Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8248327.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Bobby_Singer, Dean, John, OFC, Sam
  Additional Tags:
      Dean/Female_Character
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-09 Words: 4960
****** And Incidents Arose From Circumstance ******
by pinkwithoutplot
Summary
     A sultry day in Arizona finds nineteen year old Dean Winchester
     frustrated and disturbed by impure thoughts of his younger brother.
     Nine years later, and with only a year to live, memories of their one
     time transgression come flooding back to him...
Notes
     Starts pre-series and picks up at the start of 3x01 The Magnificent
     Seven.
 
 
 
 
August 1998
There's a particular kind of parched, Southern heat which drives Dean crazy.
His mouth is gummy with it, his skin grimy with russet dust. And the worst of
it is it gets his blood up for some inexplicable reason. Sure, he's nineteen.
It doesn't take all that much. But being stuck in the shabby, rented house with
only his surly brother for company, nothing but time on his hands and the
weight of this swelter on his skin, is driving him slowly out of his mind.
Dad's been gone nearly a week, hunting something vicious in the desert, and Sam
spends the long, glaring days and close, restless nights with his nose buried
in a book mostly.
It's late morning, and Dean's sat on the flaking porch steps, shirtless,
considering a cold beer. He tries to ration himself. Uses small treats to
punctuate his routine, breaking up the remaining time until Dad returns and
they can get the hell out of here into little, bite-sized pieces to make it
more bearable. Each day he lies in bed until it gets too hot, or until Sam gets
fidgety and hauls him up for company. He goes for a tepid shower, then makes
breakfast. After they've eaten and washed up, he'll try and pursuade Sam to
shoot some targets with him, maybe spar a little until the midday sun puts pay
to that kind of exertion. Then, as a reward for making it nearly all the way to
lunch time, he'll have a cold beer or maybe even jerk off in the privacy of the
bathroom.
The latter idea is pretty appealing right now, but Sam's been stuck inside all
day reading, and Dean figures it might be good to get him out for an hour or so
before they eat. Kill a little more time. Defer his own gratification a while
longer.
“I'm bored,” he calls through the screen door.
Sam doesn't look up from the dog-eared paperback, but says,
“Isn't it time for your morning jacking off session?”
Smartass little bastard.
“Jealousy isn't pretty on you, Sammy, but don't worry. Maybe someday you'll
grow a dick of your very own.”
Dean hears Sam sigh and toss the book onto the coffee table as he unfolds his
coltish legs out from under him and stands up. In a few strides he's opening
the door.
“So what do you want me to do about it, Dean? You could try reading a book. It
wouldn't kill you.”
Dean wrinkles his nose and says,
“Knife practice?”
Sam tries to blow his sweat-damp bags off his forehead.
“OK. But not too long though. Sun's gettin' fierce and I'm hungry.”
“You're always hungry, Sasquatch.”
Dean jogs up the three steps to the front door, ruffling Sam's hair on the way,
and bangs the screen as he goes inside to find their knives. He comes out a
minute later with both his own Bowie knife and Sam's Gerber, along with two
bottles, dripping condensation. He sits back down on the step, using the edge
of it and a slam of his hand to pop the caps, and offers one of the beers to
Sam.
“Thanks.”
There is an element of suspicion in Sam's voice, but he accepts the beer and
drinks a quarter down gratefully.
“Don't tell Dad. OK, let's go.”
Dean leads Sam into the neglected back yard where he's got a piece of hardboard
propped up against the far wall, a rudimentary target drawn on it with a marker
pen. It's probably twenty yards from where they're standing, and Dean knows Sam
should be able to hit it blindfolded, but there's been something off with his
aim recently.
Ever since he got blindsided by a vengeful spirit a couple of months back and
fell badly, spraining his wrist, Sam's throwing skills have deteriorated.
Dean toes a line on the dusty ground.
“Go for it, kiddo. Show me what you got.”
Sam tenses slightly and puts his beer down. He steps up to the mark and lifts
his hunting knife. He squints, jiggles the handle a bit in his palm, trying to
get a feel for the shot, and then pulls back and lets it fly. The knife
clatters against the edge of the board and falls to the dirt.
“Shit!” Sam spits.
“It's alright, Sam. I think I know where you're going wrong. Show me again.”
