Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/735742.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Weecest, Pre_Stanford, Preseries, Season_1, Rough_Sex, First
      Time, Incest, Child_Abuse, Guilty_Dean, Shame, dub_con, Mental_Illness,
      Abuse, Trauma, Disassociation, CSA
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-25 Words: 13298
****** Hands Away ******
by objectlesson
Summary
     When you’re horny and alone with one person in one room for a long
     time and you’re sixteen and all you’ve ever been taught is to love
     your brother more than anything, it doesn’t seem like that far of a
     leap to start imagining what his mouth would feel like around your
     dick.
Notes
     Wow! This is definitely the longest wincest I've ever written. It
     jumps between weecest (Sam is thirteen Dean is sixteen...yeah, I
     know) and season 1. It's full of gratuitous porn. I started it
     because I think anal fingering is one of the hottest and more
     underrated things ever in fan fiction, and finished it because I
     couldn't just leave this sex alone, Dean is too sad and guilty for
     just sex with Sam. I wouldn't say there's a dub con warning on this,
     but kid-consent is something that should always be questioned, so it
     is questionable here. Just fyi. I don't own them, just love them.
     Warning: I wrote this a long time ago and am going back to make notes
     on my wincest fic to clarity that all this is fictional obviously,
     and I don't think ANYTHING about their relationship is well
     negotiated, normal, fully consensual, or healthy. It should not be
     romanticized or glamorized. It's INCEST after all. This is FICTION.
     Just a side note, the title was stolen from an Interpol song of the
     same name. Very wince sty song, in my opinion.
Sam is fucked up, and it’s Dean’s fault.
There are things Dean knows, knows them because he feels them in his gut,
twisting like a bowie knife, snagging intestines along the way with the pure,
acidic pain of knowing. He knows it the way he knows a house is haunted just by
walking into it and feeling with his skin, the way he knows the sound of his
favorite gun cocking, the way he knows he’s not actually a good guy, an
honorable guy, a hero, that’s just the lie he tells himself because it’s the
same lie their Dad told himself, the lie he passed onto his sons.
All of that Dean knows. He knows that Sam might have had a crack at normal, not
at normal normal but at something different than this had it not been for Dean.
But Sam is fucked up, and it’s Dean’s fault.
Dean can’t look for their dad alone. He needs the anchor of Sam even if Sam is
madness, even if Sam makes him crazy. It’s a different kind of crazy than
alone-crazy. And that’s the kind Dean can’t deal with right now.
The not-alone-crazy crawls on Dean’s skin like a memory, makes him plaster the
air with jokes and taunting and all the stuff that exists naturally between
brothers. He thinks this is easier that existing together the way they used to,
when they were kids, teenagers, before Sam cracked under John Winchester’s iron
fist and probably, Dean’s rough palms, his salty eyes. Dean knows they’re not
regular brothers. Even without the stuff that kills him, eats him up inside,
even with that stripped off and to the bone they’re still not regular.
Dean knows there are words for it. Codependent is one he’s heard before. But
hell, he’d rather be codependent that alone right now, with John god-knows-
where and his whole life unanchored, consumed by nursery fires, sulfur,
loneliness. Longing for Sam. He could stomach longing for Sam when he was
working with his Dad, but now that he’s gone too, the longing swallows him,
corrodes away the flesh till there’s nothing but bone and want. So yeah, call
it codependency, whatever. Dean knows. It’s not a fuckin’ newsflash of
anything.
It feels like being a kid again, being on the road with his little brother. The
same shit, different year. Sam bunched up and pissed off and sulky in the
passenger side instead of the back seat. Dean stealing croutons off of Sam’s
salad instead of fries off his plate because somewhere between here and
Stanford, Sam started eating healthy, who’d have thought. Sharing king size
motel beds when the credit cards start to run dry, itching out of his skin and
aware of every place their skin brushes, wondering what the hell this means now
instead of knowing what it meant, then. Wondering if Sam remembers. Wondering
if this is why he ran off to California, or if he’s giving himself too much
credit.
Sam’s broken over a million other things right now, too. Dean keeps a fist
between his own teeth every time he thinks maybe they should bring up the shit
they used to do. It’s stingng on his lips sometimes, burning in his gut like
whiskey on an empty stomach, that feeling he gets when his eyes rove over Sam
and he thinks of all the things he did to his baby brother when he was old
enough to know he shouldn’t have. And he wants to know, do you remember? Do you
hate me? Is that why you ran, was it dad and the life and maybe me, too?
He never asks, though. Most of the time he wants to forget the whole thing ever
happened, cut the bad part out of him like slicing mold off of wonder bread.
He’s sick of the way his intestines twist up in a mess of shame and disgust,
arousal and other unnamable things, so he thinks it’s best to just force it out
of his consciousness. Keep his hands vice-tight on the wheel, girls in his
mouth, on his mind, Sam an arm’s length away.
They drive from state to state, putting miles and burnt rubber between them, a
rain of rock salt and bullets and Sam loosens up a little. Stops glaring at
Dean like he’s the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to him, stops
spending hours each night emailing all his college friends. Starts returning
the jokes, stops bristling every time Dean calls him Sammy. And that’s the
thing about codependency. It’s not a one-way street. Sam’s haunted by the same
shit, Sam needs Dean in the same way, with the same ferocity and the same
insanity-sanity. It makes Dean feel safe, even though he knows it’s fucked up,
to be needed by Sam as much as he needs him.
There are boundaries, though, there have to be. There weren’t when they were
kids and that ended in Dean alone, Sam at Stanford. Dean’s not gonna cross
those lines again. Because he knows he fucked up Sam and the guilt from that
makes him sick, sure, but also because he knows he can’t be alone again. He
can’t shove Sam out the door like before. He needs him. An arms length away, in
a separate bed, but here. Close enough Dean can watch him from the corner of
his eyes, and try and remember what it was like to love him only as a brother.
Dean can’t take back the shit he did when he was fifteen. All he can do is
become a new brother, the kind he was supposed to be, and admit his fault in
fucking up Sam. Still, he feels eyes from the passenger side boring into him
between the flat, identical midwestern states. He feels eyes in his back when
they wake up pressed together, sleep-hot and groggy in the same bed, and Sam
has to roll out and shower. He feels eyes, all the time, Sam’s eyes half-
pleading, half-damning. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with them, so
he stays silent, half-pleading, half-damning.
Sorry, sorry, so sorry Sammy, he prays, jaw set and teeth grinding, Sam’s glare
so solid and heavy on Dean it breaks bones into a shape he remembers from being
sixteen.
~*~
 
Dean wouldn’t have started doing it if Sam hadn’t broken every goddamn bone in
his body. It was Sam’s fault. Everything was the little brother’s fault. That
was the deal you got when you were a little brother.
Not that it was every bone. Namely, it was his left arm, which was in a sling.
He hadn’t broken his ankle, just rolled it so bad it (apparently) hurt to walk
on. It was one of the first hunts they’d ever taken Sam on, some fish in a
barrel salt and burn vengeful spirit case that shouldn’t have ended with anyone
hurt. Their dad thought Sam could handle it, but no. Two seconds into the
showdown at this abandoned barn outside of Athens, the fucker threw Sam’s not
fragile but not invincible thirteen-year-old body into a rototiller, and a
hospital visit plus some expensive ass painkillers later, Sam became the couch-
ridden bitch he was today. The one who started everything.
Their dad had been gone for weeks. A werewolf in Savannah, one that was killing
pubescent boys so he might not have taken them along even if Sam had been
walking. Regardless, it was much easier for Dean to pin his stir-crazy rage on
his brother, immobile and sulky and in charge of the remote control as he laid
on the couch 24/7 like a paraplegic, while Dean made dinner and did laundry
like a 50s housewife.
It wasn’t just Dean. Sam thought the whole thing was his fault, too, which was
part of why he was being such a royal pain in the ass. They’d had the no,
you’re not a terrible hunter, that was just a fluke now get over it you
freakin’ baby conversation at lease seven times, in seven different volumes and
tones. They always ended with Sam’s gruff, pathetic, and unconvinced yeah,
okay, whatever, while he stared anywhere but Dean’s face with his arms crossed,
all wistful and self-pitying in this way that made Dean want to give him
something to really cry about.
