Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/64445.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Original_Male_Character,
      Dean_Winchester/Original_Female_Character
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-03-11 Words: 2478
****** Four times Dean was interrupted while getting off (and one time he
wasn't); Or: Five times Dean said Sam's name during sex ******
by merle_p
Summary
     Somehow, Sam is always around when Dean has sex – one way or the
     other.
Notes
     Written March 2008.
     I don't own Supernatural, nor do I own Sam or Dean. I do own the
     original characters in this story, though; but I'd trade them off for
     Sam and Dean anytime.
     This was written for the
     [[info]]
dontbendthatway Challenge. The prompt was: "Sam, Dean or both. Have sex with
somebody while thinking/fantasizing about someone else. Extra points if you can
make it believable that they'd actually scream out the wrong name while
coming."
I.
The year Dean turns fourteen, they stay for two months in a house in Pine
Bluff, Arkansas. Down the street live the Rogers', and Sheila Rogers is
sixteen, experienced and determined to introduce as many innocent boys to the
pleasures of sex as possible. The day the Winchesters move into the ramshackle
hut they are going to spend the next weeks in, she decides that Dean will be
the next on her list, and Dean doesn't need much convincing.
John is gone most of the time, leaving the boys alone for days, and so Dean
tucks Sam in at night and makes sure that he's fast asleep before he lets
Sheila in to get it on with her on the cot in his shabby little room.
One night, she's got him flat on his back, riding him, and he's so busy trying
not to come then and there like the nervous teenager he actually is, that he
doesn't realize something is wrong until Sheila stops moving, tilts her head
and says: "Looks like we've got company."
Dean struggles to turn his head, and he sees Sammy standing in the door to the
bedroom, in his worn out, too big pajamas, wide-eyed and pale, looking like
he's seen a ghost.
"Hey there, sweetie. You alright?" Sheila says, smile in her voice, apparently
not in the least troubled by the interruption, and Sam flinches and retreats,
slamming the door behind him.
"Sammy," Dean shouts, and tries to work his way out from underneath the girl,
because obviously Sam isn't alright at all. Sheila is not offended when he all
but throws her out of the house. She seems to think they are kind of cute, and
Dean is too preoccupied to even care.
He finds Sam curled up in his bed, facing the wall, and sits down on the edge,
running his fingers along Sam's spine. Sam finally turns around to look at him,
worrying his lower lip between his teeth, and he reminds Dean of the stray
kitten they saved from drowning in Michigan last year, tousled and miserable.
"Don't you like me anymore?" he asks feebly, and Dean frowns. He expected Sam
to be confused – seeing that Dad taught his youngest how to handle a gun, but
has postponed The Talk again and again – but this? He doesn't know where that
comes from.
"Are you going to let her sleep in your bed?"
To Dean's dismay, there are tears in Sammy's eyes, but he waits, still unsure
where this is going. Then Sam struggles to sit up and wraps his skinny arms
around him, burying his face against Dean's neck, leaving a trail of snot and
tears.
"But you can't," he chokes. "I'm sleeping in your bed."
Dean stiffens, and is about to pry Sam's arms loose from his neck. Is about to
tell him that it's not the same, that occasionally letting Sam sleep in his bed
doesn't mean they have what Dean has with Sheila – which is nothing, really,
honestly – and that Sam is getting too old for that kind of stuff, anyway.
Dean suspects, though, that Sam might not be sufficiently socialized to get the
difference - or maybe just too upset right now – and he looks so young and
miserable that Dean just hasn't the heart to tell him off.
"Scoot over", he says instead, climbing in next to his brother, pulling the
covers over them both. It's a bit awkward, because Sam is still clinging to
him, but Dean doesn't protest.
They leave town a week later, and Dean doesn't see Sheila again.
 