Sam retrieves his blade and throws again. This time the tip sticks into the
target, but wide of the bullseye.
Dean throws his own Bowie, straight and true, then plucks it and Sam's knife
from their sticking places and tries a couple of shots with the Gerber. The
problem's not the knife.
“Try with mine, Sam.”
Sam takes up the Bowie for his third attempt and misses the target completely.
“Fuck it!” he yells, scuffing his sneaker in the dust. “What's wrong with me?”
“You're turning your wrist as you let go. Probably still a little weak from the
injury. Here -” Dean picks up the Gerber and places it in Sam's hand before
coming to stand behind him. He wraps his right hand around Sam's wrist and
presses in close, his cheek to Sam's hair, mouth right to his ear. His little
brother has a few inches on him already.
“When you gonna quit growin', Sammy?
Sam shrugs and Dean feels the soft, damp cotton of his tee brush his chin.
Sam's hair smells like the own brand shampoo Dad bought, and he's a little
musty too, like he's been wearing this shirt a few hours too long.
“OK, now you have to stop thinking of this blade as something you toss away,
Sam. Think of it as an extension of your arm, understand?”
Sam nods, his hair tickling the side of Dean's face.
“So you aim, pull back, and let it fly. But you point your hand exactly where
you where you want it to go...”
Dean manoeuvres Sam's hand up and down a few times.
“...as you swing down, your hand has to be aiming exactly where you want that
blade to stick, Sammy, and then you let go.”
They are rocking together, Dean positioning Sam and taking him through the arc.
He tries to ignore the sweet pressure of his brother's lithe body on his as
they lean back into it, and instead focuses on the little black circle they are
trying to nail.
“Do it with me, Sam,” Dean says, and they take a swing, Sam letting go of the
handle when his big brother says “Now!”
There is a thunk as the knife bites into the board, right on target.
“Yes!” Sam whoops, and Dean can smell the beer on his breath as he gives a
jubilant little laugh.
Dean takes his hands off his brother and fetches the knives, hands his Bowie to
Sam and drops the other.
“Again,” he orders and resumes his stance behind Sam.
Dean can feel the heat seeping through the cotton at Sam's back and into his
chest, making him even hotter than the burned up, static air around them.
“Easy, tiger,” he says softly as his brother raises his arm and his hand slips
around the bony nub of his wrist, feeling his pulse flutter under his
fingertips. Sam exhales loudly and they shift their weight from their back feet
to front once, twice, but on the third time, Sam overbalances slightly,
throwing their rhythm off, and Dean finds his hips rocking firmly against his
brother's rounded backside.
They both freeze. Dean tries really, really hard not to think about how good
that one, inadvertent grind felt, because his teenage cock has already
registered an interest. Goddamnit, he should have just gone to the bathroom
when he felt the urge earlier.
But then Sam does something really weird. He pushes back again, like he's
trying to get Dean's dick to rub up against his ass, and Dean's heart leaps
into his mouth, because that's about a thousand and one kinds of fucked up.
A tiny sound escapes Sam, halfway between a groan and a sigh, and that jolts
Dean into action. He springs away from his brother swipes the knife out of his
hand and stalks back to the house, mumbling,
“Practice over, Sam.”
He feels Sam's eyes bore holes into the back of his head as he goes, but to the
kid's credit he doesn't run after him or call out.
What the hell was that? Dean asks himself, shaking his head as he blasts
through the front door and takes the stairs to his room two at a time.
Something and nothing. He figures maybe he read it wrong. Maybe it was all
perfectly innocent on Sam's part, but even if that's true, he can't deny that
he's almost fully hard now. He knows rationally it's just the heat (fucking
Arizona) and the contact – his dick can't tell the difference – but something
about the way his brother had arched back into him – like he was asking for
something – is making his pulse race.
He shuts his bedroom door, puts down his knife, and flings himself down on the
bed. His mind replays the scene over and over, but he can't decide if anything
bad happened. Except now he's absently stroking his hard-on through his sweats.
Maybe Sam had thought he was trying it on and didn't want to disappoint his big
brother. Jesus. The thought turns his stomach. Dean curses this heat, the
tedium, his hormones. Thinking about it, he shouldn't have run. He's probably
turned an insignificant incident into the leviathan of all awkward moments by
bolting like that. Sam's probably down there now, confused as all hell. He
needs to go down and make this right before it becomes an issue neither of them
can get back from.
