sam spread his legs a little, feeling more than hearing Dean chuckle as he teased lube into Sam's ass.

He hummed happily around Dean's dick and took him in deeper, sliding his mouth back as Dean slid his fingers in. The patter of rain increased its tempo when Dean took a deep breath in, pushing up, hips twisting and rolling, dick and fingers pushing into Sam's body in the same jerky rhythm and Sam just let it happen. His own dick was hot and hard and he pushed against the cheap cotton of the sheets, prodding Dean to fuck him harder and deeper with his fingers.

He wanted to see Dean's face, knowing the clutch and release of his fingers on Sam's hair matched the biting of his lip, the tension in his body as he pushed up and in. His fingers brushed hard against Sam's prostate and Sam shuddered and moaned, swallowed Dean deeper and held him there with lips and tongue and the angle of his throat. The hairs at Dean's groin ticked his nose and his chin, and he pulled back a bit, pressure to the heavy vein, teeth only barely scraping the wider head and Dean swore and thrust and pushed Sam's head down, then pulled him up and off.

Sam didn't need lightning to see the glitter brightness of Dean's eyes or his lips, didn't need the taste of his brother's come on his tongue to know how close he was. There was an aching hollowness in his own belly, ass tightening around Dean's fingers before Dean pulled them free, urging Sam up and over, knees spread wide over Dean's narrow hips, the wash of cooler air across his belly making him shiver.

His hands touched now, sliding in the thin glisten of sweat over Dean's chest, letting Dean, with his hands on Sam's hips, guide and settle him on his dick.

The first press of Dean's cock into his ass was still a surprise, still something he had to actively think about, conscious thought overriding the instinct to repel or reject. The unfamiliar pressure and stretching made him want to tense up, an unidentified fear tangled up in questions about his own identity, his own sexuality, the fact that it was his brother he was allowing to fuck him -- followed almost immediately by the thought of, if not Dean then who?

"Stop thinking," Dean said, his hand reaching to stroke Sam's cock, to distract him. His tone wasn't chiding or even teasing; the same quiet murmur that meant, "…it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

Both of which were true.

Sam leaned forward, giving Dean room to move, to push up and in, to give himself more points of balance from wide spread thighs, knees digging deeply into the overly soft mattress. It wasn't the best position for his own pleasure, angle wrong for Dean to thrust deeply or quickly, but there was more to this that a fast fuck and the urge for orgasm.

Dean's fingers spread wide and firm over Sam's hips, eyes fixed on Sam's face, biting his lip when Sam grinned and pushed down to meet the shallow thrusts. "You're an evil bastard," Dean muttered, looking half ready to shove Sam over and back.

"You got someplace to be?" Sam asked, and kept his rocking slow and steady, thighs starting to tingle from the strain of holding Dean to the pace Sam set.

"No, but I'd rather get there sooner than later," Dean said through a tight jaw, and bucked upward, bending his leg to raise his knee and pitching Sam slightly forward. He gave a rough chuckle at Sam's sudden gasp as their bodies slammed together. Sam had to catch himself on Dean's shoulder and chest or lose him entirely. He bared his own teeth at the challenge on Dean's face, intent and teasing all at once.

A game of strategy, then. Sam pulled his hands back, curled fingers raking lightly across Dean's shoulders and pecs to catch and linger over the small dark nubs of Dean's nipples. That made Dean arch again, although with far less control and Sam laughed. "So easy. Who knew?"

"I'll give you easy," Dean said, but it was breathless and pitched lower than his normal voice, hands tightening on Sam's hips.

Sam pressed down and leaned forward, not pulling away but settling his weight. "Yeah…yeah, give it to me easy," he said quietly and watched his words register on Dean's face. His grip on Sam's skin gentled, stroking instead of grabbing and Sam eased up

Light flickered brilliant and sharp and it could have been the power trying to come back on or lightning, Sam wasn't sure, but it sent a skitter of brightness across Dean's face and chest, picked up the sweat on his upper lip, on his sternum. Sam leaned forward further, losing the stretch and burn and slick warmth of Dean's dick. He tasted salt on Dean's skin, carried the taste with him into Dean's mouth and played tag with Dean's tongue for a moment, while Dean's blunt fingernails scraped up and down along his spine.

