Introductio in Analysin ... FNL-SPN (3/12)
Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 3
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words
Part One, Part Two
Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.
Thank you to![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.
Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.
Sam woke some time in the middle of the night. He and Dean were back to back and Tim had rolled again and was facing him and ... Sam swallowed hard, because, dear God, bathed in moonlight, Tim was just so beautiful with his finely drawn, almost delicate face (like Dean's) that looked like something out of painting by the pre-Raphaelites , and that lead to thoughts about his body (like Michelangelo's David come to life), his eyes (so like a cat's), and his mouth .... God, his mouth, soft and full, almost like (like Dean's) a girl's. Sam's gaze lingered on that mouth, mapped the contours of light and shadow. He sighed inwardly when Tim's lips parted slightly ... and let his eyes drift back up Tim's face, up towards those thick black lashes, dark smudges against --
(Oh Crap.)
Tim had woken up at some point and had been watching him for ... long enough. Sam felt his face flame. Busted. So busted. "Um ...."
That strange half-smile flashed across Tim's mouth. He licked his bottom lip, then murmured, "So, guys too."
No point in lying. "Yes. Some. Um ... you?"
"The right guys, yeah." Tim's eyes glowed like molten honey.
Ohgod.
And then he kissed Sam. Soft. The merest brushing of lips against lips. "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah," Sam whispered and kissed him back.
"Not here," Tim murmured against his lips. "Follow me." Cat quick and cat quiet he rolled out of his blankets and stood in the chilly night air, tiptoeing towards ... the kitchen?
Sam missed the warmth of the blankets almost as soon as he stood, but he padded into the kitchen after Tim, who crooked a finger at him to follow and headed into the laundry room.
It was dark and downright frigid, and Tim felt so hot and so right jittering and shivering against him as he closed the door behind them. "I thought maybe the bathroom, but people go to the bathroom in the middle of the night," Tim's voice had a low, velvety tone.
Sam chuckled back. "Yeah, I don't see Bobby waking up in the middle of the night to do a load of whites."
"Well, so long as we don't accidentally turn the fucking things on, we'll be fine."
It wasn't pretty. Actually, it wasn't like anything Sam had ever done before -- having sex in pitch black darkness. No sight, just touch and smell and sound, and a strange body that he could only grope for. After several false starts and near misses, his mouth ended up banging against Tim's so hard that their teeth clinked, and despite the pain, they laughed for several seconds, then sought each other out again, fingers groping until they got lined up, and then their mouths meshed properly, wet, hot, hungry. Then it became hands under the backs of shirts -- it was too cold to think of taking them off, Sam was gooseflesh any place he didn't have the furnace-like heat of Tim's body pressed against him -- exploring, grasping, touching, until Tim hooked his hands in the waistband of Sam's boxers and pushed and Sam didn't waste a second in sending Tim's shorts to his ankles, then clenched his hands on Tim's hips and hauled him in, both of them groaning as dick brushed up against dick.
They gave themselves over to it, thrusting and grinding their way towards release. (sogood sogood sogood) It didn't take long. The first scalding splash of Tim's come soaked Sam's belly a split second before he returned the favor.
"Been awhile?" Sam asked when the worst of the jelly legs passed.
"Yeah," Tim gasped against his collar bone. "Too long. Way too long."
They stood there, Tim pressed against the washer, Sam slumped against him, breathing hard, until the cold became too much for their sweat damp bodies.
"You're hot, and I know I should want to some more, but man, I am freezing my nuts off," Tim hissed on the edge of chattering teeth as he fumbled the dryer open, pulled out something and wiped at himself with it, before folding it over and handing it to Sam, who cleaned the worst of the stickiness off himself and eventually deposited it in the washer.
"Yeah, I've got some serious shrinkage going on, too."
Tim snickered at that and then opened the door and tiptoed across the kitchen and then down the hall to the bathroom. Sam just headed straight back to his blankets.
At least they weren't totally cold. Dean had kept them half warm.
He was asleep before Tim came back from the bathroom.
~oo(0)oo~
Tim was not a morning person -- just like Dean. Part of Sam laughed when Tim and Dean sat up almost simultaneously, hair sleep snarled, then rubbed the sleep from their eyes and blinked owlishly at the autumn sunlight leaking in through the curtains. Both of them turned nearly identical "drop dead and rot" glares at him when he stretched, arching toward the ceiling, making his spine crackle, and said in a too-bright voice, "Good morning!"
Dean mumbled something about Bobby's floor getting harder while Tim groused about wanting "the breakfast of champions" and what a bastard Bobby was to cut him down to two bottles a week and keep a daily count.
The mood shifted to outright hilarity when Landry wandered in from down the hall, smiling, wearing an inside-out T-shirt and a hickey. Tim fell back he laughed so hard. Sam tried to decide what made it so damn rich: the shirt, the hickey, the smile, or the fact that Landry had been so blissfully unaware of both the hickey and the state of his shirt.
"Alright, Lando! My boy has become a man!" Tim crowed as he put Landry in a headlock and gave him a noogie.
"Actually, Tim," Landry said, smoothing his hair down after Tim finally let him go (only after Landry pinched his ass hard enough to make him yelp) "That happened a few months back."
"Please tell me it in wasn't your old hoopty."
Landry blushed. "No, it wasn't my old hoopty. My bedroom. On a school night, with mom and dad just down the hall to boot." Pause. "And I managed to put my shirt on right side out the morning after, but it was the fundamental theorem of calculus shirt that I got for being a Mathlete, so I guess it was still completely nerdtacular."
~oo(0)oo~
After breakfast (Tyra clapped her hand over her mouth and laughed when she saw what she'd done to Landry, Bobby just gave a hmmn and a stern warning about no babies) Dean offered to do some training with Landry and Tim.
"Well, they're both pretty good shots, all the plinking I make them do, and Landry's filled out a bit now that he's lifting and running with Tim, but, I'm a touch limited when it comes to teaching them hand to hand. I mean, I got my own set of moves, but you know ...." Bobby shrugged.