But first he needs to relieve the thobbing ache between his thighs. Pulling his
sweats down over his swollen cock, he lifts his hips and shimmies them down. He
licks his palm and starts to jack himself slowly, ignoring the nausea he feels
creeping up his gullet when his mind wanders back to how Sam had felt, his
shirt – stuck to his clammy back - pressed up against his bare chest, the firm
curve of his ass on his groin, the smell of his freshly washed hair and his
dirty t-shirt in his nostrils.
He needs a diversion.
He squeezes his eyes shut and recalls a girl he met a few towns back – a young
waitress in the local diner – who'd slipped him a note on a napkin telling him
her shift was pretty much over as she served him his burger. He'd left Dad and
Sam looking through papers and sipping coffee while he pushed her up against a
wall out back, buried his face into her warm, perfumed neck and slipped a hand
into her panties. She'd been wet before he even touched her and she rocked on
his fingers, gasping softly as she unzipped him and jerked him off quicky and
efficiently onto the ground. Her hair smelled of cooking fat and coconut and
she swore into his ear as she came.
Dean remembers slipping back into the booth next to Sam and picking up his
coffee, smirking to himself with the smell of her still on his fingers. He'd
thought about waving them under Sam's nose right there, knowing he'd realise
exactly what his big brother had been up to during his extended restroom break,
but that he'd never let on in front of Dad. It was a point of principle. His
eyes would go wide and he'd purse his lips in outrage as Dean winked at him.
But seeing Sam lost in thought, carefully drinking his coffee like someone much
older had given him pause, and he'd decided to keep his dirty secret to
himself.
His hand is moving quickly now as he works himself off, but he's distressed to
find his train of thought has led him back full circle to his brother. What the
fuck is wrong with him? Unbidden, his mind starts to shape a scenario – what
might have happened if he'd stayed, if he'd let his dick decide and continued
to dry hump his baby brother's ass. It's all too easy to imagine the pretty
little noises Sammy would make as he felt Dean's rigid length probing him
through the cotton of his shorts.
Dean groans and his hips start to buck up, body strung out as he chases his
climax. He bites down hard on his lower lip and imagines pushing Sam's cut offs
and underwear down, taking himself out and letting his aching cock ride his
sweat-sticky cleft, the way the over-sensitive head would drag against his
little brother's tacky skin. He imagines reaching around, finding Sammy hard
and twitching, stifling a cry as he feels his big brother's searing hand
enclose his oversized dick. The kid's pretty inexperienced as far as Dean
knows. It would probably only take two or three tugs and and the feel of Dean's
arousal, pressed up to his virgin hole, to get him there.
Dean doesn't realise he's moaning his brother's name until Sam answers him.
“Dean?”
Dean's hand stills and he sits up to find his brother stood in the doorway, his
eyes huge and glassy and a very visible bulge in his shorts.
Dean is so shocked and mortified, he thinks he might puke. Or cry. Or both.
Sam blinks, and it's like a switch has been flipped inside of him as he starts
and makes his way slowly across the room to the bed, his stare fixed on Dean's
hand wrapped around his hard, wet cock.
Dean swallows, tries to think of something – anything – to say to avert the
disaster he feels approaching, as tangible and real as his pulsing cock in his
hand. But words fail him and when Sam puts one huge hand on his chest and
pushes him back down, he goes easily.
Sam sits on the edge of the bed, facing Dean's feet, and the world falls into
slow motion as Dean watches his little brother bend to place his cheek against
the taut flesh of his belly. He doesn't breathe for a full ten seconds, and
then he feels Sam's hand close over his own and tentatively start to move it up
and down, willing his brother to resume his stroking.
And Dean does. God help him, he does. Sam's hand retreats but his head stays
where it is, resting on Dean's stomach and though he can't see his face, Dean
knows he is intently watching him jerk off, just a few inches away from the
leaking head of his cock.
Sam sighs, and his moist breath – so close – shoves Dean over the edge. He
comes on a drawn-out moan, his hips jouncing Sam's head, his fingers clawed in
the bedspread, as he pistons and spurts uncontrollably.
