Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6220669.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Weecest, First_Time, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending,
      Brothers, Soulmates, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, PWP, Frottage, Top
      Dean, Bottom_Sam
  Collections:
      The_Blanket_Fort
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-12 Words: 4279
****** Always Knew [That You'd Be The One] ******
by non_tiembo_mala
Summary
     Sam is having his first sleepover at a friend's and Dean knows
     better, knows it shouldn't bother him but it does. Alone in the
     motel, his mind is a messy place. Sam surprises him by coming home in
     the middle of the night and even more when they manage to sort
     themselves out.
     Dean is 17, Sam is 14.
Notes
     Chinese_translation by HailTheTranslationParty
     Prompt for this wee fic was "popcorn, porn, and beer."
     Always love and thanks to the amazing @Dancing_Adrift for the prompt
     and beta, and love of course to the third in our little trio
     @gluedwithgold who also wrote for this prompt.
     Title from Imagine Dragon's Warriors.
See the end of the work for more notes
Dean is sulking. There are no two ways about it. He isn’t going to admit it,
but that’s what it is.
It’s 12:07am on a Friday night and Dean figures he’s the only almost eighteen-
year-old in a hundred-mile radius and maybe then some who’s sitting alone,
twiddling his thumbs in such a fine, run-down, one-star establishment, three
empties on the side table next to a crumpled up bag of microwave popcorn. Sure,
he could go out. There’s nothing really stopping him. In fact, most nights,
doesn’t matter what day of the week it is - Dean is out there, hustling pool or
finding some pretty little thing to help him pass the time, help him stop
thinking.
But tonight is different. Most nights, when Dean is out there looking for quick
money and easy pleasure, his kid brother is the one tucked in this side of the
salt line, a book in his lap or a movie on the tv, a bag of popcorn that Dean
does up for him before he takes off (not ‘cause he can’t do it himself, because
of course he can, but Dean’s always done it and old habits die hard, especially
where Sam is concerned). Dean’s not going to put a name to the ugly feeling
tugging at his stomach, but the word ‘guilt’ hovers unpleasantly nearby like a
haunting spirit and it’s followed by something else, a little bit like loathing
maybe. He tries not to give it a second thought, the way he leaves the kid on
his own so much, giving them space even though he hates to do it. Sam never
says anything, hasn’t said a lot in a while if he’s not fighting with Dad. He
always looks- well, Dean doesn’t like to think about it much, ‘cause it ain’t
happy - hasn’t seemed happy a lot lately - and that hurts but Dean doesn’t know
what to do to make him smile anymore, not like he used to. Even so, Sam always
waits up, or at least he tries; Dean can tell the way he’s always awkwardly
sprawled with the TV still on too loud or a book half covering his face. For
whatever reason tonight, sitting alone in the motel room unable to force
himself out and stuck thinking about Sam - always Sam can’t stop can’t turn it
off - Dean thinks he gets it.
When Dean picked him up outside his school and Sam came running up to him,
bright-eyed and breathless and beautiful - shut up dammit - asking “please,
Dean, please? My first sleepover?” he didn’t think twice about saying yes,
ruffling his hand through Sammy’s hair and pulling him in under his arm,
steering him towards the Impala.
But now Sam’s been gone for hours and Dean’s got a buzz going on, taking long,
deep pulls from his beer and trying not to think too hard on how much more
messed up he is than he ever let himself realize, how messed up Sam might be
and how much of that is his fault. He hates that he can’t make himself leave
the motel and he refuses to psychoanalyze the jumbled up mess of everything
ugly wrong right perfect mixed in with the guilt. He hates that the soft, boney
body that’s warm and pliant and always waiting to curl into him under the guise
of sleep when he gets in is gone and it makes him feel hollow and hot,
unsettled. He hates that when he flips through the pay-per-view his heart races
for all the wrong things, things that strike a chord he does his best to
ignore, a sinful kind of familiar. He hates that he knows Sam is having a
blast, being a kid the way Dean never got to, the way Dean wants him to be,
really, but that all he wants to do is find an excuse to knock on the door of
that stupid, suburban house and collect the most precious thing in his life and
keep it close, keep Sam close - too close fuck - and he’s trying, God help him
he is, not to let his mind wander - more like plummet - off this cliff but he’s
here now, falling, flailing, drowning, and Jesus Christ he needs something
stronger than beer.