They all went out and practiced shooting for about an hour. Sam was impressed with Tim and Landry's overall marksmanship, and Tyra wasn't half-bad (with dedicated practice she'd be good) but then Dean started putting them through drills designed to test both speed and accuracy and Landry faltered, doing worse than Tyra, who'd never even tried quick-draw shooting.
"'Cause you're thinking, Lando." Tim said the word 'thinking' as if it were a dirty word. "Don't think, just do. And when you do, you've got to have purpose."
Whereas Landry seemed a bit flustered and out of sorts, Sam saw Tim slipping more and more into his element.
And when it was time to try some actual fighting, Tim's grin just got huger and huger. His technique was rough, still too much football tackle -- not that there wasn't a time and a place for that -- but even Dean was impressed with Tim's speed and power. Even half-trained, Tim could do a lot of damage based on sheer physicality. He also yelled like a banshee whenever he attacked, which wasn't always a bad thing, except when a job called for stealth. Also, instead of getting surly when Sam and Dean put him down hard, or just quietly resigned like Landry, Tim rolled with it, laughing and grinning. And then he came back and tried twice as hard.
"You almost like this too much," Dean said when he called a halt to it all a little before lunch.
Tim flashed a rogue's grin. "It's one of the few things I'm absolutely sure I'm good at," he said. "Landry's all about the three Rs, but I'm more like the three Fs: fighting, football, and fucking." He caught Sam's eye just over Dean's shoulder as he said that last word.
Oh yeah, he still wanted to …. And Sam felt relieved at that, because he had worried about what Tim would be like the morning after. Would he know how to keep it on the down-low? In fact, Tim turned out to be so good at that that Sam wondered if last night was a one-off deal. Then that blink-and-you'll-miss-it sparkle in Tim's eye told him that they'd be making more dirty laundry as soon as Dean fell asleep.
After lunch, Landry and Tyra hunkered down over (of all things) a trigonometry text book, and Dean asked Tim if he'd like to put in a little wrench time on a fine piece of old school Detroit metal, and Sam? Well, he could kiss Landry for having organized Bobby's library and even putting it all in database. MySQL, not Access, now that was hardcore, Sam noted with some amusement. He made a note to talk to Bobby about them. Landry and Tyra really should go back to school when the spring semester started. Tim on the other hand was nearly ready for a Hunt, and sending him back to school would probably just be a waste of everybody's time.
He went and selected several books he didn't even know Bobby had (okay, maybe not kiss Landry, not when there Tim to be had, but certainly a bear hug or three for his efforts) and headed for the porch to read and watch Dean and Tim.
The two of them had fallen into a rhythm, an outsider might think they had worked on that car together for years.
Sam smiled as Tim snarked back at Dean, making Dean throw back his head and laugh. Then he sighed and opened his book. The answer was out there somewhere, and Sam didn't give a shit what Dean said about accepting fate, he was going to find it.
~oo(0)oo~
After dinner (cooked by Tyra and Landry), Dean and Bobby went into the workshed to make more bullets for The Colt, while Tyra and Landry hunched over the kitchen table (math textbook in hand) pouring over a compass, sextant, level, and plum-bob. Tim came up to Sam, who was reading in Bobby's study and taking notes. He shuffled his feet a bit before he cleared his throat and said, "So, you and Dean clearing out in a few days?"
"Yeah, probably be gone most of the winter. Dean hates to get salt on the Impala."
Tim smiled. "He loves that car." Idly, he stroked his fingers along the edge of the desk, which made Sam shiver inside when he remembered how nimble they were.
"He should. He was born in it, you know."
"Really?"
"Yeah. For whatever reason, Dean was a really short labor. When I came along, they were in that car minutes after my mom's water broke. Not that I was born in a hospital bed. The nurse made one hell of a diving catch as my mom was trying to climb into bed."
Tim laughed at that and said, "So, um. Can you mail these for me?" He held out an envelope addressed in a messy scrawl. Sam raised his eyebrow when he saw the name. Tim blushed slightly. "Yeah, so I figure I better let Billy know that I'm okay and not to worry and that I'll look him up in 15 or so years when they can't arrest me any more."
Sam nodded.
Tim held out a postcard. "This too."
Texas forever it said. Sam lifted an eyebrow.
"He'll understand what it means," Tim said cryptically. Then, "Wear something that buttons up in front to bed tonight. Flannel if you have it."
Sam almost blinked at the quick subject change, but, he was getting used to it. Tim lived in the here-and-now even more than Dean, if that was possible.
~oo(0)oo~
Button front flannel shirts to bed? Dean looked at them funny, but Tim said, "My blood is thin and it's the warmest thing I got."
Sam just shrugged, "I hate the cold. You know that."
Dean had muttered something about girlymen as he bundled up on the floor. But, he also used the flannel shirt as an excuse to steal one of Sam's blankets.
Not that Sam had minded too much, because it gave him an excuse to roll on his side and spoon ever so slightly into Tim.
Sex with Jess had been one thing -- okay, it had been fantastic and wonderful and everything Sam had ever wanted from a lover -- but some nights, when he came home at two in the morning after hours of cramming at the library, bone tired, crashing hard as he came off a quart of coffee and two Snickers bars, the act of spooning up to her ... it made everything right. Sam thought of an episode of Deadliest Catch he and Dean had happened to watch one night at a hotel in Kalispell. Dean laughed and said they were all insane, until he found out just how much money they were clearing for two weeks of work, and only after Sam pointed out what the storms and salt air might do to the Impala did Dean give up the idea of trying to get work on a boat. Sam, however, really identified with a guy about his age named Blake who was climbing into bed for the first time in days (having just eaten a big meal) and said that more than anything right now, he wanted somebody to spoon up with. And Sam so understood that -- wanting that warm, snuggly, all-is-right-with-the-world comfort of another body tucked into you as you drifted off.
Later, when he followed Tim into the dark and icy laundry room, Sam became very happy about the flannel shirts idea. True, it was drafty after they got everything unbuttoned, but they were warm enough and it was good to hold Tim for long moments and kiss his lush, hot mouth and put hands everywhere without letting in any unnecessary cold air -- to make it last a little bit longer before they got down to business -- which in Sam's case began with him kissing a line down that ripped chest and the contours of Tim's abs (loving how they fluttered under his tongue as Tim gasped) before he reached into the fly of Tim's boxers.