For weeks Dean had to deal with this bullshit. Plus, it wasn’t like he could
just leave. He was sixteen almost seventeen and had no car, and if their dad
ever found out he ditched Sam while he was wounded and pouty and self-
destructive just to find some stupid Georgia girl to fuck in bathroom of a Taco
Bell, he would have scars to show for it later. It also wasn’t like he could
jack off as frequently as he liked to in a motel room with a bathroom door that
didn’t lock and a busted shower with no warm water and his baby brother in the
other room.
He’d done it a few times, right on the bed where Sam could see from the couch.
Seriously? Sam had said, making that disgusted, offended face that thirteen
year olds make. Dean had stuck his tongue out and said, fuck you. Then he’d
wiped his come on Sam’s sling, just to piss him off. He thought it worked,
after all Sam’s face had gotten hot and red and his jaw twitched and set tight
like he was biting something. Much later, Dean would wonder if that had just
been anger in Sam’s teeth, or something else.
So Dean wouldn’t have started doing it, never would have even come close, had
Sam not been a prissy bitch that kept him from finding more appropriate things
to fuck.
But Sam was a prissy bitch, and there was nothing else. Nothing but his brother
shirtless and narrow and pretty in that prepubescent way, where haircuts and
clothes are the only way you could tell if a kid was a boy or a girl. And Sam
had always been pretty, he’d always had wide dark eyes and a brilliant smile
and a mouth that parted when he was focused on something, a model airplane or a
shotgun target or Dean’s neck when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. Sam was
always the staring type of kid. Dean never thought it meant much.
When you’re horny alone with one person in one room for a long time and you’re
sixteen and all you’ve ever been taught is to love your brother more than
anything, it doesn’t seem like that far of a leap to start imagining what his
mouth would feel like around your dick. That was as far as Dean allowed it to
go, though. Just Sam between his knees blowing him, and maybe Sam’s perfect,
smooth, round ass slicked up with some lotion while Dean ground himself to
orgasm between those pert cheeks. Asses and mouths were impersonal enough, they
belonged to girls and guys and little brothers, and Dean only felt 75 percent
filthy fantasizing about those parts of Sam.
Still, 75 percent was more than half. It fucked Dean up. Pissed him off and
made him just as surly and petty as Sam with his hundred broken bones. He
thought it was pretty damn unfair that every single thing about this mess was
Sam’s fault, but when it came down to the actual issue at hand, he’d be the one
who crossed that line and fucked his brother. He’d look like the pervert, the
pedophile, whatever it looked like when you did shit like that.
But there was Sam. Sitting in that couch with that dark, dismayed expression on
his face while he picked fraying threads from his stained sling, Saturday
morning cartoons he’d grown out of making explosive sounds on the TV. Dean
couldn’t take it anymore, not with his dick still stiff from just waking up and
a rivulet of sweat running down his little brother’s left clavicle.
“Will you change this shit?” Dean said, thumping down hard on the couch next to
Sam, so hard the cushions bounced and incidentally, so did Sam’s busted arm.
“Ouch! Quit it man.” Sam didn’t even look at him, just waved his good arm
lazily in Dean’s direction like he was small and annoying, a gnat or a fly. It
infuriated Dean, because who the fuck had been feeding him these last two
weeks, feeding him and sponge bathing his narrow ribcage where there were still
bruises faded to brown-purple; who’d been talking him through his existential
crisis every goddamn night even though it wasn’t a stupid crisis in the first
place?
Dean smacked Sam’s sling, not too hard, but hard enough Sam looked up with an
incredulous, scandalized expression slapped across his face like red paint.
“You are so in trouble. When Dad comes back I am telling him that you--”
“Oh come on, Sammy. Like Dad cares. You’re the one who got yourself thrown into
a rototiller,” Dean snapped, pressing his body closer because Sam doesn’t want
him there, and he wants Sam to react. Positively, negatively, he didn’t care.
Sam’s mouth hung open, his eyes narrowed to slits of darkness, as he very, very
carefully enunciated, “Fuck. Off.” Dean couldn’t help it, his eyes flew to
those red, parted lips forming around those dirty words he’d never heard Sam
say before and the spit-shiny pink tongue resting behind them, and he decided
that he didn’t give a shit about whose fault it was. The world seemed far away
and Sam seemed close, right there on the couch, sweaty and young and edible. So
Dean went for him, throwing himself onto his little brother’s body and
wrestling him backwards.
“You don’t tell your big brother to fuck off” he snarled, already impossibly
hard and tenting his boxers in this way he knew must me showing, must be close
to smearing a stain across the inside of them. He thumped Sam back into the
cushions with a dull whup, wedging him between the backboard and his body,
pinning his skinny biceps into the fabric behind him. Sam’s face screwed up,
eyes shutting tight and tongue pushing out of his pursed lips. It drove Dean
crazy, beyond himself, so he yelped, “Look at me! Look at me, Sammy,” and then
something changed in his voice, the hoarseness of it rusty and dry. Sam’s eyes
flew open at the change, a terrified darkness clouding them, unspoken questions
lining his young, round face.
Dean dug his fingers into Sam, driving his legs apart with a thigh just to get
his body open and pinned underneath him. He swallowed thickly, holding Sam down
with every ounce of control he had left. “I dare you to say it again, you
little shit. Tell me to fuck off.”
Sam whimpered, but it was a defiant whimper. Dean thwacked Sam’s broken arm
with his own elbow, twisted Sam’s other arm at the elbow, and Sam cried out
with fire in his eyes. “Fuck off!” He yelled again, a feral, raw note in his
voice going straight to Dean’s dick.
“Damn, you are going to get it,” Dean mumbled thickly, meaning all sorts of
things he wasn’t even sure he knew he meant yet. He flipped Sam over easily,
pressing his hips into his little brother’s ass and rubbing pointedly. “You see
what you do to me? Do you even know what this is?” he babbled stupidly,
grinding his words out from between his teeth.
“What are you doing?” Sam said, then he shut up and whimpered again because
Dean bucked his hips hard, without question. Dean wasn’t sure if this was a
scared whimper or not, and that uncertainty just made him rut his hips harder.
Never, never in a million years would Dean do this to a girl. If there was any
indication what so ever that she didn’t want it, Dean would back the fuck off
with his tail between his legs. He’d probably apologize with flowers for even
thinking it. But with Sam it was different. Sam was his little brother, Sam was
his. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted to him, it was his job. Plus, they
fought and wrestled like this all the time, minus the erection. Dean felt
entitled to his little brother’s ass, it felt right.
He knocked Sam’s legs apart with his knee, then risked freeing one hand to yank
Sam’s boxers down over his pale, round ass. “Oh God,” Dean moaned, rubbing his
palm across it, marveling at the size and darkness of his hand in comparison to
the flesh beneath it. “You look so good, Sammy.”
A broken sound came out of Sam. Then, Dean realized with a sick wave of awe in
his gut that Sam wasn’t struggling anymore. He was just lying there, head
turned to the side and eyes closed, half-moon shape of his lashes a line of
dark against his cheek.
And then, Dean saw his hips. Just a subtle motion, something so minimal he
might not have even realized it was happening were it not for the hand, hot and
sure and commanding, he had splayed against his little brother’s skin.
Sam was pumping his hips into the couch underneath him, a tiny, tiny rhythmic
thrust. Dean’s fingers tightened into a fist beyond his control, taking a
handful of Sam’s muscle with them. “Are you liking this?” he spat out, this
thumb digging into the crack of Sam’s ass, where his skin was warm and damp
with sweat. Sam just screwed his eyes tighter shut, like this wasn’t happening,
like it wasn’t his fault.
But it was. Dean could not even believe the heat in his stomach, the terrible,
uncoordinated, unfurling hunger exploding inside of him with animal force. He
grunted, pulled his boxers down so his hard, leaking dick could align with the
crease of Sam’s ass. And unbelievably, Sam rocked up into it, arching the
narrow wedge of his back so deeply Dean could see the flesh of his back ripple
over his rib bones. “Fuck,” he choked out, latching his teeth into the salty,
sweaty skin on the back of Sam’s neck. “You do like this,” he mumbled. “You
want this.”
Sam was shaking underneath him, his body so small that it shuddered with his
heartbeat. The skin of his ass was baby-soft and warm, so easy to thrust
against that Dean had to pinch the base of his own dick with a thumb and
forefinger to keep from coming right there. His mind raced across a million
filthy, infernal things he wanted to try, he thought he could get away with.