Dean closes his eyes and presses his thumb and finger in hard trying to block
out all the things coming to mind, making his skin tight and his dick half hard
in his boxers, groans because it doesn’t help at all - Sam Sammy all I ever see
is Sam stop don’t stop shit - and he slides unsteadily, barefoot, off the bed,
moving to steal the half full bottle of Jack that he knows his Dad leaves in
their weapons duffle.
He’s standing in the middle of the dimly lamp-lit room in nothing but his
underwear and an old Zeppelin t-shirt with his lips around the mouth of the
bottle and the burn of the liquid blooming at the back of his throat when
there’s a snick-click of keys in the door. Dean almost spits as he wheels
around, his free hand instinctively reaching for the small of his back even
though he sure as hell doesn’t have his gun tucked in his boxers and the door
tentatively opens.
Sam is slipping inside quietly, eyes down and hidden behind the mop of his hair
where it falls messily across his face. When he closes the door behind him and
softly drops his backpack next to his feet, one holey-Converse covered foot
shifting bashfully on the linoleum floor, moving the salt back into place, Dean
is finally done spluttering around his interrupted mouthful of whiskey.
“Sammy? What’re you doin’ here?” As his surprised thoughts pick up in speed and
edge into ones of worry, Dean slams the bottle down on the kitchen table and
instinctively takes the few steps forward to close the distance between them.
His hands go to Sam’s shoulders - safe safe it’s safe here - but as he opens
his mouth to keep speaking they betray him, sliding up the soft, tempting curve
of Sam’s neck and his thumb is passing along the edge of his jaw as he tilts
his little brother’s face up to look at him. Sam is loose under his hands, Dean
feels it like an invitation he’s sure Sam hasn’t meant to send, and Dean is
painfully aware that he’s still just in his underwear, they’re close together -
so close closer please never close enough - and neither of them are pretending
to be asleep. “You okay, kiddo?”
Sam’s big eyes lock on his and they’re absolutely glistening, shimmering pools
of hazel and Dean swallows hard, his thumb stroking Sam’s face now - soft he’s
so soft how is he so soft - and his other hand is reaching up to brush Sam’s
bangs aside even though he knows they won’t stay, his fingertips just grazing
the skin and fighting the impulse to linger.
“I, um,” Sam starts quietly, his voice cracking even on those two little sounds
because he’s young, so young still but growing, too. He blinks and Dean swears
he can feel Sam pressing his face a little into his hand and it makes his
stomach tighten and swoop low with the barely-there pressure of it, makes his
heart pound harder in his chest and echo in his ears with all the right you’re
right it’s wrong so messed up both of you too wrong too right so right Sammy.
Sam’s eyes drop when he finally continues and a sweet, rosy flush spreads
across his cheeks. His gaze lingers on Dean’s lips long enough that Dean
notices before it drops lower and away, deliberately not looking at his big
brother whose insides are busy tying themselves in intricate knots, impossibly
tight.
“Couldn’t sleep,” is just above a whisper but Dean hears it like a shout, his
entire world narrowed to Sam and Sam alone, fluent in little-brother-speak and
knowing there’s more coming in the way Sam’s teeth pull at his bottom lip and
his hands flex uselessly at his sides. They look the way Dean feels,
struggling, uncertain and strung out. Oh God, Sam. Everything about his little
brother is an echo, ripples in a small pond that start from the same point and
come back together again, amplified and turned around. He can’t believe he
didn’t see it before but he sees it now, clear as any reflection. He figures
now that he’s given himself permission to see it in himself for what it is, it
makes it all too easy to see it in Sam, too.
“Wanted to be here when you got in,” Sam admits, still looking down and past
him, and Dean feels the words like a vice around his heart. He can’t help it
that his hands pause where they’re moving on Sam’s face or the way he aches
when he sees how Sam’s hands shake as they come up and tentatively circle
Dean’s wrists. Sam slides his thumb across the thin skin under Dean’s hands and
watches the movement a moment before finally looking back up at his brother.
His beautiful face is still pink and warm and Dean’s own is hot too, from the
beer and the whiskey and Sam.
“You… didn’t go out?” Sam’s brows raise a little as he asks, the corner of his
mouth doing the same and flashing his dimples barely long enough for Dean to
see them before he tucks them away, swallowing hard. Dean smiles at him softly,
eyes heavy, because he knows Sam can tell he didn’t, and he guesses Sam has a
guess about why, hopeful, heart on his sleeve and in his eyes - shit how much
time have I wasted how long has he looked at me like that - but he’s going to
push Dean in his little brother way to make him say it.
