Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3149405.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Sam_Winchester/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Original_Male_Character
      (s)
  Additional Tags:
      Possessive_Dean_Winchester, teenage_angst, Teenage_Rebellion, Sexual
      Identity, Invasion_of_Privacy, Sexual_Confusion, Dean_Winchester_Being_an
      Asshole, Codependency, Rough_Sex, Bottom_Sam, Switching
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-09 Completed: 2015-12-24 Chapters: 18/18 Words: 93196
****** In this Sunrise ******
by hellhoundsprey
Summary
     Sam dates guys sometimes. Sometimes. Never a girl before or any at
     all yet, but hey, that doesn't automatically mean he's gay, right?
     Nobody cares anyway. Surely nobody would - if they knew.
     (This story takes off pre-series in 1998.) // (Soundtrack)
***** Chapter 1 *****
He likes this town. It isn't pretty. It isn't big. It hasn't any cool places to
visit. The school isn't exactly up to any standards Sam's sure the government
has set. But damn - it's into sports.
Sam's fingertips graze the crumpled piece of paper in the inside of his jeans'
pocket. Staring up at the ceiling, he replays today's afternoon, that initial
kick of getting introduced to someone new, someone sympathetic, someone hot.
Marc's twenty. Marc has a smirk that's not as tough as he obviously thinks it
is. Marc's skin is tanned and under thin maple brown bangs there's an endless
universe of freckles. Marc plays football. Marc gave him his phone number.
Sam mourns his lack of privacy and a working telephone. But only for a second.
Because he learned to lie before he learned to tie his shoes. "We just moved
here, the phone company is a bag of lazy dicks" - Sam knows his lines. Knows
how to bat his lashes. Recognizes that hungry spark these Marcs or Stans or
Chads usually throw at petite blonde cheerleaders. But some magical way, they
forget about their girlfriends and braided pigtails and the concept of
heterosexuality when Sam appears. Not all of them, hell no; to most people or
guys and especially to girls, he's invisible, thinner than air. Just another
bony, awkward teenager with no haircut and falling-apart clothes. But to these
guys, he's fire and ice and they need to have him and Sam knows before they do.
Sam knows his boys.
Flat on his back, Sam's the perfect image of a giddy, love-struck teenager, he
just knows he is. Smiling like an idiot, cheeks maybe a bit flushed, cock
halfway hard since that moment all these hours ago when Marc and him had
noticed each other. But he's alone right now, Dad and Dean somewhere he doesn't
care, talking to some fortuneteller two towns over about some family grudge
that's been going down here lately. It's a dick move to do but Sam thanks the
being who killed four people by now for bringing his family into this stupid
town that inherits this pretty boy he'll see this evening.
"Training's over at nine today." - "I can pick you up then." - "Pick-up instead
of phone call? Hell of a deal I'm gettin' here. Whatcha wanna do then? Should
we grab a movie or…?" - "Let's just hang out a bit. You'll surely be tired
after training-" - "Not if I have something good to look forward to
afterwards."
Sam's grin goes so wide it hurts. The guy's adorable. Trying so hard to be
relaxed, to sound casual. Sam wonders if he's the first boy Marc looks at this
way. Quite possible.
It has been some time since Phil. Three months to be exact. He had kept
attention to stares from the side, to his back, gasps, dilated pupils, parting
lips. But nothing. The last few cities they'd been in had held blatant
nothings. Sam's not worrying too much about looking too needy and greedy
though. He's excited and impatient, because, well, fuck, he'd seen Marc in his
football gear and can only imagine what he looks like underneath. And even this
little bit of imagination it takes makes every cell of his body ache in pure
need.
He likes them muscled. But not buff like bulls, no, just firm muscle, broad
back, narrow hips, strong thighs. Something to hold on, to bite into, to bounce
on. Likes when they hold him tight, sometimes down, possessive, dominant; when
he has to put effort into not being crushed by their palms and hips. When they
kiss him with soft lips and a bit too much spit and let him fall asleep on
their chests with their arms around him.
Marc has a pretty mouth. Sam wonders if he is mocked for it like Dean was
sometimes, being called "cocksucker" by his teammates maybe. Wonders if his
giant fists can punch through nasal and cheek bones like Dean's can. He replays
the soft brush of calloused fingers over the back of his hand when he was
handed the careless scribble of numbers and is very positive about his
assumption.
The door flies open. Sam is startled by the sudden sound and startled again by
the fact that he is startled. His upper body lifts up the bed in one fluid
swing and his heart punches against his ribs angrily. He hadn't heard the
Impala roar down the road and into the parking lot right outside their motel
room. Used to quick change of events and amount of privacy, his dick goes
completely limp in a matter of seconds. Sam knows he looks annoyed when he
stares at his brother in the doorframe. But he also knows he's got unlimited
puppy license, so why give a fuck?
"Heya Sammy!" Dean's grin is honest and loose. The interview must have been a
success. When he catches a glimpse of Sam's mimics, he stiffens, sensing,
questioning. "Interrupted something here? Caught you jackin'?"
"God, Dean," Sam moans, practically jumping from the bed now, annoyed, annoyed,
annoyed, and Dean laughs at his reaction and it just makes it worse. His fist
clenches the precious paper in his pocket. It starts sweating, cheeks sting
from boiling blood. Helpless, like always, he grabs his hoodie and Chucks
instead of waiting for Dean to finish his laughter.
"Wow, I meant no harm, milady!"
A grunt is all he's getting in response. Laces are tied blindly and quickly.
It's nowhere near nine yet but Sam has to get out. Now.
"Hey!"
Sam looks up from where he's bent over his feet. Dean's always so tidy with his
clothes. He's seen these jeans a thousand times and always wonders how they can
still look so new.
"Where're ya goin', Sammy?"
"Nowhere," Sam tells him, sharp, short - a tone that Dean knows and accepts
most of the time. He gets up to his feet, hoodie in his hand. Growing has
become his body's newest hobby so they're almost at eye-level now. It just
makes this harder - lies are more easily told through heavily hung lashes.
"Uhu," his brother grunts and Sam smells extra-onion in his breath. Dad had
taken him to celebrate today's good work. He never takes Sam for anything for
his countless A's. He bites the one certain bump of flesh on the inside of his
cheek.
"Fuck off, Dean." Patience never got him anything. So why pretend he has it
now?
Strong arms cross over broad chest. Freckles disappear in wrinkles around
Dean's nose. "Sure sounds important for 'nowhere'."
Sam's tired. He's horny. He has no time for this. He's got a quarterback
waiting for him. So he plays out the biggest trump he has - the truth. Or.
Well. Bits of it.
"You got a condom for me?"
It's so hard not to break into laughter when Dean, Dean who taught him how to
confuse people, Dean who studied facial signs for nervousness and insecurity
together with him, falls for his shit. It's short but there's that little blank
moment in this face of steel, followed by bare question marks. "What'd you need
that for?"