Tim stopped him. "I don't have a condom."
Wow, Bobby really wasn't lying when he said that Tim was big on not taking chances. "It'll be okay," he whispered back into the darkness. "I really haven't been giving it up at every truck stop. Just warn me." Pause. "Why are you --"
"Because I caught a girl in the face once, and she read me the riot act about it. And also, another time, I got it on this other girl's sweater. It was this really soft, fluffy stuff, kinda nice, and I thought she was going to kill me, 'cause it was her mom's. Dry clean only. No worry, no mess -- it's what I'm used to."
Sam gently stroked his hand the length of Tim, making him twitch. "Well, that's not going to happen." Except maybe the catching in the face part. But not him. Tim. Because that bit about catching her in the face? It gave Sam a mental picture of Tim, naked, withcome on him Sam's come on him and he liked that idea. He liked it a lot.
He got straight down to business and took Tim in his mouth, smiling on the inside when Tim stifled a groan and jerked, not entirely able to stop his hips from thrusting. Sam went all the way down after a few minutes spent learning what Tim liked, drinking in the smell of him, a mixture of muskiness and Bobby's beloved Irish Spring. Sam used every trick that had ever been done to him on Tim, teasing, tasting, stroking at the base with his hands while he snaked his tongue around the crown, until Tim's constant stream of groans and muffled obscenities took on a new pitch and Tim's hands frantically scrabbled at his hair.
Sam didn't get away in time ... not entirely. The first blast grazed his cheek and he had to laugh at that, given his fantasies.
"Sorry, I tried to warn you, I'm not used to having to ..." Tim whispered. Despite the pitch black, Sam could tell he was blushing.
"No harm no foul." He groped, opened the dryer, fished out a towel and wiped himself clean. "I don't have any in my hair, do I?"
"Looks good to me." Tim's hands groped at Sam before he got his bearings and started feeling his way down. He grasped Sam and stroked him back to full hardness before he said, "I've never done this before, so ..."
Sam's eyebrows rose, but he kept the surprise out of his voice. "Just mind the teeth."
And then Tim knelt and ohgod his mouth was hot and perfect and he didn't say a thing or hesitate when Sam carded his hands into his hair. He closed his eyes, bit his lip, and let the wicked things Tim did with his hands and tongue wash over him.
And, he even gave Tim enough warning.
~oo(0)oo~
When it was over and they were buttoning up their shirts, Sam asked, "Tim, um, what do you wash your hair with?"
Tim snorted in amusement and said, "Soap." Pause. "Why?"
"Because it felt -- It explains a lot."
Tim sighed. "Yeah, I know, I know. But regular shampoo makes me itch. That soft soap stuff, too."
"I hear you. I couldn't have Flintstones chewable vitamins as a kid -- they gave me hives. Dean --" Sam's throat wanted to close shut at the memory, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "Dean rubbed calamine lotion all over me and read me Green Eggs and Ham."
"Does that shit work at all?"
"Never did much for me." Pause. "Did your brother ever draw shapes with it on you too?"
"Naw. Billy was never like that -- he's about 10 years older than me, so ... he was over that." Then. "I'm cold. Let's get back to bed."
Sam woke up sometime shortly before dawn when Dean poked him with his foot. He had spooned around Tim, who had snuggled deep into him.
"Jesus," Dean said, holding back laughter "you two are so brokeback."
Tim opened one bleary eye, flipped Dean the bird, muttered, "You're just jealous," pulled the blankets back over his head and promptly went back to sleep.
"What can I say, he's warm, and you stole my blanket," Sam whispered over his shoulder to Dean.
Dean rolled over and scooted in. "You're warm, too." He started to shuffle around quite a bit and Sam got a sneaking suspicion where this was going.
"You put your cold feet on my back, and I'll kill you."
Dean snickered. Busted.
~oo(0)oo~
Dean didn't say anything, just gave Sam a squirrely look when Sam said he'd like to take another drive in Dad's truck after breakfast for old times' sake and then asked Tim if he'd like to come along. Nobody else seemed to notice, and Tim did a good job of keeping a poker face ... unless you knew what to look for.
Not that fucking Tim in the truck was going to be roomier than the laundry room (actually, it was going to be a whole lot less roomy) but at least there would heat and they'd actually get to see what they were doing, instead of fumbling around in the dark.
When the cab hit the point of being toasty hot, Sam pulled into the next turn out and killed the engine. He realized about 10 seconds in that there were considerable technical challenges involved in turning his fantasy into reality what with Tim being a strapping fellow of 6'1" and his being a few inches taller still. It wasn't going to happen exactly the way he pictured it, but he had an idea of how to make it work. He pressed Tim back to half-lean against the passenger door, braced his forearm on the edge of the window behind Tim's head, leaned over him and (blushing furiously) whispered in Tim's ear what he wanted to do, ending it with, "... and when we're done with that, I'll blow you."
"Sounds good," Tim said in a husky tone as his hands went to work on Sam's pants, freeing Sam's aching cock first before he hiked his shirt up as far as it would go then undid his jeans and lifted his hips to shinny them down as far as they would go. He was hard and seeping and Sam's mouth flooded with saliva at the memory of the taste.
It was half Tim jerking him, half him fucking Tim's fist, and all of him glad about the lightning racing up and down his spine. His angle more or less meant looking down at their bodies, looking at his dick pistoning in and out of Tim's fist, looking at the place where that wiry thatch of hair began low in the v-shaped notch running from Tim's hips, hearing as much as feeling Tim's breath rasping in his ear because that was the most natural and comfortable way for them to hold their heads. It was so hot, so good, could only be better if he could see Tim's face, but still so intense that it took everything in Sam to keep his eyes open at that moment when it all boiled out of him in hard spurts and (yesjustlikethat) landed on Tim (ohgodohgodohgod) and Sam felt his body start to turn to jelly, but forced himself to not give in, not collapse, not even close his eyes for the briefest moment.