Dean shakes his head as his smile widens into a grin he can’t control, his
hands still cupping Sam’s face and a look in his eye that tells Sam go ahead,
ask me why.
“How come?” He finally breathes out, his eyes on Dean’s and his hands tight
around his wrists like Dean is a lifeline.
Dean hums playfully as if he’s contemplating an answer then lets himself take
the small step left between them to put him right in Sam’s space, tilting Sam’s
face up to keep their eyes locked. The surprise or the angle, Dean isn’t sure
which - maybe both - makes Sam’s spit-worried lips part and Dean suddenly knows
it in his bones that he’ll go to Hell a hundred times just to taste them.
Dean’s body is just touching his and for a split second he feels a wave of
panic as he lets the hard, searing hot length of him press against Sam’s hip
and his brother sucks in a breath - shit did I read this wrong I’m wrong it’s
wrong stop can’t stop shit - but then Sam is sighing and melting against him,
his easy, complete willingness making Dean’s heart flutter behind his ribs and
a matching sigh slip from his lips.
Dean lets one hand splay across the small of Sam’s back, ease him closer with a
gentle, somewhat restrained pressure. Sam’s trembling, Dean can feel it like a
little earthquake at his core, but he can also feel his little brother against
his thigh and he barely chokes back a moan as he pushes Sam into him.
It occurs to him he hasn’t really answered the kid’s question, not in so many
words. He didn’t know what stuck him in the motel room earlier but he sure as
hell knows it now, and while they didn’t occur to him before the words couldn’t
be more true.
“Was waiting for you, Sammy,” Dean says the words against Sam’s face, his own
brought down so their noses are brushing and he missed the part where their
mouths got so close together but saying the words in that space feels good, and
saying them at all feels right. They’re innocent enough but they mean so much
more, carry a lot more weight, and Sam is so smart Dean knows he gets it,
would’ve known he got it even if the kid hadn’t whimpered and shook all the
more against him.
“Dean,” Sam whines and it sounds like a plea and a question both, hovering in
the warm air passing from their lips. Sam’s arms are tucked between them
against Dean’s chest and the palms that were pressed flat there are fisting in
his brother’s shirt now. It feels like begging and Dean is lightheaded, he’s
dizzy and his blood is on fire, and he knows before he even does it that there
is no coming back, no recovering from this. There’ll never be anything but
this.
Dean lets his lips brush Sam’s, a tease and a last chance, before he finally
presses their mouths together in a kiss that he knows will forever be seared
into his skin, etched onto his heart. It’s so easy, gentle for a moment, and it
occurs to him that it’s possible Sam hasn’t kissed anyone before - oh Jesus
wrong right so good Sam - but what the kid lacks in technique he makes up for
with enthusiasm that absolutely wrecks his big brother. He opens up quick and
kisses Dean like he’s dying for it, hungry little sounds in his throat and too
wet but Dean feels it like a hammer to his gut, the way Sam wants. Dean is just
as desperate but tries to be patient and he takes the lead and Sam gets the
idea fast, always was a quick study, and Dean can’t keep up with how completely
he’s coming apart.
“God, Sammy,” he pants against his brother’s mouth, fighting for air, and Sam
isn’t stopping, still licking at his bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth and
Dean has to groan as he leans his forehead against his brother’s, his hand on
Sam’s back keeping him close with a white-knuckled grip in his shirt. “Sorry I
kept you waiting, kiddo. You,” he interrupts himself to kiss back at Sam’s
swollen lips, but he can’t help asking the question. “... been waiting for me
long, Sammy?”
Sam is still kissing him, doesn’t seem like he can make himself stop, as he
brokenly answers.
“So long. Feels like… always. Would’ve kept- kept waiting though… would wait
for you... forever.”
Dean is done. The moan that works its way out of him turns into something like
a growl and his hands are on his brother’s slim hips, gripping him tight and
lifting him up like they’re acting on their own accord, too fast for what’s
left of his brain to consider anything like yes no maybe slow down wait.
Sam gasps as Dean manhandles him off the floor, his hands hard on his ass, and
the kid clings to the front of his shirt like the monkey he’s always been as
Dean turns them, walks them back to their bed and all but tosses Sam onto the
mattress.