It's not hard to throw another bitchface at this question. "What do you think,
jackass?" He's holding out his empty palm. "So what, yes or no?" It's not much
of a lie. He really doesn't have one. And in the back of his head the hope is
blooming that maybe he is going to need it tonight.
Dean's stare doesn't falter when he blindly searches his pockets. Slow and a
bit off, since he's thinking hard while he's moving. It's a good thing he keeps
his shit together during hunts, Sam thinks. Scary to think how easy it is for
Sam to hit him this unprepared.
Plastic finds the inside of his hand. He grabs it without paying much attention
to the scratch of gun-worked fingertips. Sam has places to go. There will most
likely be a jockstrap involved. And those things are awesome. "Thanks, bye!" he
chirps halfway over his shoulder as he passes his brother. While he crams the
sacred little package into his jeans, Sam almost knocks his father's teeth out
with his forehead.
"Hey," John grunts. Even without trying, he is towering, always towering, right
now right in the doorway, exactly where Sam would love to pass, but now
impossibly can. The sweat in his palms drops several degrees at once.
"Where'you goin'?"
Sam opens his mouth already while thinking. Thinking fast. Better fucking fast.
"I-" He cannot stutter, not pause, dad would know, lying to dad is the worst
you could do, he catches you and you only see the outer world for endless laps
of running until you puke on the sidewalk and fuck he doesn't know what to say
but he has to speak, now. "-'m seeing a friend. Some guy. Wrestling team. I
thought maybe I'd join. You know. For practice. As you said, I suck at it, so.
Yeah." Wow. Awesome job on the 'not stuttering' there, idiot.
John frowns and Sam wants to cry because he's surely busted now, John noticed,
fuck, damn, shi-
"Alright. But remember you gotta get up at five tomorrow, you hear me?"
He can't believe it. It worked. It worked! "Okay, sure, yeah," Sam mumbles and
shoves past his father. He just then smells the whiskey. Thank God for
alcoholism.
The sorry tiny room in this faceless building doesn't deserve another second of
his attention - neither do the people inside. No questions, acting fast, not
looking back - Winchester repertoire. Sam's steps are faster than they need to
be, keeping the clock in mind, but somehow never fast enough, keeping what lies
behind him in mind.
It's dark outside already but the field is well lit with spotlights. It's cold
on the empty tribune and he's too far away to actually get a good look at the
guys down there to get a bit warmer. But still better than sharing a room with
these two. He's been worse for far less private time.
This one's Marc, probably. It's a bit hard to tell with the helmets and
shoulder pats. They're all giants. Sam's alone out here so he can shamelessly
hunch over his boner while following a tiny fantasy that possibly includes the
whole team, him, a piece of soap and the showers. Maybe. Eventually.
Nine rolls around slowly, too slowly for a teenage boy who is really desperate
to get laid. But Sam endures it. Even when they all leave for the showers.
Without him. Spoilsports.
He climbs down to where he thinks Marc will exit and then struts a bit off from
there. It's nothing official. He isn't official. Whatever would happen later
would never be official. He's someone's slip-up tonight, someone's experimental
phase. Someone's 'I'm so drunk I don't know what I'm saying anymore so I'll
tell y'all about this one time I fucked a boy up the ass in high school'-story.
It doesn't sting when he doesn't think about it like that. When he tells
himself he's the one who lets this happen, who chooses to let it happen, that
he's the one getting way more out of this than the other guy. After all, he'll
be the one bailing town in a few days' time. Or weeks, at most. He's using him.
Not the other way around.
There can be shadows even at night, with such clear sky and crescent moon light
like tonight. So Sam watches from underneath the nearest tree when the boys
leave the gym, halfway hidden. He makes the calls. He could very well leave
Marc standing and waiting here like an idiot. Yes. He could. He controls this
game.
Marc emerges last. He's laughing about one of his many friends' jokes. His
smile is so pretty it makes Sam's heart flutter. He really wants to kiss that
mouth. He remains leaning against the tree and waits. He wants him to notice
him, search for him. Show interest, come on. Show me you're as excited as I am.
And he is. He so is. As soon as his mates are vanished around the corner, his
head pops right up and he searches the place for a hint of that little brat
that stole his brain in that hallway earlier. Like a good doggie looks for his
master, Sam thinks, and oh is he pleased with how that sounds. Marc finds him
even in his hide-out and flashes a relieved smile. Sam returns it with a tiny
burst of laughter, because oh, is he cute. Two hundred and thirty pounds of
pure muscle and he has it melting with only one glimpse of his.
"Hey," Sam offers while Marc catches up with him. The casual jogging pace he's
moving in wouldn't let anyone tell that he's been training these past hours. It
reminds Sam of the way he usually leaves motel rooms and the Impala.
"Hey," Marc parrots but it's rough, gruff, oh, Sam loves it already. That word
could be all Marc had to say tonight and it'd be enough. Just put it on repeat
and that's taken care of. Marc isn't too much of a shy one and the only thing
that really puts him to a halt is that one blade of grass about one feet from
Sam's toes. Sam smells soap and aftershave and he's very thankful for the
tree's support of his giving knees.
They've never stopped smiling and Marc's hand reaches out, places itself right
next to Sam's head on the trunk. They're almost touching but not quite, staring
at each other without knowing what to say but with so much left to say. Like
earlier in the hallway, there's this attraction, undeniable, strong, like a
force-field. It's like it's too much for both of them, like they aren't sure
what to do next, or if it's okay for the other one. Sam blinks once, twice,
Marc once, and Sam hovers away from the tree right into Marc's chest and his
lips press onto his and, shit, yes, this mouth was worth waiting for.
It's careful, unsure, now Marc's shy all of a sudden. His first time kissing a
boy, Sam figures, and it's cute. He surely wasn't this uncertain when kissing
his first girl. Sam feels special. One of the many things he loves about this…
whatever he should call it. Blessing? Curse? This thing where straight guys
fall for him and only for him. Where he charms them. Makes them forget how to
count to ten. It makes it okay for Sam to be just as light-headed as them when
pillow-soft lips like these welcome him, take him in, let him sink in and
forget and just relax and enjoy himself.
Marc shaved very eagerly and his cheeks are soft when Sam rubs his own against
them. It smells like alcohol and this alcohol he loves like nothing else,
smooth and rough and sexy. It makes his mouth water, he wants to lick it, but
the kiss is too good, so he licks Marc's fat lower lip instead. It has the guy
flinching. Fucking flinch at a lick. A lick from Sam's mouth. Damn.
The kiss is broken, Marc pulls back. "We should, ehm." He clears his throat.
For a second, Sam thinks it's over, he'll get the 'Ooops this was a mistake,
sorry'-speech and that's it for tonight, or well, ever. But Marc continues and
it's music in his ears. "Let's go somewhere else. Okay?"
