Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/42130.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester/Original_Female_Character, Dean
      Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Original_Female_Character(s),
      Sam_Winchester/Original_Female_Character(s)
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Threesome, Voyeurism, First_Time, Incest, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-03-09 Words: 5957
****** Girls, Girls, Girls ******
by exeterlinden
Summary
     It started with Clarissa.
Notes
     Thank you so much to shay_renoylds and mad_server for beta.
Clarissa
It started with Clarissa. 
In '97, John dragged Sam and Dean out of school to go on a hunt for a
poltergeist in Vermont. He took them 600 miles north, only to decide that the
hunt was too dangerous for them to come along and leave both of them at the
motel to go hunting during the night.
Dean grumbled about being left behind, but he never complained openly to their
father; not like Sam had when he'd been told that they were going on a hunt in
the week of his history project - and in the week where he had a date with
Josie who, two days ago, had let him slide his hand under her t-shirt to touch
her soft, warm stomach.
Sam now lay on the fold-out bed in the far corner from the queen beds that Dean
and their dad had laid claim to. He'd grown too tall for the motel fold-outs,
lately. His shins were resting uncomfortably on the metal frame and the thin
mattress was sagging in the middle, swallowing him up like a hammock. He was
awake, he hadn't been able to sleep yet, although he'd pretended to so that
Dean would sneak out and leave him alone.
Six hours earlier Dean had been hunched beside him on the steps of the motel
stairs, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the road the Impala had
disappeared down, waiting out Sam's rage in silence. Sam knew that most of the
time Dean didn't get why he was angry with their father, because Dean never
pretended to, but he was always there just the same.
Sometimes though, he just needed for Dean not to try to make it better.
Sam was still awake, watching headlights trail across the walls as cars passed
by on the road and listening to the hum of the neon sign outside their window,
when Dean returned with Clarissa. Dean had never brought anyone home before.
Sam only learned Clarissa’s name because Dean moaned it when they started
making out, making it sound intimate and familiar even though Sam knew that
Dean couldn't have known her for more than four hours. Dean held her head
between his hands, resting his forehead against hers while they carried out a
whispered conversation in the doorway before coming into the room and closing
the door behind them. The smell of cigarettes and beer wafted thickly across
the room as they moved inside, still tangled up in each other.
Sam burrowed further into the mattress and pulled the blanket up around his
face. He didn't know what else to do. He could feel his face burning; surprise
had washed the anger straight out of him.
Dean didn't turn on the lights, and Sam fervently hoped that the neon-fused
half-dark would leave him unnoticed. He didn't have anywhere else to go.
Clarissa moved away from Dean and walked to his bed. She pulled her panties off
underneath her skirt without preamble, shifting her weight to get them out from
under her feet. She pushed herself onto the bed as Dean walked up to her,
toeing off his boots and undoing his jeans.
Dean walked with a limp because he had sprained a muscle in his thigh aiming a
high kick at their dad's throat in a sparring session. The inside of his left
underarm was mottled with purple bruises from archery practice.
Those bruises had gotten Sam pulled into their principal's office. "Is
everything okay at home Sam? Are you and your brother doing okay?" Dean was
eighteen and dressed in torn jeans and a leather jacket. He skipped classes and
drank beer and knew how to hold his own in a fight. Sam knew that the principal
was asking him because all the teachers believed his brother to be beyond
reach. Sam also knew that every pretty, rebellious high school girl wanted to
sleep with Dean.
Clarissa was straining up towards Dean to reach his mouth as he crawled onto
the bed on top of her, his jeans bunched losely around his waist, sliding down
the low of his back as he moved. Sam had to close his eyes for a minute. This
was nothing like Sam's own experiences; nothing like Josie and the small, downy
hairs on her stomach; her shy, sweet-tasting tongue. The way her breathing had
quickened against his lips, her pulse strong and fast against the skin of his
palm.
He opened his eyes again when Clarissa moaned.
Clarissa was taller than Dean. Her long legs were spread and bent wide on each
side of his and still her white socks were being pushed down her ankles by his
dirty brown feet. She had sleek blond hair that fanned out around her head, and
she was wearing a a short skirt that rode up to reveal her hipbone, the smooth
muscle of her buttock. Dean's ass was flexing tightly as he thrust into her and
she was moaning, sounding surprised somehow, maybe faking it a little bit.