The angle was awkward, but he managed a quick kiss and a "thank you" in Tim's ear on his way down, as Tim, muttering something about getting that damn armrest out of his back, started to sit up more, but Sam's other hand stayed him for just a moment as he scooted back as far as the steering wheel would let him, bent at an incredibly uncomfortable angle, and licked that drum-tight belly clean -- causing Tim to make this short, sharp noise as the most wonderful set of flutters rolled across those muscles and his cock gave a huge spurt of pre-come -- before he allowed Tim to sit up more and swivel to the side so that Sam could lean over and swallow him down.
And Tim, unrestrained by the need to be quiet? Jesus wept, it was molten hot, the sheer range of noises he made -- from faint little gasps, to shuddery sighs, velvety purrs and finally some out-and-out growls, and when he gave that last, hitchy, "Oh Fuck! Sam!" as he tugged frantically in warning, Sam decided right then and there that Tim was coming Hunting with them -- Dean and whatever he might think when he found out be damned -- because this? He had to have it. And he wanted a hell of a lot more than fumbling in the darkness and playing twister in the truck.
Because there was just something so ... beautiful and oddly pure ... about Tim let loose, giving himself fully to the moment, and when Sam sat up, the shadows were gone from Tim's eyes. For once, Tim wasn't hiding anything, wasn't keeping a part of himself closed off, and what Sam saw there beggared his ability to find words to describe it. It coiled deep inside of him, meeting a need he never knew he had, one that would be stupid and useless to attempt to deny from here on out. It was no longer just about Tim being willing and available, not any more. It was about him being Tim Riggins, now that Sam had an understanding of what that meant.
Sam gently wiped Tim clean with a bandanna and they both sat in silence for long moments, until Tim leaned forward, crossed his arms on the dash, and rested his chin on them, the expression on his face slowly turning from open and radiant to far away and broody.
"Penny for your thoughts."
Tim's gaze flicked over for a moment, then went back to looking at nothing particular on the horizon. "You're leaving again," he finally muttered.
"Yeah."
"And I'm stuck here." He sighed heavily. "Waiting."
"Maybe, maybe not."
Tim didn't say anything, just turned his head sideways on his arms and looked at Sam, the expression in his eyes was flat, tightly shuttered. Almost like he was afraid to hope.
"I'll talk to Dean and Bobby, but I think you're ready for a Hunt." At the sudden flare of almost feral joy in Tim's eyes, Sam added, "Nothing big, mostly just to watch and learn -- be backup. But I think ... you're not ... you learn best by doing, and you're not really going to learn what we're teaching you until you start doing it."
Tim sat up and leaned his head against the rear window, eyes fixed on the roof liner, and blew out a deep breath. "You have no idea how ready I am to get out of here. To get out there and start getting things done."
"Oh, I think I have some idea, but --" Sam studied Tim's profile. "If they both say no --"
"They won't." Tim's voice was matter of fact. His eyes looked almost amber, they burnt so intensely. "You know they won't."
Sam shrugged. He didn't think they would, but he hated to give people false hope.
They sat silently for another minute or so, then Sam started the truck again. Tim held his hands in front of the vents, smiling at the hot air that flowed out.
"So, what do you and Dean do besides Hunting?" he asked when Sam put the truck into gear.
Sam gave a short, sharp laugh and said, "Well, that's a loaded question. Because when you're a Hunter, you're never really not Hunting, just taking slack time between." He swallowed. "You do odd jobs here and there if you don't have a business like Bobby's. Also, there's a lot more to Hunting than you'd think." He neglected to add: like credit card fraud, mail fraud, fake IDs, breaking and entering, petty larceny, trespassing, hustling, and plenty of all around grifting.
"Dean, he's never done anything but Hunt. It's what he does. It's what he wants to do. I don't think he's ever thought of going straight." He claims he's tired, looking forward being done, resting, finally, but he doesn't know what that means, what rest, or Hell is. "Me? Well, I tried, but got sucked back in. And ... at this point, there's no going back to the straight world." And if you come with, you're pretty much saying good bye to all of that, and do you really get what that means?
"Yeah, but what do you do for kicks?" Tim sighed almost irritably.
We don't get kicks. Sam shrugged. "Occasionally unwind at a bar. Watch TV. Visit kooky roadside attractions. We've seen some pretty damn weird ones, too. I half think Dean and I could write a book about off-beat Americana." Also, Dean picks up girls and fucks them whenever he can.
Tim frowned in thought. "Okay," he said in that slow, thoughtful way of his, "but how do you get paid? I get that you can't tell most people what you do, most of the time, but if you don't own a wrecking yard like Bobby, or moonlight as a bounty Hunter or big-game guide, how do you make ends meet? You don't exactly strike me as guys living off a trust fund or something."
Sam flashed him a bitter smile. Trust fund. As if. "We steal." Blunt, but true.
"What?" Then Tim blushed a bit and said, "Oh, well, yeah. But doesn't that attract attention from the authorities?"
Yes it does. Especially if you're stupid about it. "Not that much if you're careful and steal only what you need. We use a lot of fake IDs. Which, incidentally, getting them has gotten a hell of a lot harder since 9/11."
"Another reason to hate those bastards," Tim murmured.
Sam nodded. "Dean also hustles pool from time to time."
"Hey," Tim said brightly, "I know how to do that -- hustle pool. I'm actually pretty good." Pause, and he turned an almost baleful gaze on Sam. "You are going to get me fake ID that says I'm over 21, right?"
Sam smiled. "You wouldn't be as useful if we didn't."
"Cool."
"But don't think this means you've got a license to get plastered. Drunk or hungover Hunting ... well, Hunting's dangerous enough as is."
Tim rolled his eyes. "My drinking days have been greatly exaggerated. Besides, I don't have all the reasons to drink that I used to," he finished quietly.
Sam didn't say anything. He knew what Landry told Bobby, and Bobby had had his own observations. Cutting somebody off wasn't the same as them giving it up, and hunting came with a whole unique set of reasons that would drive people to drink. When he finally spoke, he said, "It's not like Dean and I never drink, but getting drunk and staying drunk? I've never met an old Hunter who was also an old drunk. I'm serious about that. It's not a 'I drink on days that end in Y kind of job.'"