Sam smiles again, wide and bright and proud. "Yeah," he spills and drops his
head, exactly in that way where it makes his bangs drop to his eyes and he
looks gorgeous. A giant arm wraps around his shoulders and they walk a bit, God
knows how far or for how long. Surrounded by warm, firm flesh like this, Sam
would walk the fucking desert.
Their feet stop and Sam recognizes the Ping-Pong table from the schoolyard.
It's a bit off from anywhere else, surrounded by fully green bushes and trees.
Marc turns him around and kisses him now, uncertainty left right on front of
the gym, shoving his tongue right between Sam's teeth that part willingly for
it, of course. Face framed in sweaty palms, Sam's ass is pushed against the
concrete table. He stables himself with his hands, spread flat on the cold top.
Cornered. As if Marc knew exactly how much he likes this. Probably doesn't,
though. Isn't even aware of what he's doing. Sam just prays he doesn't stop,
pushes himself up on his toes, needs to get more of this mouth, deeper, oh,
this tongue, for God's sake.
Marc gets the idea and grips Sam by the waist, pulls him off the ground and
onto the tabletop like he weighs nothing, follows right up, slides between
Sam's knees like this is a dance, fucking ballet. These jeans he is wearing -
Sam chose them for a reason. They're tight as fuck. People over the age of
thirteen shouldn't wear these jeans. When Marc's hips press forward in between
Sam's thighs, their cocks meet in the most perfect way; hot and damp and
concrete is nothing against this. Both gasp into the kiss and Marc looks like
someone kicked his baby puppy, which makes Sam laugh because oh God, the guy
forgot he was making out with another guy, someone with a cock. Marc keeps
staring and Sam keeps smiling, both panting while Marc slowly grinds into Sam's
crotch, tests the pressure, the heat. Another good point about these jeans is
that the friction is unbelievable, by the way.
"Feels nice?" It's more mock than real question since Sam can hardly hold back
his affection for this helpless monkey in his arms. He loves to be passive but,
hm, maybe teaching could be great every once in a while as well?
There's no answer, just staring. The grinding grows stronger and Sam forgets
his smile over a bite to his bottom lip. It's a mean trick to do. He's aware of
that. With leverage from his hands behind him, he pushes back into the
movements, watches Marc choke on his own lungs before they pick up a steady
rhythm against each other. It's delicious. Thin film of sweat on Marc's
forehead already, lips pink and fat from kissing, parted in a tiny 'o' as in
'oooh fuck you little slut, my dick is so hard for you and I didn’t even know
that was a thing'. Sam loves them like this.
Hands roam around his lower back, slide underneath hoodie and tee, hook into
the hem of his jeans. Oh, these jeans. How much he owes to them. Marc pulls him
closer and Sam groans at the pressure, the jeans' seams cutting into his flesh
in all the wrong places, but fuck, it's hot, too hot to stop. He knows he's
dripping wet already. Judging by how they feel against each other down there,
Marc's too. The image has Sam sighing. "I'll… If we keep doing this, I'll…," he
confesses as soon as the fact becomes clear to him. It's been too long. He
doesn't realize how close he already is until Marc takes his mouth again, licks
into and sucks at it, and he can't help but moan. "Not in my pants," Sam
whines, more to his dick than to Marc but it is said Marc that very suddenly
and very hastily struggles with button and fly of his jeans.
The palm wrapping around his throbbing cock is too sweaty, the pressure wrong,
off, the technique worse than when he had touched himself for the very first
time. All of it… it's so perfect Sam wants to cry.
Two tugs is all it takes. While Sam labor-pants into Marc's mouth, his cock
decides it actually is a lawn-sprinkler and shoots all the way up to his chin
and God knows where else. His next moan is half pleasure and half humiliation
and that's when Marc's hips buck up into his. There's a grunt and against his
jeans-clad thighs foreign, quivering muscles jump as involuntarily as he knows
Marc's cock is doing in his jeans right now. His eyes roll back into his skull.
He can't believe his luck. He can't believe this handsome guy is so crazy for
him that he creams his pants just as desperately as Sam - without a question -
would have done if Marc would have acted about two seconds later than he
actually had.
Marc's bottom lip quivers, so Sam licks it better. The palm around his cock
slows and eventually stops; the mouth on his own doesn't. After a while, Marc
sinks into him some more and Sam relaxes his back a bit until they slump down
on the Ping-Pong table. Sam wraps an arm around the quarterback to feel his
impressive muscles underneath his sweat-damp Henley shirt. He could care more
about the fact that they're flooded in both of their come and sweat on a school
yard at like ten past nine on a weekday after five seconds of making out. But
that would require Sam's brain to push past the impressive army of endorphins
after what feels like an eternity of loneliness and horniness and self-doubt,
so it isn't happening.
It's hard peeling the warmth of a very handsome body off of himself, even
harder to say "I gotta go". It's easy smiling at an adorable pout and easier to
return a kiss this slick and heavy with post-coital pheromones.
"Will I see you again?"
Sam's heart reenacts a minor traffic accident in his chest. "If… that's what
you want?"
Marc's honest gleam makes it into a mayor one. "Fuck yeah."
The streets are black and deserted when Sam walks back to the motel. He's spent
and tired and so light-headed he feels like lifting off the pavement with every
step. Even with his hoodie off, he isn't cold.
How he's missed this. This feeling of freedom, power, happiness. Tomorrow;
tomorrow, again, same place, same time. He wouldn't mind getting a tattoo of
these words to remind him of the fireworks they evoke in him.
Just to be sure Dad and Dean are asleep when he gets there, Sam peeks at their
window from a safe destination. He takes another walk around the block when he
finds it alit, another and then another until it's dark like the rest of the
building.
Sneaking in and out of rooms is something he has been trained on, so he's good
at it. Dad stirs in his sheets and grunts something, lifts his head in
question. "'S jus' me, Dad," his son whispers while he replaces the salt line,
hunched over his come stained hoodie and jeans even in this pitch black
darkness, back turned to the beds at the end of the room. Dad falls silent
again and even before Sam reaches the bathroom door, he hears not one but two
calm breaths in the nothingness.
Clothes peeled off, he washes them first and then himself. The tap water is
cold but with enough soap, his hoodie will be wearable again by tomorrow. Sam
decides he doesn't want to loose Marc's taste on his mouth yet and pulls on
sweatpants and t-shirt without brushing his teeth.
He would consider sleeping on the couch, he really would, but even for someone
two heads shorter than him, the one in this crappy room would be worse than the
blank floor. So he climbs under the sheets next to his brother like he had done
so many years, countless times in countless motels in countless states. With
the years, he grows, and with him the certainty that this is inappropriate for
two grown boys, even for brothers as close as them. It had been alright until
Sam started getting into puberty and the business of morning wood and awkward
boners and wet dreams and Dean's mocking about every second about any of it.
Just for once, he wishes he could wake up in his own room in his own bed and
have his self all for himself. Just for once.