Now that he knew Sam wanted it, was getting off on it too, he wondered how far
he could push, how much he could slow it down.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he found himself saying, lips whispering through the dirty
hair curling in the humidity against Sam’s neck, his ear. He smelled dirty and
taffy-sweetsticky like a kid, and Dean wasn’t sure what it said about him that
it was making his dick throb and twitch. Sam pushed himself into Dean’s hard-on
and let out a small, breathy noise as Dean collected himself, tried to slow his
heart while he spat a thick mouthful of saliva into his palm, slicking it up
his fingers.
“You love this,” he marveled as he spread his own spit across Sam’s tight,
spasming asshole. “You fuckin’ love it.”
His fingertip pushed in experimentally and went past the ring of muscle
surprisingly easily, sliding into an unbelievable silken heat that made Dean’s
dick leak another bead of precum against the naked back of Sam’s thigh. “Who
taught you that?” He breathed, thinking that no one’s asshole just opens up
like that the first time.
“No one taught me,” Sam answered hoarsely, the sound of his voice surprising
Dean because he hadn’t expected him to actually answer.
“You touch yourself here?” Dean asked, crooking his finger, mouth dry at the
heat, the pressure. Sam must be a million degrees in there. “You finger your
ass when you jack off?”
Sam shook his head no, rocked his hips into it.
“God,” Dean moaned, struck by the perfect willingness of Sam’s body to admit an
intrusion, something so dirty and unnatural. And Sam hadn’t even tried it
before, he didn’t get his fingers soapy and slide them up into himself in the
shower the way Dean had tried a few times, just to see what it felt like. “Then
this is all mine. Just for me,” Dean barked low in his throat, punctuating his
last three words with little crooks of his finger.
He didn’t think Sam would get any tighter but he did, his insides like a vice
grip of liquid fire. “Fuck. Fuck Sammy you feel so fuckin’ good right here.”
Dean forced his finger deeper, loving the way Sam’s walls contracted around
him, pulled him in with a determined suction. Dean had always loved anal porn,
loved the way those teen stars with the round, pink asses bent in half and took
dick like it was easy, like it felt good. He never thought it actually felt
good, he always assumed they were acting and he’d never get a real live girl to
try that with him. But here Sam was, rubbing his dick against the couch while
Dean fingered his ass, and he liked it. He loved it, he could tell by the
blissed out expression on his face, the way the muscles in his boy-thighs were
quivering and gathering involuntary. He could tell because Sam was practically
drooling, his mouth open and his legs spread apart and his hips meeting Dean’s
thrusts halfway.
Dean leaned down, spit onto Sam’s ass again and slicked his ring finger into
it, pushing it in alongside the first. Sam lurched with a sharp intake of
breath, grit his teeth together. “Too much? Does it hurt?” Dean asked, twisting
his fingers towards him to feel more of Sam, to feel him 180 degrees inside.
“No,” Sam answered thickly, wetly. “I mean, it does hurt. But it’s not too
much. Please don’t stop.”
“ It feels good?”
“Yeah.” Sam sighed, then, for no reason at all aside from involuntary
manslaughter, perhaps, he said, “Dean.”
“Fuck,” Dean swore, pushing his fingers all the way into his little brother, so
his knuckles were against Sam’s tight, smooth sac. “Say my name again.”
“Dean,” Sam said easily, in the same voice he always said Dean,Dean can you
pour me another bowl of cereal, Dean can you scoot over, Dean can you stay up
with me tonight, Dean I had a nightmare, Dean let me show you something, Dean,
is this my fault? Dean groaned into Sam’s shirt, inhaling the familiar smell of
his brother, letting it twist his stomach in ten different directions. And he
realized that he wasn’t doing this because there was no one else to fuck, and
he wasn’t pretending Sam was a girl, and that his ass was just some ass to come
inside of. He was doing this not only with the full knowledge that it was Sam
underneath him, but with the full knowledge that because it was Sam, it was
that much better. Dean could never remember being harder, he could never
remember wanting to draw sex out as long as possible just so he could feel up
inside of someone, feel everything that made them clench, jerk, moan, whimper.
“Say it again,” he hissed, clambering gracelessly to his knees so he was
crouched over Sam’s prostrate body, dick hard and in front of him, over Sam’s
back. He eased his free hand underneath Sam’s belly, where the muscles were hot
as metal in the sun, jumping with each twist and thrust of his fingers.
“Dean, please. Please.” Sam pushed his face into the cushions and mumbled,
impaling himself onto Dean’s fingers.
Dean almost lost it, fitting his front to Sam’s back and thrusting against
whatever was in front of him, holding Sam’s body in place while he withdrew his
fingers almost all of the way, before fucking them back up into Sam with all
the strength in his shuddering, wanting arm.
“Ah!” Sam yelped, making fists in the couch.
“That good, baby? Fuck you feel so good, you’re so fucking tight,” Dean
whispered, lips in his brother’s hair. He’d called girls baby sometimes,
because they liked it, and he’d maybe thrown around the adjective tight without
really knowing what it meant, without anything to hold it against, just his own
porn-education. But right now, right fucking now he meant every word. Sam was
so young and so his, made for him and made by him, and he was so fucking tight
it almost hurt Dean, made him wonder how on earth he could ever made his dick
fit in this impossible, burning body.
He finger-fucked him hard, steady jerks of his forearm filling Sam and emptying
him out again, making his body rock rhythmically between the couch and Dean’s
chest, Dean’s stomach, Dean’s achingly hard dick. Even though it would be too
tight, Dean pretended that he was fucking Sam, that he was deep inside of his
little brother and so close to coming he felt his balls tightening up like
fists.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam said with each thrust, mindless and quick until it
became wordless, just a hectic, longing series of noises until there, there it
was, and Sam was holding him in with his ass, clenching tight and tighter still
until he was spasming erratically like a dying heartbeat around Dean’s fingers
and it was the hottest thing he had ever felt.
“Fuck, fuck Sammy, just like that, just like that,” Dean groaned, lost in the
messy bucking of his brother’s hips, the friction of his too-smooth skin
against his dick that was perfect, not enough to bring him off but enough to
drive him crazy. He knew Sam was having one of this thirteen year old dry
orgasms against the couch, his little dick twitching and leaking but not
actually shooting, and Dean couldn’t help it, he thought about what it would
feel like to hold Sam’s hips in place while he sucked him, and if he could make
him actually come, come wet and sloppy and salty into his mouth.
Sam collapsed under him and Dean pulled his fingers, puckered with moisture
like he’d been swimming in a lake for too long, out of him with a messy sound.
There were traces of shit on his fingers, just around the nailbed, but he
didn’t give a fuck because he still had a hard-on and there was a perfect,
well-fucked ass in front of him, all spread out and flushed and damp with his
own spit.
He aligned his dick with Sam’s crack and fucked him there, tip nudging just up
against the loosened hole in his maddening way. “God Sammy, push against me
baby. Push against me right there.” And Sam did, he arched his back like a cat
and worst of all, looked over his shoulder with crazy spots of red on his
little kid cheeks, his hair a mess and those eyes soot-black and lips apart and
Dean lost it, coming hard in huge, lurching snaps of his hips, painting Sam’s
bony back in wet, sticky heat.
“Fuck, fuck, Sammy you feel so good,” Dean mumbled, holding onto his brother
and wanting to break him in half, shatter the rest of his bones and then put
him back together again. Overcome with a boneless weak feeling, Dean crumpled
onto Sam’s back, chest heaving with labored breath. “Fuck,” he sighed.
“Ouch. You’re crushing me,” Sam said quietly, stirring underneath Dean.
Reluctantly, Dean rolled off, shoving Sam as far into the crack between the
cushions and the couch frame so there was still room for him beside his
brother’s body.
“How’s your arm?” Dean asked breathlessly, remembering all the blows he dealt
to that fragile, healing limb in the sling. Sam shrugged as much as he could,
given that he was trapped in the couch and by Dean. “It’s fine. You hit it
twice, though.”
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Dean said softly, more softly than he intended to. He
suddenly felt like molasses, sticky and dark and sweet and slow moving. He felt
like he wanted to stay on this couch with his little brother, next to his warm
body until it was time for dinner, and even then he’d spend the last seven
thirty five on fast food instead of being stingy and pouring Sam the cereal
dregs from the last cornflake box. “Here,” he offered, the fury of having to
stay with Sam and watch him and wait for their dad lost somewhere between their
bodies. He pulled Sam’s arm out of the sling, carefully, and pressed a rough
kiss to his forearm. “See?”