He settled back again, grinning at Dean's grunt of approval. There was less of a burn the second time, and Dean's hiss of pleasure perfectly echoed the hushing sound of the rain against the roof. Sam didn't make him work so hard, angling his hips, rocking his pelvis in a counterpoint to the thrusts Dean was making. His own dick was only half hard but it didn't matter. There was a slow coil of pleasure tightening in his belly, the occasional spark of anticipation that was a pleasure all its own when Dean came close to hitting him just there.

The stretching ache in his thighs would remain long after this but it was worth it to be able to see Dean's spine arch, his head pressed back. His fingers dug into Sam's hip and thigh again -- there would be bruises -- and Sam ground down, clenching muscles and rocking, as Dean trembled beneath him, holding his breath until his body gave up and he gave in. The sudden added slickness in his ass registered as Dean came with his teeth clenched and barely a moan escaping his tight throat.

Sam didn't move until Dean relaxed, the odd assortments of sensations working their way through him, some more pleasant than others. There was a burn and tingle in his muscles; thighs still stretched and tight like he'd run for miles. There was the still heavy warmth settled in his groin; he hadn't come but he was close to the edge of it and it seemed less important than holding onto familiar heat of it. There was the slight rub of friction when he shifted enough for Dean to pull free, a not-unpleasant ache in his ass, and the marked loss of the fullness he'd felt.

Given a choice, Sam would have held onto all of it for a lot longer, but adrenaline and endorphins could only take him so far, and it was a thin line between discomfort and real pain. There was no graceful way to shift, to move off, and it was more of a wrench sideways, Sam landing on his back hard enough to make the bed squeak dangerously, but the ability to stretch his legs out was almost more pleasure than his hand on his half-hard dick, muscles quivering and leaping under his skin.

He was only half-aware of Dean rolling to his side, not really paying attention until Dean's hand covered his on his cock and Dean's lips mouthed at his throat while his thumb stretched above and to the side of Sam's, letting him set the rhythm and the pace. Dean's touch offered a second line of pleasure and stimulation, the rough scrape of calluses rubbing along the back of his hand, and Dean propped up on one arm, gaze switching back and forth between their hands and Sam's face. Sam's breathing became uneven and he stopped watching Dean watch him, feeling the pressure build low in his belly and groin.

Dean's hand slipped off his, pressed lower and deeper, lips pressed to Sam's temple and the scar left there from the crash, half hidden by his hair. It was jagged and ugly still but invisible unless you knew where to look and Dean hadn't said anything about the length of Sam's hair in weeks.

Dean pressed in easily, fingers slicked by the remaining lube and traces of his own come, tracking a path he'd come to know intimately well over the last few months. "Come on, Sam…let me see it…being stubborn in bed doesn't tell anything I don't already know…"

Sam couldn't help it; he laughed in a quick burst of sound, coming almost at the same time, Dean's taunt so ridiculous and so very much Dean there was no other response. His brother had some weird ideas about pillow talk.

Dean didn't pull his fingers away immediately, rubbing and massaging lightly, drawing out the little tremors of pleasure and stimulation until Sam's breathing steadied out. Dean wiped his hand on the sheets and eased down, hand still resting lightly on Sam's thigh.

They should get up, clean up, but Sam let his eyes close briefly, matching his breathing to Dean's and close to falling asleep no matter how much he'd regret it later. He opened his eyes again only when he felt Dean's mouth on his, his brother shifting, telegraphing his intention to move even if Sam wasn't ready to just yet. He held onto the contact of mouths as long as he thought he could get away with it, persuading rather than asking, but already Dean was pulling back, muscles bunching as he levered himself upward using Sam's shoulder as a brace point.