Behind his back, Dean doesn't move, asleep deep and hard like a rock, warm like
a boiler, smelling like onion and gun oil and sweat. Creating a gap big enough
not to be aware of any of it is impossible. Behind closed eyelids and with his
arms and legs folded tight against his body, Sam chases the memory of wet skin
against his own.
Sleep. Fall asleep. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     My personal highlights: the salad, the pie, the wrestling team. Ugh I
     enjoyed writing all of this way too much.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"You've been out again."
Dad came home so drunk that Dean had to set the salt line and currently snores
away next to them loud enough to angry the neighbors. What Sam absolutely does
not need in this situation is Dean pillow-talking to him like this is some
girls' sleep-over.
"Told you, I joined the wrestling team," he hisses.
"No, that's what you told Dad. I'm the one you asked for a rubber. There's only
so much wrestling one can do that involves a rubber, Sam."
He has his back turned. It's not like he has the illusion of being able to
sleep tonight but it would indeed be nice not to be cross-fired by his nosy ass
of a brother. "Shut up and sleep."
"You seeing someone?"
Silence. Well, except for hiccupped snores and Sam's raging guts.
"Sam."
He knows he can't win. Whatever he says or does or doesn't say or doesn't do,
Dean will turn and twist and punch and mold it until it fits what he wants it
to be. "Wrestling team," Sam barks.
"I saw you."
Sam is awake and turning around very fast. Dean's face looks serious and
worried and miserable enough to make him want to punch it until it isn't
recognizable anymore. Through the smallest gap between his teeth, he grits:
"You what?"
"I saw you. During lunch break, I-"
"You followed me to school?"
The muscles on top of Dean's left cheek twitch, his mouth opens and closes
without spilling a sound. Sam's hands ball to fists underneath the covers.
"I- I was worried, you-"
"You spied on me!?"
"Sam, I-"
"I can't believe this, I- Who do you think you are to-"
"I-I- Since I dropped out, I can't keep an eye on you during school anymore;
I'm just worried, and not just me, Dad's-"
"Fuck you!!" He yanks on his own hair and tries to pry away the pain from his
heart and stomach up to his head. Until it's burning and pulsing like his ears
and tongue, he scrapes his scalp. "Fuck you and Dad and your crazy-ass
obsession and leave me the fuck alone for one fucking time of the day!! Is that
too fucking much to ask for, Dean?! Once, just fucking once??"
Sam throws himself back on the other side again, facing black nothingness
instead of stupid freckle-peppered whiteness. Darkness won't make fun of him
for the glistening of tears in the farthest corners of his eyes. His body is
stiff in panic and hate, he can't believe this, can't believe he doesn't even
deserve trust and privacy, can't believe he was stupid enough to think he ever
did deserve it.
Fingers touch the empty, wide space in between his shoulder blades and Sam
wants to throw either up or a punch. Instead, his panting merges into sobs.
He curls in like a little kid, bawling, helpless, like he has always been, like
he obviously still is.
The fingers become a palm. The touch becomes a press. The press becomes a
brushing motion. The shaking of his body becomes a twitching. Eventually, the
twitching melts away.
 
How and when he falls asleep, Sam doesn't know. He dreams of Dad and Dean
getting mauled by a pack of werewolves, torn apart limb by limb, while his body
is too numb to move or help or even make a single sound. He watches what is
left of their bodies decay in front of his eyes.
Sam wakes up curled into a tight ball of his own and his brother's limbs,
covered in cold sweat, breathing heavy into the narrow cave Dean's arms and
hunched-over neck and face built for him.
The amulet digging into his cheek, Dean's drool and sour breath in his hair or
his own arms wrapped tightly around the strong, safe girth of his brother's
back - Sam doesn't know what's worst.
 
"C-can I- Is it okay if I…?"
This is the third day in a row they've met, the second time during lunch break.
After last night's news, Sam decided that a windowless storeroom is a better
option than the most deserted place of green behind the bleachers he would have
thought of as possible. A cloth is bound to door-handle and shelf to keep this
as private as Sam can imagine it to be in a crowded school like this.
Marc is kneeling in front of him and is sucking Sam's cock with almost as much
skill as Sam had surprised him with last night in front of the Ping-Pong table,
their Ping-Pong table at this point. It's their fifth date and the guy is
sucking his cock. The affection he strokes his fingers through Marc's hair is
almost too much for something use- and hopeless like this.
It's their fifth date and Marc has his rough fingertips shoved up Sam's crack
and asks if it's okay to touch his asshole.
"God, yes, fuck; yes," Sam nods, quiet not only because he doesn't want anyone
on the other side of the door to hear them but also because he thinks he will
lose his ability to breathe and shortly after that his freaking mind.
One pad, then two brush over it and Sam cranes his neck backwards. In time with
his sucking, Marc moves his fingers back and forth, presses down where it's
hottest and a bit wet from sweat. Sam mewls into his pressed shut mouth. It's
so good. It's so fucking good. Being touched there by someone who isn't himself
is like being set on fire and dipped into scalding hot bath water and being
punched in the guts all at once.
If it hadn't been for Daniel, Sam wouldn't have to know how amazing this could
make him feel, wouldn't have this all-consuming emptiness and need when he
wasn't being touched there. But Daniel had happened and Daniel had turned him
insane and sick and into what the porn industry would probably label as a
"needy slut". There is no day passing that Sam doesn't travel back to this
sacred, holy summer day of last year in Wyoming and Daniel's bedroom and the
sensation of getting his ass stuffed with a good, solid cock for hours
straight, up to the point it made him come and cry in the same fucking second.
But they left Wyoming, and he had left Daniel. Couldn't even say goodbye,
thought there'd be another few days at Mr. Miller's for the Winchesters to mow
through his collection of voodoo scripts. An urgent case that in the end turned
out to be a bunch of stupid teenagers, not very much older than Sam at that
time, trying their ways through connecting with the dark magical powers of
Satan through a fucking Ouija board, left him alone and confused and with a
seriously gaping and come-dripping ass on the Impala's backseat for a twenty-
hour-ride. So much for the romantic image of a first time.
There is no way Sam can let anyone touch his ass without an immediate outburst
of nostalgic anticipation, naturally. The light touches only make him more
desperate, have him hump his ass down and backwards onto the promise of a
finger-fuck, maybe. Marc's careful and it's oh-so sweet on the one hand, but if
he doesn't get in there very soon, he might-
One slips in to the nail bed, wet with only sweat, and Sam gasps for air. He
groans, grinds his hips, wants more, more stars in front of his eyes in the dim
darkness of the room. Marc takes his cock a little deeper into his throat and
pushes his finger in a little deeper into his ass and Sam buries his other set
of fingers right next to the first one on top of Marc's hair. "Oh God," he
breathes, "Oh God, don't stop; more, please, more, gonna come, jus- ooooh-"
He's in love. He's officially in love. If one can be in love with some other
person's mouth, that is. Marc drops his cock and instead laps down over his
balls, ducks his head until he can reach where he buries his finger and fucking
licks there, too. Love. This is what love must feel like.