Sam didn’t see anything, because his eyes fluttered closed at the feel of
Dean’s lips, and he whimpered again.
~*~
Dean’s drunk and he shouldn’t be, not with the way they are right now, the
stretched out beach of unsaid things between him and Sam. Not with the way Sam
looks at him, the pursed mouth and angry eyes, face tight around something Dean
doesn’t have a name for. He rubs his palms all over his neck, the prickly-hot
feeling there that means Sam’s looking at him.
He’s leaning against the bar, a blonde on his left and a brunette on his right.
Their names can’t be Thelma and Louise. That would be fucking ridiculous. But
he knows one is Louise, so he can only remember the other as Thelma because
that name just automatically gets tacked on to the end of Louise. He keeps
turning between them too fast and the room spins, the dive-bar neon signs and
the haze of beer and smoke and cheap perfume. Sam’s at a table with his laptop
and some folders full of crime scene photos they stole from the sheriff's
office that afternoon. Everything is too swirled and messy for Dean to make
Sam’s pinched, pissed off face as a single thing, but he knows instinctually
where he is. He knows with his whole body.
Dean’s head pounds around lights and the sour smell of dirty boots on a beer-
slick floor. His smile goes miles with girls, but even Thelma and Louise aren’t
buying it tonight. He’s sloppy and he keeps looking at his brother. He’s bent
double and the bartender says that’s enough. Some time goes by, ricochets past
Dean in a blur and then he’s out in the parking lot, breath coming out in steam
clouds and Sam’s hands fisted in the front of his jacket, holding him up.
“Get your shit together, man,” Sam says, kinda choked.
Dean puts his hand on Sam’s face, half-balance half-want. Sam winces away like
it hurts, his eyes flickering with something dark and infernal. Dean stumbles,
and then it’s flooding out of him. “Sorry, M’sosorry,” he mumbles, with his
words, but his body is doing something different. His flesh knocks into Sam’s;
he bangs against his brother until their brows are touching and the Impala
bites into Dean’s back, Sam towering over him.
“Sorry. Shouldn’t’ve. Was a big mistake, Sammy,” he says, thumb still scraping
across Sam’s jaw. And his brother’s gaze is the same shade as the night,
swallowing blackness with stars spit out like broken glass. Dean’s throat
clicks and he gulps down dirty air, he could be talking about today, right now,
or he could be talking about all those years ago, he could be talking to a
thirteen year old Sam. “M’sorry,” he says again, almost pitching to the floor.
Then Sam does the damndest thing, and Dean can’t see his eyes anymore because
they’re closed and his brother is kissing him. He’s so drunk he cant stop it
for a few heartbeats. The blood rages through his body, fills him up, makes him
feel weak and crazy and sixteen again, hands clenching along Sam’s arms,
tightening, loosening, tightening again because he’s so drunk all he can do is
move his hands.
Then he remembers, you did this to him. fucked him up, made him run, you did
it. Your fault.
Dean wrenches away, his spine grinding into the car like bones on bones.
“Fuck,” he sputters, panic eating up his words because he wasn’t gonna do
this,he wasn’t supposed to do this it was the one thing he wasn’t supposed to
do. He realizes his hands are still on Sam’s arms and so he lets go fast like
he’s burnt. He would throw Sam off if he weren’t so heavy, bearing down on him
with too much weight, his thumbs in Dean’s throat.
“Get off,” Dean says, eyes anywhere but his brother who won’t leave. The
parking lot is cracked, weeds pushing up desperately through cement, and he
thinks, absurdly, that he knows how that pavement feels.
Sam slams him against the car and says “No” like the word is made from metal.
“Sammy,” Dean grinds out, mind spewing a million things to say, you gotta, for
your own sake, I’m fucked, want you, can’t want you, “Shouldn’t,” is what he
does say.
Sam kisses him hard again, bites and bites until it hurts so bad Dean has no
choice but to relent, tilt his head back under the pressure of Sam’s tongue. He
doesn’t taste as innocent as he did when he was thirteen, when Dean leapt over
all those lines you draw between brothers, but he still tastes perfect, right.
Dean’s fingers pull handfuls of Sam’s hair like he’s thought about it for five
years and it’s because he has, he has, even though he can’t, shouldn’t.
Then Sam is the one pulling away, dragging his mouth from between Dean’s teeth
to map clumsily down Dean’s throat. “Shut up,” he says to his pulse. “Just shut
the fuck up Dean. You are so full of shit.”
“I’m full of shit?!” Dean breathes,explosive in the constraints of too-tight
skin as he cants desperately into Sam’s body, even though every thought is
screaming No, can’t, you’ll fuck it all up more, can’t can’t cant.“You’re
kissing me.”
“I can’t even believe you,” Sam spits out, backing Dean into the car again,
mouth centimeters away from his brother’s and Dean tries not to stare at the
peak of his upper lip but every thing Dean’s trying to do is failing right now.
“I cannot fucking believe you’re doing this to me.”
“Doing what?” Dean wheezes, tries to twist away, stumbling and still-drunk.
“You’re doing this, Sam, you’re the one whose freaking kissing me, don’t--”
“Don’t what?” Sam says, voice low and dangerous and Dean shuts up because this
is what he’s been afraid of. “Fucking what, Dean. You did this to me. All of
this...all of it is because you. You were the one who started that shit, when
we were kids. You were irresponsible. You fucked with my head,” Sam fires out,
punctuating each sentence with a tightening of his grip, a thud of Dean’s dead
weight against the Impala. Dean shakes under his brother’s hands, shuts his
eyes against the night and all the shame the night is raining down on him.
“I’m sorry,” is all Dean can say, over and over again, a cassette rewinding,
words drunk and slurring together like crayons in the sun. Sam’s face flickers
between emotions, darkens and Dean’s stomach churns sorrow and whiskey.
“If you’re sorry, you won’t fucking pretend like this didn’t happen, Dean.
You’ll own up to your bullshit.”
“Said I’m sorry,” Dean says, again. Again and again. He doesn’t know what Sam
wants. Bile scorches his throat, under the taste of Sam and Sam’s spit. His gut
is twisting, and suddenly he’s shoving Sam off him for real now, puking a
night’s worth of liquor and dinner onto the plants forcing themselves up
through concrete. Sam stands watching them, silenced. They both shake.
~*~
Dean woke up flat on his back, the mattress bowing under some foreign weight.
He reached out clumsily, feeling for anything solid until his hand came into
contact with bone. The curve of Sam’s knee, to be exact, hard and rounded in
its familiarity. “What time is it?” he mumbled.
“Ten thirty,” Sam said, anxiously scooting forward, until that knee was pressed
into Dean’s still sleep-tingly thigh. “Time to get up.”
“Says who?” Dean bitched, rolling over and away from Sam. “Dad’s not here, I
don’t have to get up ever if I don’t want to.”
“But you want to,” Sam reminded him, and it was true. An electric feeling
spread up Dean’s spine until it ended in a lightheadedness, a dryness in his
mouth. He wanted to get up because the last three days had been fucking
fantastic. Their dad was still in Savannah, but miraculously, Dean wanted him
to stay there.
He and Sam had been getting along better than ever, there had been only minor,
stupid fighting. Either Sam’s ankle was healing or he was more motivated to
move, but he ceased his endless hours of sulking on the couch drowning in self-
pity and resent of Dean, and started actually doing shit. They played Boggle a
few times, even though there was a die missing. Cards, too, with the deck their
dad never let them use that had the pin-up girls on the back. Sam had been
smiling, talking. And he had also been letting Dean touch him, however Dean
wanted to.
Dean’s stomach flip flopped, a metallic taste rising up his throat and sticking
to the roof of his mouth. Letting him was not the right verb. It didn’t give
Sam enough agency, it made it seem like he just laid there while Dean bent him
over and in half, while Dean pushed up inside of him with two, and more
recently, three fingers. Sam was a very active participant in whatever they’d
been doing for the last three days. He’d been the one that pushed the matter
the next day, the one that deposited himself across Dean’s lap in the middle of
Letterman and said, “Do you want to?” while he pushed his ass into the air.
Dean did want to. He wanted to fucking bad. And Sam made it hard to reconsider
whether or not he should, with those eyes and that mouth and that fucking ass.
Dean rolled over to face his brother, his hands folded on his stomach,
decidedly not reaching out to touch. “How’s the arm?” he said, because it was
what he had taken to saying when he was unsure of what else to say.