II.
When Sam leaves for Stanford, John stops talking about him from one day to the
next. He acts as if his other son never existed, and whenever Dean tries to
bring him up, he changes the subject or just walks out of the room.
And Dean feels like he's suffocating, like he's choking on the things he needs
to say, because Sam may have left, but he's still everywhere.
It's not as if Sam had a lot of possessions in the first place, but even what
he had didn't fit into the duffel bag he took with him. The rest of his
belongings, he left for Dean to find.
Sam's threadbare sweater turns up between Dean's shirts, smelling faintly of
sweat and soap when Dean pulls it over his head. An old paperback is stuck
under the car's passenger seat, the corners of the pages filled with Sam's
scribbling. Dean finds Sam's toothbrush in his toilet bag, and 4 Non Blondes
between Metallica and Led Zeppelin in the Impala's glove compartment.
There is just no escaping.
When it finally becomes too much, Dean locks himself in the bathroom of their
crappy motel room in Memphis, Tennessee, and climbs into the shower to jerk
off. His grip is hard, almost painful, his rhythm frantic, unsteady. In his
mind's eye, images of Sam are tumbling over each other – Sam after their last
hunt, flushed and disheveled, sweat making the fine hair in his neck curl even
more than usual; Sam on his 16th birthday, totally wasted after the two beers
Dean let him have, giggling breathlessly about Dean's silly jokes; Sam's
toothless grin after the loss of his baby teeth, ice cream smeared all over his
lips and nose; little Sam standing upright for the first time, chubby fingers
gripping Dean's tightly for support – and then Dean moans "Sammy", helplessly,
his head hitting the wall behind him, come squirting over his fingers and
dripping down on the bottom of the tub.
The water is turning cold, and he's shaking, slumping down against the wall,
and then there is a knock on the door, and John's voice on the other side: "Hey
son, you okay in there?"
Dean freezes and then scrambles to his feet, almost slips on the wet tiles,
praying that his father just wants to use the bathroom.
If John heard anything, he doesn't say, but after that day, Dean doesn't touch
his cock for a while.
 
III.
 
In all the months since he picked Sam up in Stanford, Dean's had sex exactly
thrice. Which is not actually a problem per se – contrary to what Sam might
think about him, sex is not even in the Top Five of Dean's favorite spare time
activities. Besides, it's not as if he can just take someone back to the motel
room anymore, and most of the time, there are more important things to think
about anyway.
To be honest, the central issue with being around Sam 24/7 is not that it means
having little to no sex – it's that Sam's presence makes him think of it all
the time in the first place.
So when the visible reminders of their run-in with Meg in Chicago have healed
up, and when Tanja, their slightly slutty bartender in Elizabeth, New Jersey,
bats her eyelashes at him, he goes home with her without even looking at Sam,
not wanting to see the pinched face, the reproachful look.
Tanja's apartment is like herself: up-front and a tad too voluptuous, but her
bed is big, the sheets clean and she doesn't hesitate to spread her legs. He
licks her cunt, even if it's sloppily shaven and stubbly, and then kisses her
long and wet to get rid of the taste. She's tight when he slips into her, and
he wonders if she does Pilates, because there is this thing where she clenches
her pelvic floor muscles, which does awesome things to his cock.
She's hot in a dirty way, moaning like a porn star and arching under him, and
he's close, really close, when his cell phone plays the first notes of I'm not
a girl, not yet a woman.
"Sam," he groans, exasperated, and he wonders if he should just let it ring,
while he's already leaning over to grab his cell from the nightstand.
"Seriously?" Tanja squeaks, and he can see where she's coming from, considering
that he's still in her and almost squishing her tits in his attempt to get to
the phone, but then Sam's voice is in his ear, shaky and almost scared, "Dean,
can you -", and he's up immediately, looking for his pants.
Tanja is still on her back, staring at him with disbelief, and when he turns to
leave, she throws a pillow at him and hisses "Asshole."
Dean opens the door and says "Yeah, whatever."
She was not that good a lay anyway.
 