There's strange noises coming from his mouth but Sam cannot find a way to make
them stop, blabbers sweet nothings and pleads for he doesn't even know what.
Marc's tongue on his sensitive, for so long neglected rim, stretched so
delicately but tight around one single digit draws his balls up so far it
nudges his cock upwards.
Just in time - seriously, this guy must have an internal Sam-orgasm-clock
inside of him, somehow -, Marc returns where his mouth had originally been busy
and suckles on the blood-red tip while Sam comes in quick contractions, whines
into his own collar bones while his insides draw Marc's finger in even deeper,
suck and pull on it like they do want to keep it there just as bad as Sam's
mind.
It goes on for what feels like five entire lunch breaks and then some. When
Marc finally lets go of him, both back and front, Sam's knees have serious
problems keeping him standing up straight, even leaning against the shelf with
his entire back. Marc stands up and kisses him, intense and wet and possessive
enough so that Sam has no other choice but to wrap himself around him as tight
as he can. "You're so hot," he is told in between meeting of mouths and
tongues, "So fucking hot, God, Sam-"
"Fuck me," Sam whines, whines again when the response is a deep and desperate
groan, a tighter grip around his still too fragile back (oh how he wishes for
it to never grow too strong to melt in this), a rut of hips against his own.
 
In the end, they don't. In the end, Marc has to change into his post-training
sweatpants he keeps in his locker after creaming his jeans yet again. Sam still
adores this about him somehow, that he gets so suddenly overpowered by passion
that there is no time or chance for him to do anything but come right then and
there. In the end, Marc offers to spend Friday night at his place together. He
says "Maybe we could watch a movie or snatch a beer from my parents' fridge"
and Sam nods like a love-sick puppy but what he actually hears (and what Marc
actually means, let's be honest here) is "I'll fuck all of my seven inches so
deep up your body that you will have problems breathing with it poking your
tonsils".
Friday is only two days away. Two! It makes Sam happy enough to smile
throughout the rest of the school day and then not break his brother's neck
when he finds him leaning against the Impala in front of the school.
Their eyes meet over the distance and when Sam's steps do not falter, Dean
slips into the driver's seat and waits for him to take his place by his side.
Metallica lulls from the speakers while they drive through town, Sam not
knowing or questioning or caring where Dean intends to end up. His backpack in
his lap, he props his cheek on his hand and lets the wind and sun tickle his
skin from the rolled-down window. Two days. He can make this. Two days.
 
It's a good salad. Actually, it's great. Sam shovels it into his face with a
plastic fork and still can't believe there is a drive-in that gives out
passable salads. It's only when he's almost finished his bowl that the idea of
Dean, "salad and everything remotely healthy looking" hating Dean, searching
town for a place Sam could get his favorite "salad and everything remotely
healthy looking" food from pops into his head.
They are a couple of miles out of town where a large river rushes through sad
concrete beddings. Someone obviously thought this was worth a few parking slots
and an abandoned wooden bench-table-combo. They're sitting on the table,
naturally, feet on the bench, because fuck everyone who thinks this ugly shit
of a place is worth a decent picnic. But the salad is great.
Sam dares to let his eyes travel to his side where Dean calmly stares off into
the distance, maybe the water, maybe another dimension, God knows where. The
burger and fries in his lap are half-eaten and most probably cold by now.
"You sick?" he mutters, regarding the fact that Dean Winchester is actually a
dog in human form who will eat everything and everyone at every given time and
place - except for when he's not feeling too well. And that is never a good
sign, no matter how mad Sam has been before or is right now.
"Tastes like ass." Dean makes a face matching his words.
"The salad's good though," Sam offers.
"Figured that. They only serve good rabbit food or human food."
Sam drops his eyes back into his almost empty bowl. "You didn't have to… do
this, you know."
"Shut up 'n eat your damn leaves, Samantha."
Sam does as he's told.
"And I. I'm just. You know."
Sam stops chewing.
"You looked like shit. Couldn't exactly leave it like that."
Sam swallows.
There's silence.
It's pathetic how this is as much of an apology he can get out of his brother.
It's pathetic that he has grown up and eventually adapted to it. It's pathetic
that after that dream this morning and the rush of endorphins this noon, Sam
accepts it as an actual, loving gesture instead of a shitty excuse for it.
"So... you wanna talk?"
There's a piece of corn and lettuce left, so Sam pushes it around with his
fork. "'Bout what?"
"'Bout you and that…" Sam doesn't look but he knows Dean's mimics are just as
struggling as his voice and choice of words. "… dude…" Sam's guts start
knotting up the salad inside of him. "… behind the bleachers."
"Not really." It's as honest as the sourness in his stomach.
A blessed, short silence hovers between them before Dean finds his mouth again.
"So… you're into dudes?"
"Dunno," he mutters, honest yet again. Sam feels his heartbeat start to fasten
its pace. "'S just…" God, he did not plan to come out, to anyone, ever. To even
need to. What is there to come out with anyway? It's not like- "At the moment,
maybe. Dunno." He feels like saying "sorry" and doesn't know why.
"No girls?"
Sam's nostrils flare with his exhale. "They hate me." He remembers Tina who
punched him so hard in the face for trying to kiss her that the bruise stayed
on his face longer than they did in that particular town. Sam knows Dean
remembers her too, now.
"… You just didn't find the right one yet."
"Maybe."
Silence again, except for the everlasting rush of water in front of them. Air
fills Sam's lungs as if he hadn't taken a breath for a week. He feels light,
yet again; maybe even lighter than after exiting the store-room today. He
doesn't know why.
"… What did you see?"
The question is out of his mouth before he can catch it on the tip of his
tongue and think about whether he really wants an answer to it. Sam turns
towards his brother now, has to look into the general direction of the sun and
blinks against its rays.
"When you followed me?" he adds.
Dean looks great. Awesome, that is. All of the fucking time, that is. Sprayed
with blood or mucus or graveyard dirt? Doesn't fucking stop this asshole from
winning a Mr.-Universe-badge. Maybe even adds to his overall beauty, the stupid
perfect skin, the strong jaw, the artistic build of his nose and cheeks. Makes
his freckles maybe stand out even more, pop out like flowers from the ground so
that every girl in a hundred mile radius feels the urge to drop her panties and
sniff those fucking flowers, maybe lick them off, yeah, fucking rip them out of
these incredibly beautiful eyes in between jerky lashes and suck on lips that
would put every more or less pornographic imagery of any lips Sam has ever seen
to blunt shame.
Moonlight, sunlight, darkness, cloudy grey skies, dust, fire, water, ice - his
brother is stunning. And Sam hates him for it.
His brother blinks, his mouth doing that little dance it apparently has to
perform to find less asshole-y words in his impressive vocabulary unfortunately
dominated by exactly this kind of words.