Once he's stopped shuddering and regained his breath, Dean raises up a little
and cracks an eye open to see Sam lift his head. He turns slowly towards Dean
and the sight of his face punches the air out of his lungs all over again.
Sammy's cheeks are flushed, long strands of chesnut brown hair stuck to his
fevered brow. His pupils are wide and unfocused. His lips are shiny and pink,
parted slightly, and he's panting quiet little breaths. There is come on them,
in his bangs, on his chin, running down the tanned column of his throat. His
tongue snakes out to lick at some of the semen on his top lip, and Dean's cock
gives a final, weak pulse at that.
Then Sam stands shakily, turns to face him fully, and Dean sees the large, wet
stain spreading on the crotch of his still buttoned shorts.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean whispers, and feels tears of helpless desire and
shame spill over his lower lashes.
They watch each other in awed silence for a few heartbeats until a familiar
sound jolts them out of their daze.
The Impala's engine.
Dad's home.
 
May 2007
Dean chuckles as one blonde nibbles on his earlobe, breathing hot and muggy
against his face while he cups her breasts. Her friend is busy choking down his
cock and he looks down to see her plush lips sink down on his shaft.
He may only have a week shy of a year left, but goddamnit he intends to make
sure it's the time of his life.
His mind briefly wanders to Sam, waiting patiently in the car, and he feels a
pang of something like guilt. He'll probably get supremely bitched at once he's
done here, but at least Sam's making an effort to ease up and let Dean go out
with a bang. Literally.
Blonde number two takes her mouth off him and wriggles up to straddle his hips.
He hears the familiar tearing of the little foil packet and feels her deftly
work the slippery latex down over his length before lifting her hips and
engulfing him in slick heat. Blonde number one watches her friend ride him for
a few moments before deciding she wants a little more of the action and shifts
up the bed, guiding his hand down between her legs.
Soon their breathless gasps and giggles fill the room, building and building so
that Dean doesn't hear the soft knock before the bedroom door snicks open.
But he does hear Sam's voice exclaim,
“Oh God!”
before the women cease their ministrations to turn around.
Sam is standing, looming with a pained expression in the doorway, desperately
trying to avert his eyes. Both women shriek and scramble to snatch up the
bedclothes.
“I'm s-sorry...” Sam stammers. “Bobby called. We gotta pack it up.”
“Your timing is just astounding, Sammy,” Dean says through gritted teeth,
before huffing out a sigh and standing to retrieve his clothes.
 
The sound of the tyres on asphalt fills the space between them as they drive
through the dark toward Nebraska. They've been on the road for an hour now,
barely speaking, and Dean is bracing himself, waiting for Sam to chew him out
about screwing strangers instead of searching for a way out of his deal. For
acting like a dog with two dicks when he should be consumed with horror at the
thought of what awaits him.
And full of remorse for the fact that he's going to be leaving Sam alone in the
world when Dean knows full well that losing his brother was one thing he
couldn't face himself when it came down to it. A life without Sam was so
unthinkable, the notion of letting him down so abhorrent to Dean, that he'd
chosen an eternity of torment instead.
Blinded by grief and guilt, he hadn't stopped to think beyond getting Sam back.
Alive and safe. He'd figured Sam had a life once. A nice, normal life and a
girl who loved him. Perhaps with Dean gone, he could have that again. Leave all
this shit behind – the evil and the darkness. Cut his losses and learn to live.
Really live. And that would make it all worthwhile.
But deep down, if he'd let himself think about it for just a minute, he'd have
known Sam wouldn't see it that way. He'd had too much taken from him. Mom. Dad.
Jess. His dreams of being a lawyer, a friend and a husband. Maybe even a
father. Sam would never be that college boy again. He was too steeped in blood
and vengeance and the kind of knowledge that can fracture a mind if you stop to
ponder it too long.
At the heart of it all? Dean doesn't want to go. He'll fuck and drink and
brazen it out until the hounds tear his throat out because the truth – the
thing he can't dwell on for even a nanosecond – is whatever Hell has in store
for him, it's nothing compared to the pain of being separated from Sammy.
Dean waits. And he waits. Until finally Sam says,
“Let me see your knife.”
“What for?”
“So I can gouge my eyes out.”