The spring mattress was creaking, the wood frame groaning, and Sam was
straining to hear what his brother was whispering in between their noisy,
breathless kissing. He felt too hot beneath his comforter; his dick was getting
hard, his own breathing was loud in his ears in the cocoon of his blanket.
He watched Dean's hand caressing Clarissa's baby smooth skin stretched out over
a grown up body; sliding underneath her top, then down her stomach and down
between her legs.
Sam knew the touch of that hand ruffling his hair, patting his shoulder like he
was still twelve years old.
The last couple of years it seemed like the age gap between them had grown, and
Dean had become someone slightly different. He thought about Dean dusty and
sweaty, smelling like candy or grease. Coming home from hunts bleeding and
bruised. Lately, coming home from bars smelling like beer and smoke, and
sometimes sweet and strong and alien.
Dad was bringing Dean on hunts now, he was letting him drive, he pretended not
to know about Dean sneaking out at night and coming home in the early morning.
Sometimes Sam was sick with envy, most of the time he was desperate to be Dean,
or to just get back Dean's attention. He had this vague sense of a world just
outside his reach which Dean inhabited.
Sam turned around on his bed, careful not to make a sound, carefully ignoring
his stupid, hard dick. He stared into the wall and tried not to listen;
something hot and shameful building up inside him.
It used to be there wasn't anything he didn't know about his brother.
He stared determinedly at the moss green wallpaper, almost black in the sparse
lighting; one hand clenching his pillow, the other in a fist by his side.
Trying not to listen.
When he gave in and turned back around, he saw Clarissa slipping her panties on
and kissing Dean deeply before heading for the door. Dean stayed sitting,
watching her leave before pushing himself off the bed and shrugging out of his
shirt, pushing his jeans down and stepping out of them.
He stretched with his hands on the small of his back, pushing his hips forward.
His hipbones stood out clearly under the tight skin, his dick was red and huge
looking, still half hard.
Sam had never seen him like this. Naked, Dean looked small and compact; way too
muscled for an eighteen-year-old, no fat on his body. It was probably the
reason he had turned out shorter than Sam and their dad: too much training, too
young; Dean had always been too eager, pushing to prove himself able to come
hunting.
He walked to the window, limbs loose, running a casual hand down his stomach
and brushing through his pubic hair, scratching idly with a lack of modesty
that convinced Sam that he was sure he was unwatched. In the neon light he
could see a slight sheen of sweat dewing on his shoulders.
Sam could tell the moment Dean became aware of him in the room- his back
tensing up - so he had his eyes screwed tightly shut before Dean was finished
turning towards him.
"Sam?"
Sam could hear the alcohol in his slurred, drawn out voice. He knew that Dean
probably couldn't see him clearly in the shadows, but he still had a childish
urge to hide beneath his blanket.
"Sammy, you awake?"
He could hear Dean shifting his weight on his feet, the floorboards creaking.
He stood there for what seemed to Sam like a long time, and then he turned
away.
Dean went to the bathroom, and when Sam heard the shower turning on he put his
hand in his damp boxers and jerked off quietly and quickly into the tight
circle of his thumb and forefinger, with his eyes carefully trained on the
bathroom door.
He got this feeling, this sense of possibilities, then. Nothing really clear,
just the sense of something. Watching Dean the next day, listening to him hum
under his breath in the passenger seat in front of him. Watching the stretch of
his leg with his foot resting on the dashboard, his fingers tapping out a
rhythm on his knee; feeling like he was seeing someone new.

Marianne

It was October 2005, coming close to a year after Jessica's death, when they
met Marianne at a bar in Wyoming.
They'd finished a salt and burn job earlier in the day. It had been easy
enough; a vengeful, wronged woman, a century old. Standard fare by then,
nothing special about it, except for how Sam could feel case for case how they
were making this thing work, the two of them without their dad. Working better,
he had to admit, than they ever had before.