Sam knows what happened behind those bleachers. Sam knows that the chance that
Dean doesn't know is about as thin as the air rushing through their hair right
now. Sam knows that he has to know or he won't ever be able to stop questioning
endless "what if?"s during sleepless nights. He has enough of those already.
"Saw that you, uh. Are not exactly the 'holding hands'-type of guy?"
With a tired groan, Sam drops his face into his hands. Great. Absolutely great.
He rubs his eyes but stays hunched over, elbows on his knees. There isn't
exactly anything to defend himself here, so why the fuck even try?
"Hey."
There's a hand on his back, recognizable even through hoodie and shirt, warmer
than the spring sun. It rubs in familiar circles, once, twice. Then it's gone
again. Familiar.
"Don't beat yourself up. If that's what you do… well… then… that's what you
do."
Sam dares to peek up at his brother from in between his giant palms.
"Or who, that is," Dean adds and shrugs, super uncomfortable and awkward,
easily given away by the strange jerking motions of the corners of his mouth
and the ticking of his jaw.
Sam feels like seven-year-old, bed-wetting Sammy again. His voice bubbles up
incredibly soft in his throat when he says: "Please don't tell Dad."
Dean's eyes dart to his ones for a fragment of a second before shying away
again. "Dunno what you're talkin' 'bout, Sammy. Y'must've hit your head during
that very responsible wrestling club activities of yours."
The invisible air quotes around the last part of his brother's sentence make
Sam want to throw up and break into laughter at the same time. Instead, he
huffs a laugh through a soft smile and runs his fingers through the thickness
of his hair. Next to him, he knows without having to take a look that Dean is
smiling as well.
"'S really crazy," Dean says to no one in particular, voice distant and soft
and worried and so so so fucking beautiful, "I never thought you'd. You know.
With guys. I mean. Wow."
Again, Sam feels the need to excuse himself for what he's done, what he
apparently is. "Maybe it's just a phase," he offers instead.
"Yeah, sure, and 'maybe' the sky is blue and water is wet, Samantha."
"Don't call me like that."
"Sammy?"
"Stop."
"Baby boy?"
Sam kicks but misses his brother's shin or even feet, smiles along with Dean's
grin. "Jerk," he says.
"Bitch!" Dean laughs.
There's the hand again, diving into his hair and taking a fistful. The drag of
short, sharp fingernails over his scalp just makes Sam more pliant, tickle a
laugh from him, louder now, a bit like a child's; the kind only Dean get out of
him. A soft tug forwards and back to have Sam nod his head and the hand's gone
again. As much as he hates being treated and touched like that, Sam loves it.
In this scenario, he's safe. He has his brother. He is taken care of. Nothing
can happen. There is only Dad and Dean and the Impala, no past or future but
only the current hunt, the thrill of danger and adrenaline, his brother's
laughter and his Dad's smile and Sam almost stops laughing when he catches
himself being so positive about his shithole of a life. Almost. But then bumps
his fist into Dean's shoulder. Payback.
"Hey!" Dean laughs, swipes his palm over Sam's shoulder instead of punching
back. "So, what now, huh?"
Sam stares into the sun, his brother. It's hurting his eyes in so many ways it
should make him want to look away. But it doesn't.
"No shared beds anymore now? No showering-whizzing collaborations?"
"Huh, why?" He's puzzled, doesn't stop smiling; can't, not when Dean looks at
him like this.
"'Cause. You know. The dick-business 'n all."
Sam laughs hard but confused. "You're not making any sense!"
"Dun wanna give you, you know, the wrong idea or anything. I mean. Come on.
Look at me." He spreads his arms eagle so that his jacket opens like a freaking
winged door. Sam knows this chest, this belly, this whole fucking body, the
smartass living in it, but oh, does he still look when he's told to. He raises
his eyebrow though to let Dean know that this here doesn't sort out what he's
trying to say. Dean drops his arms with a dramatic roll of his stupid big eyes.
God, Sam hates those. "I'm delish. I'm gay cake. Don't eat my cake."
The second eyebrow follows, then draws together in the center of his forehead
with the first one until the wrinkles start to hurt.
"Like. A banana cream pie." He points to his nipples that stiffened when Sam
hadn't paid attention. "With gay sprinkles on top."
The frown stays but Sam has to laugh or he will explode. "Jesus, I- Your cake
is like- You're my brother, Dean!"
"My pie is too delicious to pass, even for a bro, my bro; don't fucking kid
yo'self."
"If you don't stop talking, I'll have to kill you!"
"Death by dick to pie?"
"No dick!" His laughter won't stop, actually gets worse and worse with Dean
staying absolutely exaggeratedly serious.
"But my pie…?"
"There is no brother-pie, oh God; I hate you so much!" Sam jumps off the table
onto his feet, he just has to move or the tingle in his limbs will kill him.
From two steps afar, he can catch his breath and get aware of how flushed his
face is. His palms sweep over his jeans, once, twice, to get rid of the sweat
there.
"Okay," Dean says softly, with a smile too soft for his stupid strong features.
Makes him look like a girl, a sad beautiful woman, makes Sam want to call him
out on it and replace it with his stupid know-it-all-grin.
"This doesn't change anything," Sam says without really knowing why, still a
little out of breath, his neck still sweaty, the sun still burning in his eyes
from looking at his sibling sprawled out on this ugly wooden bench in this ugly
deserted place. Said sibling stays quiet, watches him with awake eyes, big and
shiny and green and with that vibe that only shows when he looks at Sam. Sam's
arms are too long and thin for his body and swing awkwardly around while he
steps back to the bench. "We still can. I mean. If you don't think I'm.
Disgusting or som-"
"You're not," he is interrupted, sharp enough to count as angry. Sam's heart
jumps in his chest.
"O-okay."
"I don't care if you fuck girls or guys or goats or trees-"
"I don't fuck goa-"
"-or whatever, Sam. You're my Sammy, my brother. Don't think anything could
change that, ever." The sun catches the amulet around Dean's neck, secure and
never known to have left that place since that Christmas Eve between the two of
them. Motel rooms and license plates and rushing past imagery in front of the
Impala's windows change, but this, this always stays.
"I know," Sam mumbles softly.
Dean flashes a smile. His Sammy-smile. Sam returns it, his dimples carving into
his cheeks as deep as only Dean can hollow them. He drops and then turns his
head away when he cannot stand staring into the sun any longer.
"But you're clearly missin' out, man."
"Oh, am I?" It's more to himself than to Dean and he kicks a stone or two while
shoving his hands into his hoodie's belly pouch.
"Yeah," he hears from behind, "kissing girls is like. Man. One day you gotta
try."
"Who says kissing guys isn't as good?" Sam feels a bit like flying, light
enough to just take off the ground. He's high on something he can't put his
finger on. He picks his eyes off his feet so that his bangs softly sweep over
his forehead, can't stop smiling right now and looks at his sun-drowned brother
again.