And Dean is so surprised at the levity in his brother's voice that he nearly
swerves off the road. He smiles and says,
“It was a beautiful, natural act, Sam.”
“It's a part of you I never wanted to see, Dean.”
Dean isn't sure what makes him call Sam out on that, ruining the moment. Maybe
it's being caught in flagrante delcito. Maybe it's the thought of Sam handling
his knife. The hotchpotch of filthy images the combination of those two things
throws up.
The word is out before he can stem it, dark and fat, leeching the atmosphere
from the Impala's interior.
“Liar.”
The silence returns, pregnant and oppressive, before Sam stutters,
“Wh-what?”
Dean swallows hard and his knuckles blanch on the steering wheel.
“I said you're a liar.”
Sam snorts and tries to speak.
“Dean! I don't know what you're-”
But Dean pulls the car over sharply and kills the engine. He takes another
deep, shuddering breath and says,
“You did want to see it once. Up close and personal.”
“Dean -”
“Arizona. You were fifteen. And don't tell me you don't remember.”
Sam holds his tongue and turns to look out of the window.
Dean is horny – having been rudely interrupted – and brooding on all they have
lost and stand to lose yet is shuttling all kinds of conflicting emotions
through him. He's feeling reckless.
“What happened that day, Sam?”
Sam puffs his cheeks, blows out and runs a hand through his hair.
“Just...boys being boys, I guess. It was hot and we were bored and hormonal
and...stuff happens. I'm sure it happens to most kids.”
He doesn't sound convinced.
Dean licks his lips and nods.
“So, just a little experimentation then?”
“Sure,” Sam says a little too quickly.
Dean nods again.
“Didn't mean anything.”
“Nuh.”
“And if Dad hadn't come back when he did?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Come on, Sam. I know you're smarter'n you look. I'm asking. If we hadn't both
been so freaked out...if we'd had a few more days alone to wrap our heads
around it, do you think it would've gone further?”
Sam's looking rattled now.
“Do you?”
Dean looks down at his lap, at the burgeoning growth in his jeans, and picks at
an imaginary piece of lint. He hasn't allowed himself to think about that day
for years, but now it's all laid out in front of him, as real and vivid as if
it had been yesterday.
“All I know is I don't think I ever came so hard before or since.”
“Jesus,” Sam whispers thickly.
Dean catches the quickening of his breath and, emboldened, continues.
“Was thinking about you – but I guess you knew that. After we were out in the
yard – you know – I couldn't help myself. You got me so hard moving against me
like that.”
Dean hears Sam gulp.
“Yeah, Dean,” he says quietly. “I wanted that. Knew what I was doing. Wanted to
get you hard.”
The rush of that confirmation sends tingling waves of excitement through Dean's
whole being.
“Yeah? Well you did. So hot for my kid brother I had to go and jerk off.
Thought about stripping you right out in the yard. Bending you over and rubbing
myself off against your tight little ass. Your fifteen year old ass.”
“God, Dean,” Sam groans and Dean starts to stroke himself lightly through his
jeans.
“Have to touch myself Sammy. You gonna?”
There is a pause and it feels like the dawning of something bigger than either
of them can fathom.
“Yeah,” Sam moans finally and Dean hears him working his belt and zipper open.
“Seeing your face...Christ. All ruined like that. Slack-jawed and streaked with
my come. It was in your hair – everywhere.”
“Mmm...I remember,” Sam says, pulling his cock through his fly and running his
fingers up and down the length. “It tasted good. I wished I'd had the courage
to go down on your properly. Let you come in my mouth.”
Dean's head falls back against the head rest as he fists his rock hard dick.
“Shit, Sam. I wish you had too. Would have loved to fuck your mouth.”
Sam is drawing deep, ragged breaths.
“You c-could,” he breathes shakily. “could fuck my mouth now.”
Dean lets out a winded groan and rolls his head to look at his brother.
“And if I do, you gonna come in your pants again, Sammy? Gonna get there
without being touched?”
Sam closes his eyes and stills his hand.
“May-maybe. I'm so goddamned close already Dean. Just...it's so dirty. It's so
wrong. But I'm so turned on right now. I can hardly see straight.”
“Kinky sonofabitch. I ain't gonna lie though Sam. I'm pretty close too. Just
the thought of your smart little mouth sucking me. You gonna do it? You really
gonna?”