No-one had died this time, they'd got her before she'd done anyone serious
harm. A young couple had gotten a fright, another woman had got a second degree
burn, and that was good - that was everyone getting out okay.  It was far too
rare, and both of them were high on it, laughing and cracking jokes, wiping
soot and slime onto each other’s clothes while Dean was speeding down back
roads like nothing could kill them.
There was a bar half a mile from the motel they'd picked. Dean's kind of place;
the kind reserved for seedy locals and truck drivers. They got cleaned up, Dean
sang "Ace of Spades" at the top of his lungs in the shower, and Sam shouted ten
variations of "shut up" through the door, to no use. They headed down to the
bar on foot, passing Dean's flask between them. 
Marianne was the bartender, home for fall break and working towards her
tuition. She chatted them up at the end of her shift, approaching Sam first.
Marianne had the attitude of a hunter. She wasn't - not in their sense of the
word, but Sam thought that she could have been. She had that cynically amused
approach to the world that seemed to be a trademark for most hunters.  She held
her liquor well and she saw right through Dean's bullshit about working in
television. She had a loud laugh, throwing her head back and showing teeth.
After her shift had ended she sat down with them for a couple of beers. She
came on to both of them strongly, playing them out against each other a little
bit. 
Sam was already half drunk, and he rose to the bait because she was smart and
beautiful; broad faced, slightly crooked teeth and dark eyes - and because him
and Dean used to compete about stuff all the time: an extra slice of pie from
the waitress, Julie from Marksville where they lived one summer, their dad's
attention - and it came easy, sliding into old habits.
The bar filled up during the night, until there was a constant crowd of people
jostling to get served, and Dean and him took turns going for rounds.
Sam had a sticky credit card belonging to Lev Deppard and a ten dollar bill
Marianne had given him for a round of shots. He had been waiting for fifteen
minutes too get served, watching Dean back at their table. He was leaning
towards Marianne, speaking into her ear. She didn't seem drunk, but her eyes
were shining and her cheeks were flushed. She was smiling and nodding.
He turned his back to them, rolling his eyes. He had just made his way to the
bar and was finally getting served when Dean came up to him and slung an arm
around his neck and drew him in, buddy-like, closer than he would have if he
was sober.
 
"Hey, look Sam, I know you dig her, right? I think you should go for her and
I'll take my hot self somewhere else."
Sam huffed, "Yeah, that's real kind of you, Dean. Did you run your plan by
Marianne, too?"
“Actually, Sammy, I did."
Dean grinned wide and wicked. Sam looked past his smug smile to see Marianne
following their conversation intently. When their eyes met she smirked at him
and raised one eyebrow, a gesture eerily similar to Dean’s.
Sam tried to ignore the blood suddenly rushing to his dick, his pulse speeding
up just at the thought of it.
"Dude, I don't fucking believe you."
"Yeah well, you know, I’m your big brother, gotta look out for you, you haven't
been too smooth with the ladies lately."
Dean gripped the back of his neck, warm hand squeezing, shaking him slightly. 
"So what do you think?"
Sam's first thought, for some reason, was what his college friends would have
thought about a deal like that, a girl like Marianne, or a brother like Dean. 
He was reminded of the face Jess made when she first met Dean, blank faced and
silently disagreeing.
Then he remembered her pale, terrified face looking down at him from above.
He put his beer down and shrugged out of Dean's embrace. His hands suddenly
felt large and numb, he hadn't realized just how drunk he was.
"You know what, I'm going to go."
"Dude, what a kill joy."
Dean said it lightly, but Sam could see real concern in his eyes, hear the
slight disappointment.
"I'll go grab a cup of coffee, do some research, I won't come back to the motel
for a couple of hours."
He went to a nearby all-night diner which he shared with probably the town's
only hooker and a couple of loud, red-faced business men. He drank two cups of
coffee and a glass of ice water but he was still too drunk and too tired to do
research. He ended up looking out the window, seeing nothing but haloed street
lamps and his own reflection in the glass, and thinking about Jess, and Dean
and Marianne. 
He stayed for exactly two and a half hours and then he paid his tab and cast a
sympathetic glance at the prostitute, who was still sitting between the
business men, wearing a professional smile that looked more and more strained.