Sam bounces and the bed creaks a little under him, the only sound in the room
apart from their quick, panting breaths. Sam scrambles backwards up the bed but
it’s nothing like running away. His kid brother is still visibly shaking as he
tentatively splays his knees apart, the colour in his cheeks deepening and his
eyes dark, his hands digging into the sheets under him as he begs Dean to him
with the space between his legs and the tongue that traces his own bottom lip.
Dean takes in the sight and it’s staggering, stealing his breath and making his
head swim. His little brother - kid just a kid still fuck - is laid out for him
like a gift and even though he shakes he moves with such intention, a deadly
sure look in his eye like he knows exactly what this is doing to his big
brother. Dean groans and palms his dick where it’s obscenely tenting his
boxers, the glistening tip of it trying to escape the slit in the front, and
his hand is wet with the precome that he’s leaking.
Sam watches the movement and echos Dean’s sounds with a needy whine that makes
Dean’s knees feel weak and his dick twitch against his hand. Sam’s eyes close
heavily and he arches his back against the mattress. It makes his t-shirt ride
up and the hand-me-down jeans that sit too loosely on his hips fall lower and
Dean couldn’t keep from climbing up on the bed if the Devil himself were trying
to hold him back. This fucking kid will be the death of them, he knows it.
There’s nothing Dean won’t do when Sam asks, especially since he asks so
pretty, pink puffy lips parted, panting, flashing him the siren-smooth skin of
his stomach and the - sweet Jesus - wet tip of his cock visible at the
waistband of his jeans, offering everything Dean has tried and beautifully
failed to withstand wanting.
The mattress dips under his hands and knees as he moves up the bed, between his
brother’s legs and hovering over his still so small body. Dean’s body is
absolutely buzzing and he knows he should be stopping this, there’s a voice
somewhere that maybe once upon a time might’ve reminded him it’s not right, the
same one that made him put that distance between lately, but the only voice he
hears now is the one that tells him just how fucking right it is, and it grows
louder with every broken sound spilling from Sam’s shiny, open mouth.
Dean hasn’t even gotten his hands or his lips back on his little brother yet
but Sam is saying his name over and over, soft and quiet like he maybe doesn’t
even realize he’s doing it, pleading for him and Dean’s sure he’s never been
harder in all his life. When Dean slides his knee up snug in the vee of Sam’s
legs and presses it against Sam’s dick where it’s still trapped and straining
inside Dean’s old jeans, Sam keens. His hands fly up off the bed and paw
frantically at Dean’s back, pulling them together. Dean gets low, bracing
himself with an elbow on either side of Sammy’s thrashing head, and moves his
hips deliberately against his kid brother while he bucks up to meet him. Dean
takes in every expression on Sam’s face and each one he feels like shocks
across his skin, hot, sharp, and utterly addictive.
He can tell Sam is close, knows it in the way his body shudders against him and
he sucks in a breath erratically between moans that Dean wants to be the cause
of from this moment on. Dean is nothing short of overwhelmed and he can feel
himself get closer to that same edge with each one of those precious sounds,
with every not-quite-enough brush of Sam’s body against his cock; the angle is
off but Dean is still drunk from the way Sam’s moving under him and he knows
it’ll do it. There’s so much more he wants to do, so many places he knows he
has to see - touch, taste, memorize - but he knows without a doubt looking at
Sam now that he’ll get the chance; they’re both so far gone.
“Yeah, Sammy, shit. That’s it baby, don’t stop,” Dean encourages Sam as he
arches to meet the kid’s thrusts and says the words into his ear, licking at
the shell of it before tugging at the lobe gently with his teeth. He can feel
Sam shiver and it makes Dean grin into the hollow of Sam’s neck. He’ll never
get enough of this.
“Dean,” Sam moans and his blunt, bitten nails dig into the skin of Dean’s back.
Dean nuzzles into him, panting against his skin, tasting an echo of salt on his
tongue and drawing more shivers from his strung-out little brother.
“De-Dean,” he stutters out and it sounds desperate, telling. Dean knows what’s
next and God he has to see so he pulls his head back to watch as Sam says it.
“I’m gonna- I- Dean!” Sam is coming with his big brother’s name long and
dragged out in a way Dean’s never heard before but suddenly feels like he needs
to hear again and again to keep living. Sam's hips go still, his back arches to
keep their bodies tight together in all the right places and his eyes close.