IV.
For all the nights Dean has spent in bars, drinking, flirting, gambling, he
isn't much of a dancer. And somehow he didn't peg Sam for one, either.
So even if their little prank war left Sam in an unusual good mood, it's kind
of a surprise to see him join the group of people who are mingling on the dirty
dance floor in this country bar in Richardson, Texas, they stumbled into. Even
more so since it's fucking Square Dance. He's pretty good at it, too, stomping
and twirling his partner around, her petticoat whirling, and Dean can't tear
his gaze off him.
He's not the only one, though. The man leaning against the bar stool next to
him hasn't touched his beer for hours, too busy admiring Sam's backside, and
Dean just knows that as soon as Sam leaves the dance floor, the guy will offer
to buy him a drink.
The problem is that Sam is far too nice to say no, and in a second he'll be
bent over a car with a cock up his ass. And Dean just. Can't. Stand. The idea
of somebody else's hands on him tonight, and certainly not this in-the-closet
hillbilly's paws. So he does the only thing he can think of: He hits on the guy
himself. Marc seems willing enough, even if Dean suspects that it has more to
do with the fact that Sam hasn't even looked their way for the last hour than
with him really wanting Dean. Just as well.
The stalls in the men's restroom are too small, and they have to shuffle around
a bit until Dean is pressed against the wall with his jeans around his ankles
and Marc's finger in his ass. Dean knows that even with the locked door and a
gun in reach, it's pretty damn risky to let a guy fuck you in the bathroom of a
Texan country bar, but the cock that soon replaces the fingers is big enough
for Dean to pretend it's Sam's, and he breathes against the plastic wall,
imagining Sam's large hands on his hips and his wide mouth against his neck,
his bare chest gleaming like it did when he came out of the shower in nothing
but a towel a few days ago. Marc slams him against the wall once more, and Dean
welcomes the pain, thinking how easily Sam could pin him against the surface
and hold him still. His cock rubs against the plastic, dragging, and then he's
coming, and the cry that escapes him is too loud and sounds too much like
"Sammy" for Marc to ignore it.
Dean wants to crawl behind the toilet and hide, only Marc is still in him,
frozen, and then the door slams open, hitting Marc in the shoulder, and there
is Sam, gun ready.
"Dean, are you ...." he starts, before his eyes widen. "Oh."
"Oh", says Marc, dryly, and Dean closes his eyes for a moment and says: "What
the hell are you doing here?"
Sam lowers the gun. "Well, you were calling my name", he explains, still
confused, "I thought ...", and then his jaw drops when he understands. "Oh."
"Oh, indeed," Marc says, and he sounds slightly panicked now, as if he just
realized that the guy he spent ogling all night just broke the door, and
everybody who decides to walk in right now can see him bare-assed and fucking
another guy.
He steps back hastily, his cock slipping out, and Dean can hear him dropping
the condom, zipping up and leaving barely two seconds later. Dean doesn't move,
despite his pants on the floor and the come cooling against his skin, thinking
that maybe Sam will just turn around and leave if he stays like this for a
while. Even if it means that he'll never get to see his brother again.
Then Sam says "Dean", far too close for his taste, breathing on his neck, and
he should have known that he wouldn't have that kind of luck.
"Dean, I think we need to talk."
 
V.
Dean has slept with a few people in his life – the first one when he was barely
14. One of them was Cassie, the girl he thought he loved; another was a hunter
named Nepomuk who liked to be tied to the bed and was killed by an incubus
about a month after they went their separate ways.
He has fucked and sucked and rimmed, and all those things have been done to him
more than once – but here, on his back on the sagging hotel bed in Janesville,
Wisconsin, he thinks how all this time, he was actually waiting for this: Sam
crouching over him, knees on each side of his legs, one hand on the bed-head
for support, the other hand between his legs, spreading himself open with two
long fingers.
"So," Sam pants, and his voice hitches when he adds another finger, "is it true
what you told Michael? That you'd do anything for me?"
Dean moans, because how can Sam expect him to talk right now, and "Yes, yes,
anything," he nods, not caring that Sam will tease him later for it, and
squeezes the base of his cock in a desperate attempt not to come right now.
"So how about you fuck me?" Sam asks, and it sounds so urgent, so frantic. "Can
you do that? Hard and fast?"
Dean growls and jerks his hips, and it seems to be enough of an answer for Sam,
who crawls backwards and turns around until he's on his back, legs already
raised to his chest, completely open, waiting for Dean to take what he wants.
And Dean rolls over and climbs between Sam's legs, pushing in slowly, with as
much control as he can muster, and it's just as good as the first time they did
this, or the second, or third – tight, warm, home - and Dean is pretty sure
that there are other things he could say, like "Come on, faster" or "That's it,
baby", but all he can think is "Sammy. Sammy. Samsamsam."
And maybe that should be embarrassing, but it really isn't, because Sam is
whimpering under him and writhing in ecstasy, and when Dean reaches down for a
kiss, he can taste the words falling from his brothers' lips when he comes:
"Dean. Dean. Dean."
The End
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