When he got back to their room Marianne was still there, sleeping with her
naked back towards the door, one tanned arm slung over Dean's chest. It was a
break from the routine of one of their many unspoken agreements, and it stopped
Sam in his tracks, left him standing outside, looking at them in the shaft of
light from the door.
Dean mumbled something and turned to his side, and Sam thought screw it, he was
tired and drunk, and he wanted to sleep. He went to the bathroom to brush his
teeth and wash his face. He left his jeans and shirt in a pile on the floor and
burrowed down into the soft motel duvet.
He was woken sometime in the early morning by a sound or a sense of movement.
He could hear the indistinct murmur of Dean and Marianne whispering together,
the duvet muffling the sound of Marianne's soft laugh. He fell asleep again.
It was still dark outside when he was woken a second time. Marianne was beside
him in his bed, her fingers already on him,  a warm hand resting low on his
stomach, one finger dipping tentatively beneath the elastics of his waistband.
 
"Wha... Marianne."
He tried to sit up, his eyes instantly moving towards Dean's bed, but Marianne
was pressing him softly down into the mattress and muttering reassurances,
 "Ssh, it's okay, I really want this, okay; Dean thinks it's cool, don't
worry," and kissing him with sleep-warm lips.
Her hair fell down on either side of his face when she leaned down to his
mouth. He could feel the press of her teeth against his lips. She smelled warm
and sleepy, like sex and - it had been so long, he had been aching to be
touched, even if this was pretty sleazy.
When Marianne moved to straddle him, he glanced nervously towards Dean's bed.
He was surprised to catch Dean's eyes, wide open and glistening dully with
reflected light.
He let his head fall back, confused and turned on, and Marianne was there
straight away, her tongue in his mouth, her hips rocking gently. His hands
traveled uncertainly up her thighs to rest on her waist. She was naked and
beautiful above him in the half-dark, smiling her crooked smile, and when she
leaned back to edge his boxers down, he followed her to catch her mouth again,
giving in to it.
He ran his hands over her small breasts, her wide nipples, the soft curve of
her hips. Marianne touched herself while she moved on him, gasping into the
silence, and Sam tried hard to turn his mind off, to just go with it.
He deliberately didn't turn his head again, but he could sense Dean not three
feet away, lying perfectly still on the opposite bed; turned towards them,
awake and watching.
When he woke up the next day Marianne was gone. Dean made a couple of awkward
jokes about what had happened, embarrassed but obviously satisfied somehow,
like Sam sleeping with someone was a natural next step in putting his grief
behind him.
Maybe it was. It started something back up again. Sam watching Dean, seeing
someone other than his brother - a kind of awareness of him, that Sam thought
he had left behind for good when he had left to go to college. 
 

Leigh
In the first months after they had buried their Dad, Dean did a lot of
drinking. It was a shitty way of coping, but it sure as hell beat cutting heads
off of vampires.
Sam went along and drank half as much beer as Dean. He stopped some bar fights,
joined in on others. He spent a lot of time waiting around while Dean had sex
with barmaids and waitresses; drunk girls from small towns who were looking for
something to happen on their day off.
He didn't like it. Didn't like working through the grief in that way, paying
with his body, with bruises and hangovers. He protested to begin with, but in
the end he put up with it because he remembered twelve-year-old Dean
meticulously following every instruction their Dad had given him before leaving
for a hunt; Dean's soldier attitude in his adult life, and his unquestioning
loyalty towards their father.
He also remembered drunken messages left on his voicemail the first couple of
weeks after he had left for college.
In April a fluke case brought them to St. Augustine, Florida, to a dirty-hot
bar where they met Leigh.
Leigh was skinny and tiny. She had big eyes and black hair that looked unkempt.
She was also pretty drunk when Dean brought her to their table. Sam
surreptitiously checked her ID from her bag when she and Dean went to the bar
for shots, but she checked out clean - 23 years old - and Sam had fabricated 
enough fake cards to know that this one was real. 
She was a college student, young enough that there was a lot of "Oh my god, I
can't believe you guys are brothers" and “I’m, like, so wasted,” but Sam was
too drunk to care, and Dean never did.