Tim nodded again, but there was a tightness to his mouth as he looked out the window. He didn't speak all the way back to Bobby's.
---
Part Four
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words
Part One, Part Two
Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.
Thank you to
tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.
Sam woke some time in the middle of the night. He and Dean were back to back and Tim had rolled again and was facing him and ... Sam swallowed hard, because, dear God, bathed in moonlight, Tim was just so beautiful with his finely drawn, almost delicate face (
(Oh Crap.)
Tim had woken up at some point and had been watching him for ... long enough. Sam felt his face flame. Busted. So busted. "Um ...."
That strange half-smile flashed across Tim's mouth. He licked his bottom lip, then murmured, "So, guys too."
No point in lying. "Yes. Some. Um ... you?"
"The right guys, yeah." Tim's eyes glowed like molten honey.
Ohgod.
And then he kissed Sam. Soft. The merest brushing of lips against lips. "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah," Sam whispered and kissed him back.
"Not here," Tim murmured against his lips. "Follow me." Cat quick and cat quiet he rolled out of his blankets and stood in the chilly night air, tiptoeing towards ... the kitchen?
Sam missed the warmth of the blankets almost as soon as he stood, but he padded into the kitchen after Tim, who crooked a finger at him to follow and headed into the laundry room.
It was dark and downright frigid, and Tim felt so hot and so right jittering and shivering against him as he closed the door behind them. "I thought maybe the bathroom, but people go to the bathroom in the middle of the night," Tim's voice had a low, velvety tone.
Sam chuckled back. "Yeah, I don't see Bobby waking up in the middle of the night to do a load of whites."
"Well, so long as we don't accidentally turn the fucking things on, we'll be fine."
It wasn't pretty. Actually, it wasn't like anything Sam had ever done before -- having sex in pitch black darkness. No sight, just touch and smell and sound, and a strange body that he could only grope for. After several false starts and near misses, his mouth ended up banging against Tim's so hard that their teeth clinked, and despite the pain, they laughed for several seconds, then sought each other out again, fingers groping until they got lined up, and then their mouths meshed properly, wet, hot, hungry. Then it became hands under the backs of shirts -- it was too cold to think of taking them off, Sam was gooseflesh any place he didn't have the furnace-like heat of Tim's body pressed against him -- exploring, grasping, touching, until Tim hooked his hands in the waistband of Sam's boxers and pushed and Sam didn't waste a second in sending Tim's shorts to his ankles, then clenched his hands on Tim's hips and hauled him in, both of them groaning as dick brushed up against dick.
They gave themselves over to it, thrusting and grinding their way towards release. (sogood sogood sogood) It didn't take long. The first scalding splash of Tim's come soaked Sam's belly a split second before he returned the favor.
"Been awhile?" Sam asked when the worst of the jelly legs passed.
"Yeah," Tim gasped against his collar bone. "Too long. Way too long."
They stood there, Tim pressed against the washer, Sam slumped against him, breathing hard, until the cold became too much for their sweat damp bodies.
"You're hot, and I know I should want to some more, but man, I am freezing my nuts off," Tim hissed on the edge of chattering teeth as he fumbled the dryer open, pulled out something and wiped at himself with it, before folding it over and handing it to Sam, who cleaned the worst of the stickiness off himself and eventually deposited it in the washer.
"Yeah, I've got some serious shrinkage going on, too."
Tim snickered at that and then opened the door and tiptoed across the kitchen and then down the hall to the bathroom. Sam just headed straight back to his blankets.
At least they weren't totally cold. Dean had kept them half warm.
He was asleep before Tim came back from the bathroom.
~oo(0)oo~
Tim was not a morning person -- just like Dean. Part of Sam laughed when Tim and Dean sat up almost simultaneously, hair sleep snarled, then rubbed the sleep from their eyes and blinked owlishly at the autumn sunlight leaking in through the curtains. Both of them turned nearly identical "drop dead and rot" glares at him when he stretched, arching toward the ceiling, making his spine crackle, and said in a too-bright voice, "Good morning!"
Dean mumbled something about Bobby's floor getting harder while Tim groused about wanting "the breakfast of champions" and what a bastard Bobby was to cut him down to two bottles a week and keep a daily count.
The mood shifted to outright hilarity when Landry wandered in from down the hall, smiling, wearing an inside-out T-shirt and a hickey. Tim fell back he laughed so hard. Sam tried to decide what made it so damn rich: the shirt, the hickey, the smile, or the fact that Landry had been so blissfully unaware of both the hickey and the state of his shirt.
"Alright, Lando! My boy has become a man!" Tim crowed as he put Landry in a headlock and gave him a noogie.
"Actually, Tim," Landry said, smoothing his hair down after Tim finally let him go (only after Landry pinched his ass hard enough to make him yelp) "That happened a few months back."
"Please tell me it in wasn't your old hoopty."
Landry blushed. "No, it wasn't my old hoopty. My bedroom. On a school night, with mom and dad just down the hall to boot." Pause. "And I managed to put my shirt on right side out the morning after, but it was the fundamental theorem of calculus shirt that I got for being a Mathlete, so I guess it was still completely nerdtacular."
~oo(0)oo~
After breakfast (Tyra clapped her hand over her mouth and laughed when she saw what she'd done to Landry, Bobby just gave a hmmn and a stern warning about no babies) Dean offered to do some training with Landry and Tim.
"Well, they're both pretty good shots, all the plinking I make them do, and Landry's filled out a bit now that he's lifting and running with Tim, but, I'm a touch limited when it comes to teaching them hand to hand. I mean, I got my own set of moves, but you know ...." Bobby shrugged.
They all went out and practiced shooting for about an hour. Sam was impressed with Tim and Landry's overall marksmanship, and Tyra wasn't half-bad (with dedicated practice she'd be good) but then Dean started putting them through drills designed to test both speed and accuracy and Landry faltered, doing worse than Tyra, who'd never even tried quick-draw shooting.
"'Cause you're thinking, Lando." Tim said the word 'thinking' as if it were a dirty word. "Don't think, just do. And when you do, you've got to have purpose."