The room was lit again, a prolonged glimmering of lightning that made the aged pine paneling shine pure gold, followed immediately by a clap of thunder so loud it made them both jump, rattled the glass in the windows and made the entire cabin shudder. They felt that one in their bones, a sudden tingle of flesh and sweat that had nothing to do with sex or pleasure. The tang of ozone was thick enough to make Sam's nose twitch as he sat up.

They heard the tearing then, the crackle and rip of something making a slow descent, a second shiver of movement under the bed, shifting the pylons that cabin rested on.

The scent of burning wood and char, the heavy charged aroma of evergreen, pulled them both off of the bed to the window. Fifty feet away, one of the thick based bald cypress trees was severed and shattered, still smoldering. Feathery branches spread out on the ground, changing the landscape, interposing what looked like a ragged hedge between them and the swamp beyond. The remaining stump thrust up like a jagged, angry spire, twisted and splintered.

They stood still, Sam pressed tight to Dean's back. He could tell when his brother checked for any damage other than the most obvious but the car was parked up close to the cabin, the road was clear, the dock on the other side was still a dark gleam of solidity against the grey-green of the swamp. The rain continued, putting out the last few smoldering embers of the lightning strike.

"That was close," Dean said softly, fingers digging into Sam's thigh again, but not brutally. He relaxed by increments; Sam felt every muscle unknot, smooth out, Dean pressing back against Sam, not with intent, but just as a matter of course.

The sky shimmered again with lightning but it was several seconds before the thunder rolled. The storm was moving off, the rain slackening to misty sheets instead of a solid grey downpour. Sensing the change, one of the gators barked out its defiance, but it was desultory at best, like it too was merely complaining as a matter of course.

Sam was almost afraid to move, happy enough to have Dean this close, touching that had nothing to do with foreplay or after play. He could never--would never--admit to Dean that he missed this most with Jess gone; the unconscious and casual touch of bodies and hands without intent. He'd like to be able to stroke Dean's arms for mutual comfort and reassurance, to give in to those impulses he recognized as purely feminine, something he never knew he missed or even knew how to miss until he met Jess.

And it wasn't that he lacked comfort when scared or hurt, never that, because Dean and even their father never hesitated to offer a calming touch of hands and softly spoken reassurances when it was needed. But then and only then. There had to be a reason. There always had to be a reason.

And maybe there was reason enough now, or could be, with their father gone and both of them still trying to pull themselves together without tearing each other apart.

He curled his hands into the ridge of muscle and bone at Dean's shoulder, applying light pressure. Dean flinched and Sam stopped but didn't move his hands.

He was surprised when Dean's hand came up, crossing his chest, and covering Sam's hand. His thumb hooked under Sam's palm until Sam clasped it. Dean leaned back and Sam took his weight, puzzled and pleased and concerned all at once. Dean's eyes were still fixed on the smoldering stump, mouth tight. "Fucking storm. Too damn close."

Thunder rattled the cabin again and it was Sam's turn to flinch, feeling the rattle in his bones, the maybe-imagined shift in pressure that made his ears ring and his skin crawl.

Out in the swamp there was a cry and wail, something low and mournful. It had nothing to do with why they were here. It wasn't human and never had been -- it was no creature to worry them. It was just the swamp, something that belonged here, and Sam figured it was less worried about the cracked cypress than it was at losing its dinner, probably.

Dean twisted without losing his clasp on Sam's hand, and Sam couldn’t really see his face at all with the weak grey light to the back of him, but he was steady and warm. "I thought you loved thunderstorms."

"Like. I like them," Sam said but Dean pressed and he stepped back. A smile curved Sam’s lips when he caught the flash of white teeth in Dean's face. "I like sharing them," he clarified and felt the heat rise in his cheeks for admitting such a thing.

But Dean didn’t tease. "Yeah. Me too," he said.

The roof above them was asphalt and tar, not tin or clay, and the ocean was miles away, its waters muddy brown and not dark green and blue. The ground here shook because it was soft and boggy, not because the earth was shifting.

Except it has and will continue to do so. Eventually it will settle.

Sam just had to wait it out, like any other storm passing.


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