And Sam's there, swatting Dean's own hands out of the way and tugging his jeans
open, yanking them down.
“You're not wearing underwear!”
“Well, you kinda dragged me out in the middle of something, bitch.”
“Making it up to you now aren't I, jerk?”
Sam laughs nervously and bends so that his face is inches away from Dean's
twitching cock.
“It's pretty, Dean. I mean, I'm no expert or anything, but it's a nice cock.”
It's Dean's turn to laugh, but it soon gets strangled off as Sam's tongue
starts to lap at the engorged head.
“Holy fuck, Sam. Oh yeah. More. Suck me.”
“Mmm,” Sam murmurs, burying his nose in the thatch of hair at the base. “You
still smell of that girl's snatch.”
Dean snarls his fingers in Sam's hair and pushes his head down lightly as Sam
suckles, encouraging him to take him all the way down. He eases up when Sam
gags a little, but can't stop his hips from hunching shallowly. He knows this
will be over sooner that he'd like. The universe is drilled down to the sweet,
wet pressure around his aching cock, and the melting sensation deep in his
guts, and Sam's making the most amazing little noises in his throat as he
hollows his cheeks and slurps around the swollen flesh filling his mouth.
Dean comes without warning, so hard it makes him dizzy – just like the first
time – and Sam coughs and gargles slightly as he tries to swallow his copious
release. Dean wrenches his head up by the hair and crushes his lips to his
brother's, licking his own ammonia taste off hs tongue. Sam all out whimpers
and goes limp, letting Dean's aggressive tongue work around his teeth and
palate. It's too violent to be called a kiss and they shove and bite and taste
until Sam pulls away for air, hand wrapping around his still hard dick.
Dean looks down at Sam's lap and says,
“Fuck, Sammy. You're so damn big.”
He stares, hypnotised by the motion of Sam's hand on himself for a while before
he gets with the program and covers Sam's hand with his own.
“Stop.”
“Dean! Please. Christ. I need to get off.”
“Not yet. Just hold on. Get in the back.”
Sam moans, low and pained, and opens the passenger door. Dean climbs over the
front seats, shucking his jeans on the way, and lies out along the back seat on
his stomach. Sam wrenches the back door open and inhales sharply at the sight
of Dean's bare ass, perfectly rounded and pale in the moonlight.
“Jesus, Dean,” He breathes, lowering his pants in readiness and looking around
the deserted stretch of highway guiltily. “What're you -?”
“C'mon Sam. Wanna feel you against me. Ride my ass.”
“Fuck!” Sam spits as he covers his brother's prone body, long legs hanging out
of the open door.
Dean grunts and Sam uses his hand to position his wildly twitching cock long
the crease of his brother's smooth, firm backside. It's warm and snug and Sam
starts to pump his hips awkwardly, cock dragging back and forth, eliciting a
delicious friction.
Dean drops his sticky brow to the vinyl of the Impala's seat and bites his fist
as his brother's monster cock ruts up against him, his slippery shaft pressing
against his hole which is beginning to spasm in anticipation of something he
had no idea he'd ever want. He heaves in a few laboured breaths and rasps,
“Sam! Sammy. Put it in.”
Sam stills, and Dean thinks he's waiting for him to repeat it - checking he
heard him right - but then Sam yelps and Dean feels wet heat spatter on the
small of his back, and he chuckles into the crook of his arm.
“Shit!” Sam huffs and collapses onto his brother, burying his flushed face in
the soft, bristly hairs of Dean's nape. “Fuck!”
“It's OK, Sammy,” Dean says, his voice scraped raw. “Nebraska's still a way
away. Let's go find a motel for an hour or two. We can clean up and try that
again.”
Sam laughs and says hot against his ear,
“Seriously? That wasn't just a heat of the moment thing? You'd really let me?”
Dean considers that for a second and his dick stirs against the tacky vinyl in
affirmation.
“I'd really let you, Sasquatch. I'm on borrowed time here. Gotta try it all.”
He feels Sam tense against his back.
“I won't let it happen Dean. We'll find a way. I won't lose you. 'Specially not
now. You know that, right?”
Dean feels one of Sam's impossibly large hands come to rest on his head,
petting his hair, and something blooms in his chest. It feels a little like
hope.
 
 
 
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