Whereas Landry seemed a bit flustered and out of sorts, Sam saw Tim slipping more and more into his element.
And when it was time to try some actual fighting, Tim's grin just got huger and huger. His technique was rough, still too much football tackle -- not that there wasn't a time and a place for that -- but even Dean was impressed with Tim's speed and power. Even half-trained, Tim could do a lot of damage based on sheer physicality. He also yelled like a banshee whenever he attacked, which wasn't always a bad thing, except when a job called for stealth. Also, instead of getting surly when Sam and Dean put him down hard, or just quietly resigned like Landry, Tim rolled with it, laughing and grinning. And then he came back and tried twice as hard.
"You almost like this too much," Dean said when he called a halt to it all a little before lunch.
Tim flashed a rogue's grin. "It's one of the few things I'm absolutely sure I'm good at," he said. "Landry's all about the three Rs, but I'm more like the three Fs: fighting, football, and fucking." He caught Sam's eye just over Dean's shoulder as he said that last word.
Oh yeah, he still wanted to …. And Sam felt relieved at that, because he had worried about what Tim would be like the morning after. Would he know how to keep it on the down-low? In fact, Tim turned out to be so good at that that Sam wondered if last night was a one-off deal. Then that blink-and-you'll-miss-it sparkle in Tim's eye told him that they'd be making more dirty laundry as soon as Dean fell asleep.
After lunch, Landry and Tyra hunkered down over (of all things) a trigonometry text book, and Dean asked Tim if he'd like to put in a little wrench time on a fine piece of old school Detroit metal, and Sam? Well, he could kiss Landry for having organized Bobby's library and even putting it all in database. MySQL, not Access, now that was hardcore, Sam noted with some amusement. He made a note to talk to Bobby about them. Landry and Tyra really should go back to school when the spring semester started. Tim on the other hand was nearly ready for a Hunt, and sending him back to school would probably just be a waste of everybody's time.
He went and selected several books he didn't even know Bobby had (okay, maybe not kiss Landry, not when there Tim to be had, but certainly a bear hug or three for his efforts) and headed for the porch to read and watch Dean and Tim.
The two of them had fallen into a rhythm, an outsider might think they had worked on that car together for years.
Sam smiled as Tim snarked back at Dean, making Dean throw back his head and laugh. Then he sighed and opened his book. The answer was out there somewhere, and Sam didn't give a shit what Dean said about accepting fate, he was going to find it.
~oo(0)oo~
After dinner (cooked by Tyra and Landry), Dean and Bobby went into the workshed to make more bullets for The Colt, while Tyra and Landry hunched over the kitchen table (math textbook in hand) pouring over a compass, sextant, level, and plum-bob. Tim came up to Sam, who was reading in Bobby's study and taking notes. He shuffled his feet a bit before he cleared his throat and said, "So, you and Dean clearing out in a few days?"
"Yeah, probably be gone most of the winter. Dean hates to get salt on the Impala."
Tim smiled. "He loves that car." Idly, he stroked his fingers along the edge of the desk, which made Sam shiver inside when he remembered how nimble they were.
"He should. He was born in it, you know."
"Really?"
"Yeah. For whatever reason, Dean was a really short labor. When I came along, they were in that car minutes after my mom's water broke. Not that I was born in a hospital bed. The nurse made one hell of a diving catch as my mom was trying to climb into bed."
Tim laughed at that and said, "So, um. Can you mail these for me?" He held out an envelope addressed in a messy scrawl. Sam raised his eyebrow when he saw the name. Tim blushed slightly. "Yeah, so I figure I better let Billy know that I'm okay and not to worry and that I'll look him up in 15 or so years when they can't arrest me any more."
Sam nodded.
Tim held out a postcard. "This too."
Texas forever it said. Sam lifted an eyebrow.
"He'll understand what it means," Tim said cryptically. Then, "Wear something that buttons up in front to bed tonight. Flannel if you have it."
Sam almost blinked at the quick subject change, but, he was getting used to it. Tim lived in the here-and-now even more than Dean, if that was possible.
~oo(0)oo~
Button front flannel shirts to bed? Dean looked at them funny, but Tim said, "My blood is thin and it's the warmest thing I got."
Sam just shrugged, "I hate the cold. You know that."
Dean had muttered something about girlymen as he bundled up on the floor. But, he also used the flannel shirt as an excuse to steal one of Sam's blankets.
Not that Sam had minded too much, because it gave him an excuse to roll on his side and spoon ever so slightly into Tim.
Sex with Jess had been one thing -- okay, it had been fantastic and wonderful and everything Sam had ever wanted from a lover -- but some nights, when he came home at two in the morning after hours of cramming at the library, bone tired, crashing hard as he came off a quart of coffee and two Snickers bars, the act of spooning up to her ... it made everything right. Sam thought of an episode of Deadliest Catch he and Dean had happened to watch one night at a hotel in Kalispell. Dean laughed and said they were all insane, until he found out just how much money they were clearing for two weeks of work, and only after Sam pointed out what the storms and salt air might do to the Impala did Dean give up the idea of trying to get work on a boat. Sam, however, really identified with a guy about his age named Blake who was climbing into bed for the first time in days (having just eaten a big meal) and said that more than anything right now, he wanted somebody to spoon up with. And Sam so understood that -- wanting that warm, snuggly, all-is-right-with-the-world comfort of another body tucked into you as you drifted off.
Later, when he followed Tim into the dark and icy laundry room, Sam became very happy about the flannel shirts idea. True, it was drafty after they got everything unbuttoned, but they were warm enough and it was good to hold Tim for long moments and kiss his lush, hot mouth and put hands everywhere without letting in any unnecessary cold air -- to make it last a little bit longer before they got down to business -- which in Sam's case began with him kissing a line down that ripped chest and the contours of Tim's abs (loving how they fluttered under his tongue as Tim gasped) before he reached into the fly of Tim's boxers.
Tim stopped him. "I don't have a condom."