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, Dean.” He shifted a little closer, body
looming dangerously close to Dean’s, wavering uncertainly along the line of
acceptable and suggestive. But then he bit his lower lip. Not trying to be
sexy, not trying anything, just being hesitant because he wasn’t sure if Dean
was ready or not yet.
If Dean hadn’t been ready before, he was now. But still, he fought to keep his
hands in place, wanting Sam to seek it out, touch Dean, make Dean’s hands touch
him. Since the first time, it was easier if Sam started it. Made Dean feel like
less of a pervert.
“Hey dude, I’m just trying to take care of you. Just trying to make sure I
haven’t popped anything important out of place,” Dean added nonchalantly. Come
on, Sammy, he thought, dick twitching between his thighs, where Sam’s eyes
would occasionally dart for a split second.
“It’s fine,” Sam said again. Then, there it was. His right hand, trembling as
it lifted, and very carefully alighted on Dean’s thigh. His eyes were locked on
Dean’s, huge and dark and imploring.
“Go ahead,” Dean said in a thick voice, nodding his chin.
Sam visibly relaxed, moving down so he was lying on his chest beside Dean’s
legs, fingers nudging their way inside the waistband of Dean’s boxers, warm and
shaking almost imperceptibly as they closed in a fist over his dick.
And this, this he’d started doing, too. It only took once. He saw Dean’s
erection while Dean fucked him open with a spit-slicked finger, and he’d
immediately reached for it, eyes focused and fascinated as he jerked Dean slow
and too-soft, slid his thumb through the satin-salt beads of precum at the tip.
Do it like you do yourself, Dean had begged, heart nearly stopping at the image
of his little brother’s hands sliding up and down him.
And now, Sam couldn’t seem to get enough. He’d get this slack, drugged look on
his face while he did it, and Dean could tell he wanted to suck it, could tell
Sam’s mouth was watering and his tongue was lashing unconsciously on the inside
of his teeth in a pantomime. I should give that to him. I should let him suck
me off, I should let him swallow my come, Dean always thought in the broken
moments, before he came, but seemed like too much to ask, even if he could tell
Sam wanted it just as badly as he did. If it happened, he needed Sam to start
it, he needed it to be too much for him to take anymore, too much he couldn’t
stand having his mouth empty anymore.
Dean wasn’t fully hard yet so he let Sam just feel around, pull his boxers down
his thighs, lie across them, and watch his own hand close as it tightened
around hardening flesh, feeling Dean jump and twitch to life. He looked so good
there, so young and ingenuous, like this was all he ever wanted. Dean wondered,
and not for the first time, if because he wanted this he was only imagining Sam
did, too.
“Sammy?” he said, hand coming to rest on his little brother’s wrist and still
it. “Sam, I’m not, like, molesting you, am I?” It sounded stupid as it came out
of his mouth, and Sam lets him know he thought so, too.
“No. Plus, even if you were, that would mean I was molesting you, too.” He
wrinkled his nose.
“Yeah, but I’m older,” Dean argued, unable to stop his hips from pushing up
into Sam’s hand in a jerking, unintentional quaver.
“I’m not a baby, Dean.”
But you are, Dean thought, and it the thought turned him on so he pushed it
out, hard. “I just gotta take care of you, Sammy. I gotta know this is what you
want.”
Sam shook his head, chunks of unwashed hair falling across his face. His grip
had slackened and Dean could hardly the absence of pressure, but it was almost
better when Sam said, “Trust me, I want it. I want it a lot. It would be much
worse for me if you weren’t doing this with me. It was much worse before.”
“What do you mean?” Dean asked, dizzy with the knowledge that there was a
before for Sam. Up until this moment he’d assumed that the second he touched
Sam was the second touching between them had even occurred to him. He reached
down, closed his little brothers fist around the thickness of his length,
dragging it up. Sam let out a hiss, the color of his cheeks darkening.
“I mean that I never, ever thought you would want to. This is so much better
for me than you running around kissing girls you don’t even know. This is what
I wanted. You’re not molesting me, I promise,” Sam said earnestly, eyes fixed
on the head of Dean’s dick again, on the shiny wet slick mess he looked like he
wanted to lick up. “Now, just let me.”
Let Dean thought, and let his head fall back with his stomach tightening into
at least fourteen knots, wondering how on earth he could survive this when Sam
was so fucking good at it, when he always said the right thing, did the right
thing, made it impossible to turn away from because it was perfect. Or maybe
that was the whole problem, and it was only the right thing because Sam was
doing it, saying it. Maybe he could say anything, and Dean would still feel
like he couldn’t resist it, like his body was moving too quickly and out of his
control.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Go for it.”
And Sam did, jerking Dean hard and fast with his tongue pursed into the corner
of his mouth. “I just want you hard.”
“Fuck, Sammy. You have me hard. You have me so hard,” Dean choked.
Sam was on all fours over him, forehead pressed into Dean’s and gaze bent so he
could watch his hand moving on his brother’s dick. Dean closed his eyes, lost
in the sensation, wanting to let it get to the point it was almost too much
before he shoved Sam off and pushed him onto his stomach, parted his thighs and
got inside of him. Dean imagined this, imagined the tight, velveteen heat of
Sam’s insides, until he was snapped back into the reality of his body, because
suddenly Sam was kissing him on the mouth, his lips infernally soft and the tip
of his tongue pressing carefully, nervously, against Dean’s.
“Whoa,” Dean said, terror gripping his chest and making him sit up, pushing Sam
off and onto the bed. “What are you doing?!”
Sam’s expression was quizzical, a little surprised and hazy because he was
turned on and suddenly in a different place. “What?” he asked. “Is that not
okay?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admitted, running a hand through his hair, noticing the
whole of him was shaking and he felt drunk, caffeinated, sick, wanting. His
lips tingled and burnt with the ghost of his little brother’s, and it wasn’t
okay, not by a long shot because sex could happen anywhere between any people
because it was just sex, it was animal and visceral and uncontrollable. But
kissing, kissing was what you did when you’re trying to get in a girl’s pants,
it was the lie you used to tell her you liked her, loved her even. It was a
feint, a means to an end. Except when it wasn’t, and then it was something else
and Dean was afraid of that.
“I want to,” Sam said plainly. “It’s like, all I can think about, Dean. I just
wanna--” He inched closer, the words taste you unsaid on his flushed lips.
“Oh fuck,” Dean swore, because he was in trouble now. He had to do it fast,
before he thought about it too much, so he trapped Sam’s small, bruised chest
against the mattress beside him and pressed their mouths together.
Immediately, Sam moaned into his mouth, and the moan was followed by a tongue.
It occurred very briefly to Dean that this could be, probably was Sam’s first
kiss ever, and a bolt of heat and confusion coursed through him like the tide.
Sam didn’t know how to kiss at all; he was a mess and there was too much spit
and he needed to soften and slow down everything, but Dean didn’t give a fuck
because the glaring blatancy of Sam’s pure, undiluted want made up for
technique. He felt so hungry, so desperate, like he was afraid that Dean was
going to freak out and shove him off any second (which was a legitimate fear)
so he needed to get it all in, as fast as he could. Dean tried to slow him
down, pin his tongue down, close his mouth a little, get more of his lips and
less of his teeth.
Sam was a fast learner, and pretty soon Dean was grinding against his little
brother, loving the small, inexpert, thirsty licks Sam was putting in the
corner of his mouth, into the soft, slippery space under his upper lip. “That’s
it,” he rumbled, rucking his palm down Sam’s sternum, towards his stomach.
“Hold me down,” Sam asked mindlessly, thrashing his head side to side and
breathing in huge, shuddering gasps.
“What?” Dean asked because Sam was unbelievable, this kid, this child, asking
to be held down. Dean’s mind raced, and if he hadn’t been crazy with wanting,
he might have remembered that he was the same way when he was thirteen years
old, but kids always seemed younger than you were when you were a kid. Sam
seemed incredible right now, unreal in the confidence of his desire. “What you
want, Sammy,” Dean asked again, voice a scrape, hand pushing down hard on his
little brother’s pubic bone.
“Hold me down,” Sam said with his eyes closed. “Like, pretend I’m trying to get
away, but hold me down.”
And because Dean was not an actor, he just shook his head, mouth soft and
broken open in sick, roiling lust-shock over the words, “Then try and get
away.”