"Dunno." Dean looks a little dumb, face blank, hunched over, elbows on widely
parted knees. Sam hates these jeans on him. "Never done it. You're the
gayxpert, after all." He hates these jeans because they're a tad or two tighter
than the ones Dean usually wears and there are two holes in them, one on his
left knee and a bit lower so there's the idea of fuzzy leg hair poking out. Sam
hates that the light blue denim looks so fucking fantastic against Dean's even
lighter skin. "Wanna show me?" The hole also gives a good view of that one scar
that came from th-
"… What?"
Dean's face stays blank. His mouth doesn't dance or move or even twitch at all.
"If it's so great, introduce me to the magic."
Sam's kneecaps dissolve into sand.
"Come on, I'm feelin' lucky."
"I hate you so much, Dean." It's a lie and somehow it isn't.
"Come on, 's just a kiss. I'm curious!"
He's serious. That can't be. This is a joke. Don't fall for it, Sammy. "You
said… No gay cake…!"
"It's pie, Sam, gay pie; and I wanna taste the frosting. Just the frosting, not
the damn filling or anything, just-" Sam is almost happy that Dean stops
running his sex-pie-analogy for a second but the raised eyebrows are never a
good sign. "Or… you're a bad kisser. You are? You are. I knew it." A new wave
of heat rises into Sam's cheeks which is as predictable as immature. Dean
grins. It's another one, not the Sammy-grin. The asshole-grin. "Sammy's kissing
sucks ass! Wait, that's good in a gay way, right? Then, uh. Then you're kissing
is-"
"Shut your mouth!" Sam barks, probably as red as a tomato and about as
convincing as one.
Dean's laughter burns in all the wrong ways and there's a new sheet of sweat on
his palms. "God, that bad, Sam? Seriously? Wow, now I feel bad for that dude-"
"Shut it." He spits the words as sharply as his steps take him to his brother,
repeats it another few times until he's come to a halt in front of him where he
can smell the Impala and all the Dean-scents that form that stink he is
disgusted with and hates and wants to shower off his own body every evening but
never succeeds since he has to lie down right back into it afterwards. Like
this, with him standing and Dean sitting, he is bigger now, the bigger brother,
the one in power. "Okay, you know what? Fuckin' fine, Dean. Fine."
His heart is racing and all Dean does is blink up at him through his stupid-ass
lashes, thick like some deer's or giraffe's. From this close, his skin seems to
glow in the sunlight. "That's a good boy." A faint smile, a lick over the
bottom lip Sam had split himself many many times, and not one time without a
very good reason for it. Now it's shiny. Great. "Gimme your best shot,
Samantha."
While he leans in to do it, actually, really do it, Sam steadies himself to be
pushed away and laughed at or get a slap to his face or a knee to his crotch.
He goes slow and studies Dean's face for hints what will happen but he gets
closer and closer and there is nothing.
When they are close enough to share each other's breath, when Sam can feel the
heat radiating from his brother's skin, he watches Dean's eyes slip close.
The next second, he's kissing him.
It's soft. It's fucking soft like pillows or cotton balls or puppy fur. It's
salty from fries and sugary from the soda and terribly low-dangerous-spicy-
musky like his brother always smells like. Breath stays caught in Sam's throat
while his mouth does its thing without a real plan. He presses down more and
Dean's lips give. The tiniest nods and they slide against each other, the spit
Dean put there just a few moments ago easing the way.
Sam inhales with a stutter when Dean almost unnoticeably exhales, tastes burger
without onion, a hint of Pepsi. More pressure, more slide. Their noses touch.
Sam cannot feel his hands or feet anymore. Dean kisses back, pushes his jaw up
into Sam's and there's a sound in between them that makes Sam jump and then
kiss harder. He takes a mouthful of Dean's lips and sucks the spit from them,
replaces it with his own with a swipe of tongue.
When he pulls back, he sucks Dean with him until the kiss ends with the tiniest
wet smack.
His spine slowly straightening back up, Sam stares at the dirt on the tip of
his shoes. He listens to the river behind him and the wind in his hair and
their hitched, superficial breathing.
"Hm."
Dean's voice sounds alien, so alien. It takes a lot to hold back the tears
whose origin Sam doesn't even know.
"Gay frosting, huh," his brother huffs and gets up.
The salad rumbles in Sam's stomach.
"Come on."
He follows into the Impala without even spending one thought about the waste
they now officially left on that falling apart bench-table-combo.
 
"So. You're the pie or the fork?"
Algebra is enough of a bitch already without Dean picking this shit up while
Sam is trying to solve his homework. It being Thursday aka Marc not having
training tonight aka no sexy smexy Ping-Pong-table-action is hard enough of a
kick to the balls as it is. Why? Why, destiny, why?
"See this pen, Dean? I bet it can make real funny patterns into the Impala's
paint."
"Wow, no need to bitch all over the place, princess." Sam hears him flip a page
in his comic. "Way to prove your point though, my little pie-bro."
"One day you will die a horrible death," he breathes into his hair and hand and
homework and all the misery of his life, "and I'd like to tell you right now
that no matter how unrealistic that is… it will be my doing."
"That boyfriend of yours needs to up his game, huh." Another flip. Sam
considers putting the comic on fire.
"What boyfriend?"
Sam wishes he hadn't looked up at Dean. It would have speared him from a very
vulgar jerking off motion. "Bleacher-guy," Dean titles his performance.
Math. Where was he? "He's not my boyfriend." It's a mumble and just a
statement. Sam isn't sad about it or anything. No. Really. That'd just be
stupid.
"Just a one-time-thingy then?"
His hair feels like he should wash it soon. He wants it nice and shiny when he
strangles his brother with it. "I'm trying to do my homework, Dean."
A short silence. No comic to be heard.
"So you're fuck-buddies."
"That's it." His pen flies all over the desk and the floor. It probably broke.
Sam doesn't give a shit. "That's fucking it, Dean. You know why I don't tell
you shit anymore? Because this is what happens afterwards!"
"Gosh, calm yo' tits; it's not like sluttyness doesn't run in the family, so-"
"I'm not a slut!" Up on his feet, the anger can flow through and fill his body
better. It's not exactly wise but when Dad's gone ammo-shopping for some hours
and there's just Dean and him, the only rules they play by are the ones their
muscles set. And Sam has a lot of energy to give away tonight. "I don't fuck my
way through every bar and diner in the country like others!"
"Oh, really?" That smug grin… yes. That's exactly what Sam thinks should be
wiped from that terribly handsome face.
"Yeah, really!"
"How many?"
His feet set off without Sam allowing them to. "I won't tell you that."
"'Cause you're a slut." The word rolls of Dean's tongue like a precious piece
of chocolate filled with snake poison and feces and it hits Sam in the face
hard enough to bruise, just like Tina's tiny fist.
"'M not," Sam grinds. He's almost at the couch.