Wow, Bobby really wasn't lying when he said that Tim was big on not taking chances. "It'll be okay," he whispered back into the darkness. "I really haven't been giving it up at every truck stop. Just warn me." Pause. "Why are you --"
"Because I caught a girl in the face once, and she read me the riot act about it. And also, another time, I got it on this other girl's sweater. It was this really soft, fluffy stuff, kinda nice, and I thought she was going to kill me, 'cause it was her mom's. Dry clean only. No worry, no mess -- it's what I'm used to."
Sam gently stroked his hand the length of Tim, making him twitch. "Well, that's not going to happen." Except maybe the catching in the face part. But not him. Tim. Because that bit about catching her in the face? It gave Sam a mental picture of Tim, naked, with
He got straight down to business and took Tim in his mouth, smiling on the inside when Tim stifled a groan and jerked, not entirely able to stop his hips from thrusting. Sam went all the way down after a few minutes spent learning what Tim liked, drinking in the smell of him, a mixture of muskiness and Bobby's beloved Irish Spring. Sam used every trick that had ever been done to him on Tim, teasing, tasting, stroking at the base with his hands while he snaked his tongue around the crown, until Tim's constant stream of groans and muffled obscenities took on a new pitch and Tim's hands frantically scrabbled at his hair.
Sam didn't get away in time ... not entirely. The first blast grazed his cheek and he had to laugh at that, given his fantasies.
"Sorry, I tried to warn you, I'm not used to having to ..." Tim whispered. Despite the pitch black, Sam could tell he was blushing.
"No harm no foul." He groped, opened the dryer, fished out a towel and wiped himself clean. "I don't have any in my hair, do I?"
"Looks good to me." Tim's hands groped at Sam before he got his bearings and started feeling his way down. He grasped Sam and stroked him back to full hardness before he said, "I've never done this before, so ..."
Sam's eyebrows rose, but he kept the surprise out of his voice. "Just mind the teeth."
And then Tim knelt and ohgod his mouth was hot and perfect and he didn't say a thing or hesitate when Sam carded his hands into his hair. He closed his eyes, bit his lip, and let the wicked things Tim did with his hands and tongue wash over him.
And, he even gave Tim enough warning.
~oo(0)oo~
When it was over and they were buttoning up their shirts, Sam asked, "Tim, um, what do you wash your hair with?"
Tim snorted in amusement and said, "Soap." Pause. "Why?"
"Because it felt -- It explains a lot."
Tim sighed. "Yeah, I know, I know. But regular shampoo makes me itch. That soft soap stuff, too."
"I hear you. I couldn't have Flintstones chewable vitamins as a kid -- they gave me hives. Dean --" Sam's throat wanted to close shut at the memory, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "Dean rubbed calamine lotion all over me and read me Green Eggs and Ham."
"Does that shit work at all?"
"Never did much for me." Pause. "Did your brother ever draw shapes with it on you too?"
"Naw. Billy was never like that -- he's about 10 years older than me, so ... he was over that." Then. "I'm cold. Let's get back to bed."
Sam woke up sometime shortly before dawn when Dean poked him with his foot. He had spooned around Tim, who had snuggled deep into him.
"Jesus," Dean said, holding back laughter "you two are so brokeback."
Tim opened one bleary eye, flipped Dean the bird, muttered, "You're just jealous," pulled the blankets back over his head and promptly went back to sleep.
"What can I say, he's warm, and you stole my blanket," Sam whispered over his shoulder to Dean.
Dean rolled over and scooted in. "You're warm, too." He started to shuffle around quite a bit and Sam got a sneaking suspicion where this was going.
"You put your cold feet on my back, and I'll kill you."
Dean snickered. Busted.
~oo(0)oo~
Dean didn't say anything, just gave Sam a squirrely look when Sam said he'd like to take another drive in Dad's truck after breakfast for old times' sake and then asked Tim if he'd like to come along. Nobody else seemed to notice, and Tim did a good job of keeping a poker face ... unless you knew what to look for.
Not that fucking Tim in the truck was going to be roomier than the laundry room (actually, it was going to be a whole lot less roomy) but at least there would heat and they'd actually get to see what they were doing, instead of fumbling around in the dark.
When the cab hit the point of being toasty hot, Sam pulled into the next turn out and killed the engine. He realized about 10 seconds in that there were considerable technical challenges involved in turning his fantasy into reality what with Tim being a strapping fellow of 6'1" and his being a few inches taller still. It wasn't going to happen exactly the way he pictured it, but he had an idea of how to make it work. He pressed Tim back to half-lean against the passenger door, braced his forearm on the edge of the window behind Tim's head, leaned over him and (blushing furiously) whispered in Tim's ear what he wanted to do, ending it with, "... and when we're done with that, I'll blow you."
"Sounds good," Tim said in a husky tone as his hands went to work on Sam's pants, freeing Sam's aching cock first before he hiked his shirt up as far as it would go then undid his jeans and lifted his hips to shinny them down as far as they would go. He was hard and seeping and Sam's mouth flooded with saliva at the memory of the taste.
It was half Tim jerking him, half him fucking Tim's fist, and all of him glad about the lightning racing up and down his spine. His angle more or less meant looking down at their bodies, looking at his dick pistoning in and out of Tim's fist, looking at the place where that wiry thatch of hair began low in the v-shaped notch running from Tim's hips, hearing as much as feeling Tim's breath rasping in his ear because that was the most natural and comfortable way for them to hold their heads. It was so hot, so good, could only be better if he could see Tim's face, but still so intense that it took everything in Sam to keep his eyes open at that moment when it all boiled out of him in hard spurts and (yesjustlikethat) landed on Tim (ohgodohgodohgod) and Sam felt his body start to turn to jelly, but forced himself to not give in, not collapse, not even close his eyes for the briefest moment.
The angle was awkward, but he managed a quick kiss and a "thank you" in Tim's ear on his way down, as Tim, muttering something about getting that damn armrest out of his back, started to sit up more, but Sam's other hand stayed him for just a moment as he scooted back as far as the steering wheel would let him, bent at an incredibly uncomfortable angle, and licked that drum-tight belly clean -- causing Tim to make this short, sharp noise as the most wonderful set of flutters rolled across those muscles and his cock gave a huge spurt of pre-come -- before he allowed Tim to sit up more and swivel to the side so that Sam could lean over and swallow him down.