Leigh thought that the Impala sounded "awesome" and said that she'd really like
to see it. She was half leaning against Dean on the bench, but she was looking
straight at Sam while she said it, so he followed them outside to the parking
lot. Dean moved slow and careful like he did when he was really drunk. Leigh
walked along beside him on too high heels, a little unsteady on the gravel.
She wasn't interested in the Impala. Five minutes later she was pressed up
against the back wall of the bar, with Dean leaning into her and nuzzling her
neck while she was kissing Sam.
The air was hot and moist, and the night was loud with the sound of cars and
people shouting. Sam was hot underneath his clothes, restless, aware of the
noise, the heat, and Dean moving next to him.
Leigh was panting into his mouth, turned on and unashamed, writhing against
them. When she turned her head back to kiss Dean her fingers twined around
Sam's wrist, keeping him there, while her other hand was rubbing over Dean's
erection, obvious underneath the thin denim of his jeans.
Sam watched, dazed, as their kissing turned messier and open-mouthed, tiny
strings of saliva stretching out between their lips when one of them broke
away. Leigh let go of Sam's wrist to fumble blindly, catching him by a belt
loop, putting her hand on his ass to bring him in closer.
"Fuck this."
Dean's voice sounded raw as he reached down between their bodies. Sam heard the
snap and clank of Dean undoing his belt and looked down to see Dean fumble
desperately with the button and zipper of his jeans. Leigh was pushing her
skirt up and lifting her foot out of one leg of her lace panties, eagerly, like
this what was she had been expecting all long. Which, maybe, it was.
Dean lifted her up and Sam saw a glimpse of her trimmed pubic hair, a glimpse
of Dean's cock moving in between her thighs before they settled, moving
together beneath the cover of her skirt.
He should have left right then, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He
ended up just standing there, leaning into them dizzily. After a little while,
Leigh turned her head and kissed him sloppily and he took her mouth, feeling
intensely grateful. Dean's breath was wet and hot on one side of his face. He
placed a hand on her, wanting to be part of it.
He leaned in further. He placed his other hand on the small of Dean's back,
feeling him first losing, then recovering the rhythm beneath his hand. His
fingers skittered onto bare skin, and he could feel his brother's thick muscles
working.
Leigh was losing it quickly; one hand slipping beneath her skirt and one hand
clutching Sam's jacket, chanting "This is so hot, this is so hot, this is so
hot," in a soft whine. She was writhing like she was trying to squirm off Dean,
but her legs were twined tightly around his hips. She turned her face upwards,
straining, and Sam kissed the pale spot underneath her chin while he listened
to their noises, loud in the space between their faces.
Leigh came loudly, gasping and shaking. Dean tensed up, squeezed his eyes tight
shut, let Leigh put her legs down so he could rest his arm against the wall and
lean into it. He came holding his breath, while Sam's hand was still splayed
out on his back.
After a few minutes Dean turned his head towards Sam.
"Look,"
Dean didn't finish the sentence. Instead he reached up and squeezed Sam's neck.
The warm touch of his hand was unsettlingly familiar. The contrasting cold
point of his ring raised the small hairs down Sam's spine.
When they got back to the motel Sam went to the bathroom and jerked off,
kneeling on the bathroom tile because he didn't trust himself to stay standing.
When he came back out Dean was asleep, or he was pretending to be. There was a
smear of pink lipstick on his chin.
They didn't talk about it.
 

Andie
A couple of months after they left St. Augustine, a banshee threw Sam out from
a first floor window, and he broke his wrist for the third time in his life. He
didn't even register the fall, only the snap of the weak bone breaking as he
rolled into it, right arm first. He was sitting up and assessing the damage by
the time Dean reached him, and he was already more annoyed than he was really
in pain when Dean drove him to the hospital.
At first he was grateful that Dean didn't throw him the "on your feet soldier"
routine, like he'd sometimes done in the past. He didn't realize that Dean was
freaking out until the nurse was casting his hand, complaining about an old
injury on such a young guy, and he saw that Dean was standing pressed up in a
corner of the room, looking pale and stony.
After he got discharged, Dean got them a room for four days, paying in advance.
He spent the first two days hovering over Sam, standing somewhere close to his
bed every time Sam woke up from his 48-hour catch-up of sleep, until Sam
snapped and made him leave. 