Sam did, trying to cant his body across the bed and away from the demanding
heat of his older brother. Dean gripped him hard on the bones of his arms,
though, prevented him from getting any leverage at all. He felt things grinding
and sliding under his palms, young muscle and cords of tissue all threaded
through skeleton. Sam moaned hard, a moan that bent his chest convex as he
arched up off the bed. “You like that, Sammy?” Dean asked, pulling Sam up under
him easily, like he were made of air. He ground down onto his thigh, mouth open
and wet on his brother’s cheek. “You like when I touch you rough, don’t you,”
he breathed, shoving Sam deep into the mattress and then pinning him down with
his knees. “You’re fuckin’ insane Sammy. You make me crazy,” and then he cupped
a hand on either side of his throat, held him tight in place and kissed him
deep, beyond caring, beyond thinking.
Sam bit his lips, twisted his body beneath Dean’s just to feel that he was
being held immobile. Dean put his hands through Sam’s hair and pulled, eyes
endlessly dark in their enormity as he watched Sam pant and sigh and arch into
it. “Okay,” Dean swallowed, dick strained so hard against Sam he could come if
he moved at all. “On your stomach, Sammy. Need you like that.”
Before Sam could regain his composure and roll over himself, Dean remembered
the half sobbed plea hold me down and he pushed Sam to his side roughly, using
his knees and his elbows to get him all stretched out and flat beneath him,
boxers already down around his ankles and off. “You need me here, Sammy?” he
asked, prodding Sam’s crack apart with heavy, hot fingers.
Sam nodded, pressed his face into the sheets.
“Spread your legs,” Dean asked, pulling Sam apart so his ass was in the air and
his knees were wide enough Dean could see everything, the way up inside of him,
the underside of his ball sac flushed and crepe-paper soft between his thighs.
“Spread em’ further, Sammy, that’s it, that’s it baby,” Dean’s voice was so
soft, against the sharp jut of Sam’s scapula as he dragged a spit-damp thumb
down the length of Sam’s ass crack. “You like me here, you want me here.”
Just within the last few days, Sam had gotten increasingly easy to push into.
It was like he was made for this, his body a perfect bent shape underneath the
insistent pressure of Dean’s chest, his ass opening up to Dean’s fingers like
he’d practiced it. He kept Sam’s neck under one hand, the other one easing two
fingers into the clenching, gripping tight heat, and immediately, Sam was
groaning, arching his back and doing the work for Dean.
Dean’s dick ached, and he moved behind Sam so he could rub it against the soft,
dragging warmth of his brother’s pale thigh. He wanted to just pound into him,
fucking him hard and in ernest with two fingers until he could tell Sam was
close to coming, and then he’d add a third finger and Sam would collapse and
rub himself to wild, bucking orgasm all over the bed. There was more he wanted
to do, though, always more to feel. He liked scissoring his fingers to see how
wide he could stretch the muscle, he liked taking his hand out and driving Sam
crazy with just the very tip of his dick, because that was all he could get in.
He liked just holding his fingers inside while Sam jerked himself off on the
bed, so he could feel all the involuntary spasms and grips of Sam’s walls while
he made himself feel good. It was too much, too good and Sam was too willing so
he felt like he could get it all, push and push until he had what he wanted.
“Dean,” Sam said brokenly, turning his head to look back with dark, dizzying
eyes. “Flip me over?”
Dean had no time to wonder why Sam wanted to be on his back, he was already
pushing him there with shuddering arms, hand sliding easily from his ass and
pushing back in once he had him where he wanted him, knees bent to his
shoulders, feet hooked behind Dean’s back. Dean stared, at Sam’s chest which
was flushed from his own nails and being pushed against the mattress, at Sam’s
dick which wasn’t all that small for a late-blooming kid who was only just
flirting with the beginnings of puberty. Sam stared back, pliant and in love.
Lining himself up between Sam’s legs, Dean started rocking his hips against
him, against the twitching length of his hard cock and left thigh. His arm was
in too tight a space to move in and out, so he made do with stroking Sam’s
insides with the tips of his fingers, crooking them at the knuckle which seemed
to be working just as good, because Sam cried out and turned his head to the
side, exposing the flushed hollows and tendons in his throat, which Dean
adhered his mouth to without thinking.
“I’m gonna come all over you,” he said in Sam’s ear, with wet, huffing breath,
body shaking from being held up by one taut arm. “Say my name, baby, when you
feel me come say--”
Sam surprised them both by coming first, tensing up and writhing underneath
Dean and shooting a weak, watery load but a load none the less all over Dean’s
still thrusting dick. He kept making noise, noise like he was hurt, noise like
he was dying and his ass spasmed so tight around Dean’s fingers Dean hissed,
biting Sam’s neck with careless force because he wanted Sam to know, know how
fucking good it felt to be inside of him.
Once Sam could breathe again, he fought to get his hand free from the tangle of
limbs, and then started mauling Dean, touching him where ever he could, the
planes of muscles across his shoulders, his hair, his ribcage, and eventually,
down between their thighs where it brushed against the filthy, wet place their
dicks were touching, his spent and soft, Dean’s silken and steel and so so
close. “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groaned, rutting against him.
Sam wrenched his other hand out from under Dean’s grip, and then he put his
small, sticky palm on the back of Dean’s neck and boldly pulled his brother
down, down, until their mouths fit together with an oil-slick of spit. Dean
came with his tongue in his little brother’s mouth and static behind his
eyelids, and swallowed his own name when Sam tried to say it.
He laid there, kiss broken and head resting on the bony juts of Sam’s clavicle,
breath heaving both of their bodies. He waited for the idea of making out with
Sam to become disgusting, but it never did, just made the oversensitive skin of
his dick itch with exhausted longing. “God,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead
against Sam’s neck.
Sam kept on trying to catch his mouth again between his lips, like he wanted to
lie there in the puddle of sweat and seed they’d made and just kiss for awhile.
Dean knew he would probably like it, he knew that if it went on long enough
he’d probably get hard again and this would start all over. He knew he could
spend the whole day fucking his own brother, and Sam would probably let him,
and he wondered if there was a line to draw somewhere, or if he’d already leapt
over and erased every line there was just by thinking Sam looked good, good
enough to touch and rub against and drive crazy.
“Oh my god,” he said, rolling off of Sam and shutting his eyes. Sam tried to
follow him but he pushed him back. “Quit.”
“What?” Sam asked, putting his full weight against Dean’s weakened arm, and
eventually it worked and Dean let him roll towards him until their bodies were
touching, sticky and hot.
“I’m pretty sure we shouldn’t be doing this,” he told Sam without looking at
him, wondering how on earth thinking about Sam’s mouth turned into all of him,
his whole body and his whole self and his dick and his kisses and his voice and
all of the things he wanted from Dean in the course of three days. He felt
helpless, like there was no way he could have stopped this because if it hadn’t
started three days ago, it would have still happened, it couldn’t have not
happened. There would have been some other injury, some other stretch of time
alone together, some other fight that turned into something else because Sam’s
body was young and wanting and Dean was fucked up and sixteen.
“Why not?” Sam asked, like it was a serious question.
Because we’re brothers. Because you’re only thirteen. Because Dad would kill
me. Because usually the things that you want are the things that you shouldn’t
have. “Tons of reasons, Sammy. Come on,” Dean said gruffly, because everything
else was too hard to say. “Because you’re my brother,” he finally added,
because it was something he kept on coming back to with a weird, shaking
feeling of dread in his spent limbs.
“Who cares?” Sam said with the easy nonchalance of a thirteen year old. “I
don’t care.”
It hit Dean that even though Sam begged for him with his body and wanted to
kiss him with tongue and touch his dick, he was still innocent. The fact that
he didn’t know or care about why they shouldn’t be fucking like this proved it.
It was all based in want for him, and want was a child’s reason to do
something, an animal’s reason. Dean swallowed, shut his eyes tight against the
pressure of his brother’s body against his. He wanted, too. Wanted bad and
wanted forever and wanted without reason or repercussion. But he was an adult,
and couldn’t throw away the other stuff like Sam could.
“You’re still taking care of me,” Sam offered, and Dean finally felt nauseous.
~*~
Dean wakes up hungover, head split apart and heart in his throat, remembering
things that couldn’t be true because he would rather die than do that shit to
Sam again.