And Tim, unrestrained by the need to be quiet? Jesus wept, it was molten hot, the sheer range of noises he made -- from faint little gasps, to shuddery sighs, velvety purrs and finally some out-and-out growls, and when he gave that last, hitchy, "Oh Fuck! Sam!" as he tugged frantically in warning, Sam decided right then and there that Tim was coming Hunting with them -- Dean and whatever he might think when he found out be damned -- because this? He had to have it. And he wanted a hell of a lot more than fumbling in the darkness and playing twister in the truck.
Because there was just something so ... beautiful and oddly pure ... about Tim let loose, giving himself fully to the moment, and when Sam sat up, the shadows were gone from Tim's eyes. For once, Tim wasn't hiding anything, wasn't keeping a part of himself closed off, and what Sam saw there beggared his ability to find words to describe it. It coiled deep inside of him, meeting a need he never knew he had, one that would be stupid and useless to attempt to deny from here on out. It was no longer just about Tim being willing and available, not any more. It was about him being Tim Riggins, now that Sam had an understanding of what that meant.
Sam gently wiped Tim clean with a bandanna and they both sat in silence for long moments, until Tim leaned forward, crossed his arms on the dash, and rested his chin on them, the expression on his face slowly turning from open and radiant to far away and broody.
"Penny for your thoughts."
Tim's gaze flicked over for a moment, then went back to looking at nothing particular on the horizon. "You're leaving again," he finally muttered.
"Yeah."
"And I'm stuck here." He sighed heavily. "Waiting."
"Maybe, maybe not."
Tim didn't say anything, just turned his head sideways on his arms and looked at Sam, the expression in his eyes was flat, tightly shuttered. Almost like he was afraid to hope.
"I'll talk to Dean and Bobby, but I think you're ready for a Hunt." At the sudden flare of almost feral joy in Tim's eyes, Sam added, "Nothing big, mostly just to watch and learn -- be backup. But I think ... you're not ... you learn best by doing, and you're not really going to learn what we're teaching you until you start doing it."
Tim sat up and leaned his head against the rear window, eyes fixed on the roof liner, and blew out a deep breath. "You have no idea how ready I am to get out of here. To get out there and start getting things done."
"Oh, I think I have some idea, but --" Sam studied Tim's profile. "If they both say no --"
"They won't." Tim's voice was matter of fact. His eyes looked almost amber, they burnt so intensely. "You know they won't."
Sam shrugged. He didn't think they would, but he hated to give people false hope.
They sat silently for another minute or so, then Sam started the truck again. Tim held his hands in front of the vents, smiling at the hot air that flowed out.
"So, what do you and Dean do besides Hunting?" he asked when Sam put the truck into gear.
Sam gave a short, sharp laugh and said, "Well, that's a loaded question. Because when you're a Hunter, you're never really not Hunting, just taking slack time between." He swallowed. "You do odd jobs here and there if you don't have a business like Bobby's. Also, there's a lot more to Hunting than you'd think." He neglected to add: like credit card fraud, mail fraud, fake IDs, breaking and entering, petty larceny, trespassing, hustling, and plenty of all around grifting.
"Dean, he's never done anything but Hunt. It's what he does. It's what he wants to do. I don't think he's ever thought of going straight." He claims he's tired, looking forward being done, resting, finally, but he doesn't know what that means, what rest, or Hell is. "Me? Well, I tried, but got sucked back in. And ... at this point, there's no going back to the straight world." And if you come with, you're pretty much saying good bye to all of that, and do you really get what that means?
"Yeah, but what do you do for kicks?" Tim sighed almost irritably.
We don't get kicks. Sam shrugged. "Occasionally unwind at a bar. Watch TV. Visit kooky roadside attractions. We've seen some pretty damn weird ones, too. I half think Dean and I could write a book about off-beat Americana." Also, Dean picks up girls and fucks them whenever he can.
Tim frowned in thought. "Okay," he said in that slow, thoughtful way of his, "but how do you get paid? I get that you can't tell most people what you do, most of the time, but if you don't own a wrecking yard like Bobby, or moonlight as a bounty Hunter or big-game guide, how do you make ends meet? You don't exactly strike me as guys living off a trust fund or something."
Sam flashed him a bitter smile. Trust fund. As if. "We steal." Blunt, but true.
"What?" Then Tim blushed a bit and said, "Oh, well, yeah. But doesn't that attract attention from the authorities?"
Yes it does. Especially if you're stupid about it. "Not that much if you're careful and steal only what you need. We use a lot of fake IDs. Which, incidentally, getting them has gotten a hell of a lot harder since 9/11."
"Another reason to hate those bastards," Tim murmured.
Sam nodded. "Dean also hustles pool from time to time."
"Hey," Tim said brightly, "I know how to do that -- hustle pool. I'm actually pretty good." Pause, and he turned an almost baleful gaze on Sam. "You are going to get me fake ID that says I'm over 21, right?"
Sam smiled. "You wouldn't be as useful if we didn't."
"Cool."
"But don't think this means you've got a license to get plastered. Drunk or hungover Hunting ... well, Hunting's dangerous enough as is."
Tim rolled his eyes. "My drinking days have been greatly exaggerated. Besides, I don't have all the reasons to drink that I used to," he finished quietly.
Sam didn't say anything. He knew what Landry told Bobby, and Bobby had had his own observations. Cutting somebody off wasn't the same as them giving it up, and hunting came with a whole unique set of reasons that would drive people to drink. When he finally spoke, he said, "It's not like Dean and I never drink, but getting drunk and staying drunk? I've never met an old Hunter who was also an old drunk. I'm serious about that. It's not a 'I drink on days that end in Y kind of job.'"
Tim nodded again, but there was a tightness to his mouth as he looked out the window. He didn't speak all the way back to Bobby's.
---
Part Four
(Anonymous)
Guh, the whole Guy "pretty boy" thing damn near killed me. They were playing pretty close to the family viewing edge with that storyline, you could see it going south in a hurry. Soooo Deliverance.
And I ♥ the term glow in the dark mancrush, heehee.
I was kind of happy to see him come back for S3.