He brought home Andie on the third day.
Sam was in the bathroom unwrapping the cast after a shower when he heard the
door slam shut. He heard the clink of the room keys hitting the bedside table
and had already gone back to peeling tape off his skin when he heard Dean
talking; an indistinguishable rumble on the other side of the door, a female
voice answering.
Sam hurriedly pulled on his boxers and a shirt, expecting a case.
When he opened the door Andie turned around, startled, and pulled from Dean’s
embrace. Her Stop 'n Save uniform was unbuttoned down to the edge of her black
lace bra. Her lips looked bruised from kissing.
“Andie, this is Sam,”
Dean placed his hands on her hips, stepping up behind her. His eyes were
glazed; from beer or pot, Sam couldn’t guess.
“What?”
Her voice was shrill. Sam shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, hating Dean a
little bit. Whatever Dean had drunk or smoked, he’d shared it with her. It took
a long moment for her expression to change from surprise to outrage.
“Wait, no... No, I did not sign up for this!”
She shook out of Dean’s grip, throwing her hands up.
“No way.”
She had her shirt buttoned and was half out the door before Dean was reaching
out for her, “Wait, Andie...”
“Screw you, you perv!”
And she was gone.
“Uh. Awkward.”
Dean scratched his neck, looking at the carpet.
He looked starved and shameful, tired; like a ditched dog. Sam realized that
his brother was being an idiot - that Dean just needed an excuse to put his
hands on him, make sure he was alright.
He stepped into the embrace, ready to be pushed away or laughed at.
It never used to be like this. When they were kids they would be bunched
together in the sofa, drinking stolen beer and watching Baywatch when their Dad
was away. When Sam was a teenager Dean would hold him still when he got angry,
or let Sam sleep propped up against him on the backseat of the Impala.
Sam hadn't consciously considered the how or why or when of him and Dean not
hugging anymore. Of when both of them had taken a big step way the hell back,
keeping body contact to sparring or one of them being hurt; or manly pats on
the shoulder.
He realized why when both of them hesitated in the touch, leaning closer
instead of moving apart, pressing up against each other. Dean was large and
still against him. Nothing had been done yet that couldn't be explained away or
ignored.
Then Sam pressed his face into the spicy scent of pot smoke, the cheap smell of
bar soap, and there was no going back. There was nothing of Andie left there at
all. He hesitated before moving his hand from Dean’s shoulder into the short
hair at the nape of his neck, touching the tendons standing out below the edge
of his skull.
Dean tensed up against him. He was mouthing words against Sam's neck. His hand
was wrapped around the cast on Sam's wrist, two of his fingers slipping under
the edge of it, scraping against the over-sensitive skin beneath. Someone in
the room next door turned off a radio or a TV, and in the silence Sam could
hear how his breathing had quickened.
Dean’s jacket was cold, raising goose bumps on Sam’s shower-damp skin. He slid
it down over Dean’s shoulders, caught it falling and placed it on the bed
beside them. Dean lifted his arms when Sam pulled up his t-shirt, and twisted
his shoulders out of it, putting it next to the coat.
When Sam reached to unbutton the fly of Dean's pants he could feel Dean's hips
jerk back, like a reflex. He moved his hand to Dean's shoulder, to calm him or
to hold him fast, he didn't know which.
”Is this okay?"
"Dude!"
Dean breathed it out, low and exasperated - and, yeah, Sam got his point: there
wasn't a chance in hell that this could be ok. But there was a difference
between wanting this and doing this, and Sam knew that his brother would do
anything for him, no matter what Dean wanted for himself. He had known that
since the days Dean would sit outside with him for hours in the freezing cold,
just so Sam could avoid being in a motel room with their Dad.
They stood there, frozen, and in the end it was Dean who finally leaned into
the kiss. His lips were soft and warm and hesitant,  his cool, dry fingers
reached under Sam's t-shirt to the mesh of hot bruises down his left side.
Sam knew Dean to be loud, sweet-talking and self-assured, when he was flirting.
The silence now felt weird, too intense. Every sound seemed loud and obscene in
the dead quiet.