Stumbling on stiff legs to the bathroom, rinsing his mouth out with cool water,
splashing it on his face. These are things he can do. Looking at Sam bunched up
behind his computer on the other bed, forehead lined through like something
folded a hundred times, talking about what happened last night, if it
happened...these are things he cannot even think about. He stands in the
bathroom for a long time, staring at his hands braced on the counter, the loose
skin around his knuckles, the gun-callus and half-healed scrapes. He stares at
them as long as he can without imagining what they looked like when he was
sixteen, fingers shoved up inside his little brother.
Dean retches, but nothing solid comes up. Just acid, tainted faintly pink. He
can hear Sam shifting around in the other room, and it sounds like being
haunted.
He swishes his mouth out with water again, staggers to bed and collapses on it.
The world feels too bright, even with his face shoved under his pillow, and
Sam’s rustling echoes in his head like something much louder. He wants to go
back to sleep, to forget this whole mess but Sam’s not gonna let him. Sam never
does, he beats dead things until they fall apart, beats and beats and never
buries, just a slick of blood on unbroken earth. Dean’s not surprised when
Sam’s voice finally cuts through the air, sharp around Dean’s name. He’s not
surprised, but his blood still turns to ice.
Again. “Dean.”
Dean throws the pillow onto the floor, face screwing up in the light. “What.”
“Don’t you dare play the whole ‘I don’t remember last night’ card,” is what Sam
says. Dean hears him get up, sit on the edge Dean’s bed and that’s too goddamn
close, so Dean flinches, gathers his legs up so they’re bent. His knees ache
with the effort, the whole of his abdomen quaking in weakness, wrecked by the
things he did last night, the things he drank and threw up.
“Not playing cards,” Dean scrapes out of his throat.
“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam barks. He’s radiating heat, Dean’s bare legs can feel
it. He feels like there’s a fist forcing all the air out of his body. He’s
silent, sure that Sam will keep talking, Sam always keeps talking. Sam’s gonna
tell him everything he already knows, that he’s fucked up and it’s all Dean’s
fault for being so fucked up himself. That Dean is his insanity and his sanity.
That he doesn’t know what the hell to do with that. These are the things that
Dean tells himself, Sam can’t be that far off. What do you want me to say? That
I’m sorry? Don’t cover it. And I’ve said it till I was blue in the face Sammy,
dunno what you want Dean thinks through the ache in his head.
When Sam’s voice does come, it’s softer than Dean expects, directed somewhere
in the room that isn’t him, like Sam’s taking to a wall, to the sky, praying.
“I’m all fucked up over you. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act, Dean. What
you want.”
Dean can picture Sam’s face right now, the broken smile, the creases around his
eyes. It hurts to imagine, burns in his ribcage. He listens, his chest rising
and falling. He doesn’t know why Sam is talking this candidly right now. Sam
likes to make Dean talk, force broken word fragments up from the garbage
disposal of Dean’s hurt, but he’s not any better at it himself. He doesn’t talk
like this. He’s talking like a deadman, like someone with nothing to lose. It
scares Dean, so he listens hard, wishes so badly he could touch his brother
without the torrent of self-recrimination that comes with it.
“At Stanford. I tried to get away, you know, tried to live a normal life. And I
did, as best I could. But you were always there, in the back of my mind, man.
Couldn’t get away. And now you’re here, actually here. And I just...I dunno.
I’m trying to stay okay with that,” Sam explains. “Like...fuck. Dean. It’s so
fucked up. I don’t even want to tell you the shit I did, thought about.”
“Tell me,” Dean says hoarsely. “Please.”
“You can’t hate me.”
“Couldn’t,” he rasps.
The silence stretches between them for awhile, slow like taffy. Everything is
slow right now save for Dean’s heart, Dean’s breath and the insistent races
they run. He waits for Sam’s voice, the life preserve in this whirlpool of
memories and half-regrets.
“Just. You. You taught me what sex was, so sex was always like, connected to
you.”
I’m sorry, christ, Sammy, I am so sorry, Dean thinks, but it’s stuck in his
throat. He thinks about that first time, Sam’s broken bones and his ass in the
air like something Dean couldn’t say no to. He thinks about the wet clench of
Sam’s insides, the salty taste of his lips, later, when they started doing that
too and it seemed even more fucked up than the other stuff, somehow. Dean wants
to forget it, wants it to have not been real. A dream, an accident, not a
mistake. But it did happen, it must have because here it still is, heat coiling
in his sick belly at Sam’s words, lips sewn together.
“So whenever I had sex later, whenever I had crushes on girls or jacked off,
anything...it was all somehow related to you. I didn’t even know it was weird
until later, until high school. That I thought about you so much. But then,
when I did figure it out...fuck. I knew I had to get away from you, because
that’s not...it’s not...” Sam trails off, sounding choked, scorched. It hurts,
everything he said, sitting in the air like smoke.
The words squirm around like snakes; Dean imagines them writhing in static. He
tries to make sense of them, tries to find the accusation in Sam’s confession,
and comes up dry. Sam is hurt, sure, but not pissed at Dean for hurting him. Or
at least not right now. Dean knows there’s a way to react to this, something
he’s supposed to say to keep it like this, keep it from exploding in their
faces. But he doesn’t know. He’s lost, too. Lost and hungover and sorry.
He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing when he was sixteen, Sam wanted it,
and he wanted it too. He was a kid. He wasn’t supposed to raise a kid like his
dad made him, he wasn’t supposed to make judgement calls like he did. It was
his fault, but it wasn’t only his fault.
Dean forces his eyes open, the white light around his brother making his shape
hazy, unfathomable. His mouth is so dry. He thinks about this hunt, this demon
that’s cursed his family, turned them into less-than-humans, and thinks about
killing it, and how after it’s dead, Sam’s gonna leave. Gonna run from this
mess between them again, gonna try and find normal, be normal. He coughs, drops
his legs and one knee brushes Sam’s back. “Me too,” he says.
Sam turns around, looks at him. They’re both squinting, Sam through tears, Dean
through sun and hangover. “What do you mean?”
Clearing his throat, Dean forces himself to sit up, swaying and motion sick. He
fixes his eyes on his brother, even though it hurts. “I’m just trying to stay
okay, too, Sammy.”
“Yeah, and what does that mean, exactly?” Sam begs, eyes fixed so tight on Dean
he feels crushed under his brother. “Because you, you did this. You made me
like this.”
Sam is so grave he’s scaring Dean, the hazel of his eyes edged out by
blackness, lines through his brow so deep Dean is lost in them. Dean’s heart is
hammering so hard his stomach wants to puke again, but he’s empty. “Like what?”
he breathes.
Sam makes that face, the what the hell do you think, Dean, face and then he’s
pushing himself onto his brother, sealing their mouths, kneeing between Dean’s
aching legs. Dean convulses under him, braces himself against the force of
Sam’s sanity and Sam’s insanity because there are only so many times he can
feel the same hunger mirrored, and resist it.
“No,” he grinds out, lips still spit-slicked against Sam’s, bile in his throat
and mouth sour with whiskey-puke but Sam’s not doing a damn thing about it, Sam
doesn’t care.
“Yes,” Sam breathes, flesh searing into Dean’s.
“No, Sammy.” Dean’s panicking, he’s twisting away as best he can but Sam’s been
able to beat him for a few years now, Sam’s bigger and Dean’s booze-weak and
shuddering now, the fear of this whole storm making him even weaker. “Can’t.
Swore I wouldn’t, swore I’d stop doing this to you. It’s not what you want.”
“Fuck Dean! You are so irresponsible. You did this to me, you’re the reason I
pick up girls you would pick up, the reason I can’t get off without thinking
about you, the reason I come when anyone calls me baby, you’re the reason I
imagine my fucking brother’s fucking mouth on my dick no matter who’s sucking
me off...Dean, you did that to me. It’s not fucking normal. You ruined me.”
And there it all it, all of Dean’s worst fears, twisted from Sam’s lips, his
flushed face. The worst possible things he could hear, the shit he tells
himself on the nights he presses his lighter metal against his arm just to make
sure he can still feel. And he wants to crumple under it, split his own skin
until he bleeds all the fucked up feelings he has for Sam straight out his
body, but Dean doesn’t know how to do that. He can apologize, and apologize,
and even if Sam forgives him he will never forgive himself so what’s the
fucking point? The searing sunlight in the room darkens, turns red, and
suddenly, Dean’s angry. It makes his arms full of fire, capable of shoving his
brother off. He scrambles out from under him, shaking, standing while his head
spins and Sam is shocked, spread on the bed.