Dean can feel the warm wet blooming between them where it’s spilling on Sam’s
stomach and then he’s coming, too, the sight, sound, smell of his brother the
just right so right perfect push over the edge.
When Dean can think again he’s got his forehead resting on Sam’s, he’s still
panting and he can feel the sweat between them where they’re touching, the
sticky mess between them and the still loud, rapid pounding of his heart. Sam
is just starting to move under him again, slow and easy as he hums, practically
purring, and he tilts his face up to kiss at his brother’s mouth. Dean smiles
against his lips and feels when Sam does the same.
“We’re so gross right now.” Sam says finally, crinkling his nose. It makes Dean
laugh and he kisses Sam quick before moving to sit back.
“Yeah, maybe a bit. Easy fix, though.” Dean is vaguely aware of how he’s
beaming when he grins down at Sam and starts to reach for the kid’s wrecked t-
shirt. Sam watches him move and lets him lift the stained clothing up and over
his head, ruffling his already thoroughly messed up, sweaty hair. Dean uses it
to wipe off Sam’s tummy and tosses it over his shoulder before stripping out of
his and doing the same. He reaches for the button on Sam’s jeans next and his
brother’s eyes go a little wide; his cheeks are still flushed and when he sees
how Dean is waiting he nods quickly. Dean’s grinning again as he undoes it,
pulls down the zipper, and, grabbing both waistbands, tugs down Sam’s pants and
boxers. Sam helps kick them off with legs that are still shaking and when
Dean’s ditches them somewhere beyond the bed and looks back at his brother,
he’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more perfect.
They’ve seen each other naked countless times but it’s never been like this. Me
I did this Jesus just look at him and he’s mine oh Christ. Sam’s dick is
already hard again - still hard? God bless being fourteen - laying against his
stomach, still blotchy behind it from when Dean wiped off their come. His
brother looks wrecked and still wanting, completely debauched, and Dean’s dick
is valiantly starting to show its interest . He sees how Sam’s eyes drop down
the length of him to the last piece of clothing between them and Dean obliges
the unspoken request by shedding his boxers, too.
They’re both finally naked but the urgency is gone; the line has been crossed,
the way set. Dean knows it as surely as the look in Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes,
the one that tells him how Sam adores him, needs him, wants him, loves him. It
makes him feel like nothing anybody else ever has and somehow he knows never
will. He smiles back at Sam and hopes his brother sees all that there, too.
He crawls back up the bed and settles along side Sam, who curls and tucks in
against him like he always has. Dean manages to get the blanket out from under
them so that they’re covered and he’s got one arm under Sam’s head and tracing
lines on his arm, same as he always does. Nothing is different but nothing is
the same either. All Dean knows is that the unpleasant feelings - the guilt,
the worry - that have plagued him are long gone and instead he just feels...
good. Whole happy perfect Sam so simple it was always Sam.
When he turns to kiss at the top of Sam’s head he feels dangerously close to a
chick flick moment. He opens his mouth to say something that is distinctly less
like his current internal monologue, but the fingers Sam had drawing circles on
his tummy have detoured; Sam’s hand is closing hesitantly around his dick and
Dean gasps instead.
Sam has a more solid grip when he tilts his head up to look at Dean, grinning.
“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean laughs, trying to not to let his eyes close as his brother
starts to stroke him. “Not wasting any time, huh?”
Sam’s hair tickles where it touches him when he shakes his head. His expression
is serious when he speaks again, looking at Dean through the disheveled curtain
of his hair.
“Want all of you,” he whispers and it’s soft but sure. “Want to be just yours.”
His words make Dean ache; it’s the best he’s ever felt. Sam holds Dean’s gaze,
steady, and he didn’t ask a question but he’s waiting for an answer all the
same.
“You have all of me, Sammy. We belong to each other, arrite?” His voice is
softer than he meant it to be but it doesn’t matter. This is Sam, his super
smart kid brother who knows him maybe better than he knows himself. After all,
he's the one saw this coming; he’d been waiting for Dean to catch up. Well,
he’s caught up now. And that seems to be the answer that Sam was looking for
because his dimples are doing their thing, taking Dean’s breath away, and Dean
is happy to let Sam have whatever he wants, indefinitely.
End Notes
     Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are love ♥
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!