Dean's kisses turned rough and slick, he was licking into Sam's mouth, nibbling
at his jaw. He moved restlessly, big firm hands groping Sam, thumbing his
nipples. Sam was sober and a little numb with controlled freak-out. It took him
a couple of minutes to wake up to it, to taste the tobacco and burn of Mexican
food on Dean's tongue, to feel each of Dean's fingertips pressing into his
muscles, the dry touch of Dean's nipples through the fabric of his t-shirt.
To feel the hot pulse of adrenaline and want coursing through his body.
He had wanted Dean for so long. It was an ache he had learned to live with,
pushed down to the barely acknowledged, alongside the fact that his love for
his brother had broken the confinements of fraternity a long time ago, seeping
out in all directions.
He hoped that their parents weren't someplace where they could see them like
this, pushed to a point where it almost seemed like a sane thing to do; all of
the arguments against it watered out, except wrong, wrong, wrong, flashing like
a faint alarm light at the back of his mind, too easy to ignore. 
Sam broke away to shrug off his shirt, then leaned back in to place a hand over
Dean's erection, rubbing slightly across denim and buttons before sliding his
hand down the front of his jeans until he had the slick head of Dean's cock
sliding over the base of his palm.
His stomach lurched at the touch, churning with want and fear.
Dean fell forward into an uncoordinated kiss, mouth open and breathing harshly.
His hands came up to each side of Sam's head, fisting in his hair. Sam had
never seen him so out of it. It made his own cock twinge, hard and low, his
pulse beating heavily through his legs, his stomach, and his hand moving on his
brother's cock.
He jerked Dean off still standing. His brother started and shivered against
him, gasping, choking down sounds to maintain the silence. Sam wrapped his
other arm around his back to support him as he came. 
"Fuck."
Dean's head was against his collarbone, one hand in his hair, one clinging to
his shoulder. Sam slid his hand out of Dean's pants to cup himself, close to
coming just from seeing Dean like that, knowing that he had brought him there.
He nearly did come at the first touch of Dean's hand, brushing his own away to
grip him with uncertainty, fingers feeling out the size and shape of him before
pulling away again.
"Lie down."
Dean's voice sounded rough and alien, and Sam was on the bed before his brain
had even processed what he had said, sprawling ungracefully with his feet on
the carpet, his arms over his head.
Lying there, he suddenly felt self-conscious. His dick was tenting out his
boxers and Dean was standing over him. Dean still had his jeans on, with only
the two top buttons undone. He was looking down on Sam with eyes that were dark
and unreadable, almost demon-like.
Then he went down on his knees on the carpet between Sam's legs.
"Sam."
Sam couldn't speak, his throat was thick with tense emotion.
Dean ran his hand from the base of Sam's throat to his stomach, a quick awkward
caress, before pulling down his boxers. Sam looked down his own body, past his
straining, aching cock, to Dean watching his body like it scared him a little.
Then Dean caught his eyes and licked his palm before reaching out again, and
Sam had to close his eyes. 
It didn't take much, a couple of rough tugs, the slick of precome and spit only
just enough to push it to the right side of painful, and Sam was coming harder
than he ever had in his life, groaning and bucking up against the press of
Dean's arms on his thighs as he gentled him through it. 
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was on the bed next to him, staring up at
the ceiling.
"If we're doing this again, we're getting naked."
Dean's voice was all false bravado, but Sam laughed loud and surprised, anyway.
Maybe there was a tinge of hysteria to it, but he was so goddamn grateful to
Dean for breaking the tension, it felt like that alarm light was finally
flashing off.
Dean turned his head to look at him, one corner of his mouth turned up, but
when Sam's laugh died out his expression changed, turning pinched and serious.
"Sammy, I don't... I didn't want to fuck you up."
Sam didn't even know how to begin to respond to that. He turned his head away.
The ceiling had a long crack that started in one corner and spread out like a
spider web above them.
"Look, Dean, I've been fucked up for a long time. I think I've been fucked up
ever since Clarissa." he said finally, honestly.
"What, who's Clarissa?"
Dean was half smiling, not getting it, but he was reaching out for Sam,
relaxing. Sam rolled into the touch.
"Never mind, it's not important."
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