“You wanted it,” Dean yells from a stinging throat. “I asked you, asked you and
you said you wanted it,” his voice is a sputtering thing, lost and furious and
the look Sam gives him could burn the world down.
“I was thirteen! How the fuck was I supposed to know what I wanted at
thirteen?! You were the adult, you were supposed to take care of me--”
“I was no fucking adult, Sam, I was sixteen years old. Maybe seventeen. I was
raising you, I didn’t know how the fuck to raise a kid,” he screamed, stumbling
to brace a palm against the wall because he can’t stand up straight like this,
not on legs this unsure. Sam watches him, stands up and approaches so Dean
takes a step back, needing there to be distance between their bodies because he
is long, long way away from trusting himself. But Sam just keeps coming, close
enough Dean’s skin is crawling with want, close enough he shuts his eyes so he
doesn’t have to see the way the lines in Sam’s throat disappear into the collar
of his shirt.
“I’m pretty sure as hell you don’t fuck them,” Sam spits out, inches away.
Everything inside Dean flatlines into fury. At himself, at Sam, at his dad. He
grabs Sam by the shirt and throws him against the nearest wall, kisses him like
a bruise to prove a point, to shut him up, to say sorry, anything. He wants Sam
to fight, but instead Sam disintegrates against him, holds his head at an angle
and just kisses back, like he does want this, like he never stopped and Dean
doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what he wants.
They kiss like a fight, teeth and blood and tongues. I just threw up Dean wants
to tell Sam, warn him, but he’s not even sure those kind of rules apply when
you’re kissing your little brother. His arms ache with trying to decide whether
he should push Sam off or steer him into the bed, and suddenly Sam is breaking
away from him, thumbing his lips apart, “Just want you to...”
“To what?” Dean begs, broken apart, tremulous under Sam’s fists.
Sam laughs, dry and humorless; it tastes like coffee and soap on Dean’s lips
and his eyes slide shut because he can’t look at this, he can’t witness Sam
behind the wheel, driving them straight off a bridge into a mess of twisted
metal steaming in the ocean. He can’t. He tries to use his hips to buck Sam
off, but instead he just grinds up into him, which is not what he meant to do,
the last thing he meant to do. Sam gasps, forces Dean’s shoulder back into his
own body. “I’m the mess you made. Clean it up,” he says darkly, and that’s it.
Dean can’t stop. He doesn’t know how to anymore.
He’s easily manipulable, lost in the feel of his brother against his terrified
flesh, so before he can even figure out how, Sam has him on the floor. Carpet
scrapes against his bare back, Sam’s weight and heat suffocating him, grinding
his bones earthward. He gasps into Sam’s mouth, tasting years-old memories,
things he longed for, tried to forget. Between the memories and forgetting,
Dean tries to remember why he ever thought he could get away from this.
“Want you to fuck me,” Sam rasps against Dean’s throat, mouth swollen and
bitten and used and fuck, things are flooding mess-like back to Dean, Sam
begging to put his mouth everywhere, tearing kisses out of nothing, Sam’s
teenage skin all flushed from greedy palms.
“Yeah, okay, Sammy,” Dean promises, because for right now he’s done fighting
this. He digs his nails into the slatted muscle along his brother’s ribcage,
pushes his hands into all the places that used to be weak and breakable and are
now hard and steel-solid. Sam is pulling Dean’s cock out of his boxers,
slicking his mouth down the length of him, sloppy-wet and fire-hot, eyes shut
and moved like it’s the thing he’s wanted to do his whole fucking life.
Dean could die like this, broken and shattered to bone-fragment and want under
his little brother’s mouth. But Sam wants him to fuck him, Sam wants him to
fill him up, Dean remembers all those little splintered sounds kid-Sam used to
make, the tilt of his spine and the sweat collecting there in the dimples of
his back and his insides holding onto Dean, milking his fingers until he was
reduced to nothing but panting and pupil. He tries to use his abdominals to sit
up, get out from under Sam so he can roll him over, but it takes a few tries.
“Fuck,” Sam says when he finally realizes what Dean’s trying to do, eyes locked
on his brother, lips still connected to his cock-head with a string of thick
spit. He looks wrecked, and Dean can’t stand it, he upends them both and drags
Sam’s taut, working thighs over his lap so he can yank his jeans down over his
ass and touch him where he needs to be touched. Dean licks his thumb, drags it
down the into the heat of Sam’s crack, and for the first time since they
started this again Sam stills.
“Gonna let me do this again?” Dean breathes, awed.
“Need you to,” Sam answers hoarsely, sweat on his face, eyes staring at Dean
through the hair mussed on his forehead. Dean’s hands shake but he spits,
pushes his fingers through it and slides up to the first knuckle inside Sam,
and the whole thing breaks his heart. It feels just the same. Just as tight and
hot, even though his fingers are rougher and bigger now and Sam has probably
done this to himself more nights than Dean would like to imagine.
He’s still reeling, sick with everything, brain overflowing with static and
blood but his little brother is there, on the floor, knees apart and jeans
around his knees, body twitching and spasming to accommodate Dean’s fingers as
they crook against his walls and he knows he has to, he has to fuck him like
he’s never fucked him before. He has to wrench them out of the loop of memories
and regrets they remember from adolescence, and make something new.
Be new brothers to one another, something reborn from the ashes of scorched
innocence. Dean’s up on his knees, then, spitting a thick mouthful of saliva
into his palm and jerking off his own dick.
“Gonna fuck you like this, Sammy. Gonna try something new, that okay?” Dean
mumbles breathlessly, pushing his dick against Sam, guiding the crown of it
inside the tight ring of muscle. Sam’s braced against the carpet on his
forearms, looking over his shoulder at Dean with the most stricken, grave-faced
look of awe.
“Thought about this so much,” he breathes, voice wavering. “Come to this so
many times, Dean.”
“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean winces, pushing in a few inches to test out how Sam is
gonna take this, but he slides in easy, and remembers Sam is made to take him,
Sam is built to be his. Then he’s in balls-deep, held tight by the insane
clenching and gripping of his baby brother.
“Yeah? You did? Couldn’t forget me, couldn’t let this go,” Dean prays, feeling
threads of the old, stinging guilt coil inside of him, unable to grip onto
anything because every part of him is too hot and slippery with desire. He
wants it too bad, and it’s fucked up, it’s so fucked up but he doesn’t know any
better way to deal with it than this. Doing what they both want, however
dysfunctional that might be, because ignoring it just made them crazy. Alone-
crazy. Dean rubs his damp forehead into the hollow between Sam’s scapulas,
tastes the skin there under his own whiskey-sweat and fucks his little brother
with everything he has left.
Sam has that blissed out, lost look to him, eyes shut, mouth parted, ass in the
air. Dean reaches out with a sloppy, shaking palm to brush the hair off of his
brow so he can just look at him, look at Sam wish his cheek ground into the
carpet and his tongue sweeping his lips. “Gonna come in you, baby,” Dean tells
him, sliding his index and ring fingers into the wet mess of Sam’s pink mouth.
“Dean,” Sam says, broken, own fist jerking his cock hard, and that undoes the
whole thing. Dean comes, holds onto Sam’s hips so hard there are gonna be
bruises there in a few hours, bruises to lick and kiss and hate himself over.
He collapses onto Sam, holds his writhing body against his chest so he can feel
every twitch and jerk as Sam makes himself come all over the motel carpet.
Deans eyes are fixed on his brother’s hand on his brother’s dick, drinking the
image in like he might never see it again, like it’s the thing he wants seared
into his brain before he dies.
They lie there for a while, heaving, legs messily entwined like a ball of
smoking wires. Dean can’t stop staring at Sam, feels drunk on it, waiting for
all of this to come crashing down on him, waiting to be stuck motionless and
un-breathing under the rubble.
It doesn’t come. They keep breathing, and Sam snags out “Thank you. Thank you.”
Dean thinks of broken bones, how they mend wrong if you don’t do anything about
them, how they bother you for the rest of your life, get stiff in cold weather
and ache long before you’re old. He thinks of plants, how natural shit will
break through the concrete laid on top of it, no matter how fragile and weak.
He wipes his hand across his mouth, thinks about how this isn’t his fault, it
isn’t Sam’s fault. It’s not even his dad’s fault or the fault of the job. It’s
nobody’s fault, because it just is. Naturally. They broke and they’re still
broken, and there’s nothing they can do to fix that, now. Love isn’t a fault,
it just is.
Sam rolls over, says his name, and they their mouths slide together, open.
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