"Think you ar-" Dean gets a knee between his ribs. Then, Sam straddles his
belly, then there's a hand on Sam's neck, then they struggle, grip, roll, fall.
The floor is hard and dirty but Sam's body bleeds hate.
He gathers enough strength to roll them over, gets on top, lands a punch to
Dean's throat - but not a second one. Dean twists their legs until he's clamped
him down, shoves him into a choke-hold. Unable to move, Sam struggles hard,
spits, growls, snarls, tries to scratch, can't. Dean's breath smells like the
Hershey bar he ate earlier and comes in heavy intervals against his bare neck.
Sam tells his leg to kick but only earns more pressure. He whines. Dean uses
more force, bends his joints and tendons until- "CHRISTO!"
Their safeword means immediate release, and Dean sticks to the rule. Even
though he is shaking, Sam tries to get up, gets pulled down by one of what Dean
calls his "octopus arms". Tears swell up in the corners of his eyes.
"Sam."
A strong pull and his arm is free. Sam stumbles towards his shoes, just slips
them on, doesn't tie, grabs the door-handle.
"Sammy, don't; wait-"
"LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" He doesn't care that he spits at the door and slams
it shut afterwards, doesn't care when his shoelaces rip from stepping on them a
dozen times during his run. Through heavy droplets in his lashes, he cannot
exactly see where he's going, but it doesn't exactly matter.
The sun is out and he is as well. It's rare. Dean isn't with him. That's even
rarer. Sam thinks he could grow to like this.
Chapter End Notes
     There's an_audio for the first scene of this chapter.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: This part mentions the topic of suicide via overdose (it
     does not actually happen and if it really was the desired outcome is
     questionable) - if you are triggered by or sensitive to that, please
     do not read!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Until Friday night, Sam blocks all of Dean's tries to apologize, even walks
home from school, ignoring the Impala driving next to him at walking speed.
There is no salad in this world that could soothe him now. If it hurts Dean to
be treated like this, fine, super-fine. That ass should burn. Burn for being
the ass he is, talking the shit he does, crushing Sam's worth between the tips
of two of his perfect fingers. For confusing the hell out of Sam with that
fucking frosting-kissing-pie-shit.
Sam sleeps on the couch, ignoring the pain and discomfort and metal springs in
his back, Dad's annoyed "my sons are idiots" looks and Dean's quivering bottom
lip. It doesn't actually quiver, of course, but Sam gets the idea from this
disgustingly handsome face anyway.
On Friday, he wakes up with the certainty that today is gonna be the day. The
day of sex. The day of Marc and Sam. The day of dick. During lunch break, he
gets another taste, the reward for his hard night on the ugly couch with even
uglier thoughts running through his head. Thoughts about salty fries and sugary
soda on his mouth, on his neck, on his tongue. Two fingers up his ass can make
him relax and forget about a lot, apparently.
The whispers are sweet, hot, and he returns them just as much. He's promised
and praised until his head is spinning with all the honey coating it, until
he's drooling and coming on nothing but two fingers up to the knuckles inside
of him. It's only the third time this has ever happened to him and Sam hopes it
is enough of a proof and promise for Marc in return that tonight is the night.
Like all planets are aligned and shit to make it skull-cracking and mind-
blowing awesome for them. He makes another point by making Marc come down his
throat instead of his jeans.
Sam spends maybe a little bit too much time in the bathroom when he's getting
ready. Maybe that's what sets Dean off, makes him circle his little brother on
his way to his shoes and the door like a puppy about to be abandoned, scared to
lose his master. Master, yes. Suck on that, asshole.
He put on some of Dean's aftershave which Sam doesn't actually need to use but
whose smell he enjoys on his own skin. Dean's face falters in the shadows his
body throws against the light of the hanging lamp when he smells it. "That's
mine," he mutters instead of "Where are you going?" or "You are going nowhere,
Sammy" or "Come on" or "Don't leave".
"Can't exactly take it off, asshole." His shoes slip on easily. In his
backpack, he has toothbrush and sweatpants and new boxers to change into later.
Not to forget that tiny bottle of lube he snatched from the drug store a few
weeks ago. Oh, how it had paid off for him since then… Was it very sad for Sam
to call it his new best friend?
"You're going to see him?"
Sam rolls his eyes with his body hunched over his feet, gets up with a huff
that blows the stray strands of hair out of his eyes. He'll walk half the hour.
Sometimes, he'd kill for a bike. "I'll be back before sunrise, if Dad's
wondering. Little party at the wrestling club." He spits the last two words and
hopes they sting where they land.
Sad eyes rest on him. It's not like Sam doesn't see Dean's tongue move behind
his lips.
He shoves the door open and closed before the soft "Sammy" can reach his ears.
Marc's parents' house is spacy as fuck. The whole top floor, existing of
bathroom, closet and bedroom, belongs to their son. Perfect. No need to get
dressed in between showers and bathroom runs and sex. Sam doesn't say that out
loud though, but it doesn't seem like Marc hasn't experience with the
procedure.
Mommy and daddy are downstairs. Sam ate dinner with them, laughed at Mr.'s
jokes and complimented Mrs.'s cooking skills. It feels a bit like he's really
the boyfriend. The. Ha. Yeah.
Five minutes into the movie, their hands are down each other's pants. Sam can
hardly see anything through his bangs that sway in front of his eyes every
goddamn time he moves on top of Marc, his very quickly jeans- and underwear-
less ass proudly presented to whatever action movie star is shooting dozens of
people on the screen behind them. It's not like he needs to; Marc has him right
where both of them want Sam to be - half-naked, lubed-up middle and index
finger crooked nicely up his ass, on his knees and hands and with his already
throbbing cock leaking against Marc's bare belly. Six pack. He loves six packs.
His hands roam over naked skin where it presents to him, dig for more where
there isn't enough. There, he kisses, groans when the fingers change angle,
starts stuttering and talking nonsense when Marc finally nails his prostate. He
doesn't want to yell or scream even though he needs to, so whimpers and pleads
and incoherent sounds are all he allows.
Half an hour into the movie and oh-so fucking ready to blow his second load
today, Sam draws a new low-line for himself with begging Marc to "fucking
goddammit Marc fuck me already or I'll fuckin' go bawling to your mom about
this". There are lube-slick latex-wrapped perfect seven and then some inches of
best American football-player-quality dick pushing up into his insides before
Sam can even start to put together the letters for the warning that after three
months he probably is-
It burns so hard and deep that Sam has to bite the pillows in order not to
scream, the palm coming down on his right ass cheek not exactly helping in any
way but making his cock drool another bead of precome into the rustled sheets.
"So fuckin' tight, Sam; oh Jesus fuckin' Christ-" Sam wants to say that he
knows, yeah, he knows alright, but instead whimpers into his mouthful of cotton
when Marc starts fucking him without much of a break between initial
penetration, bottoming out and then working him on his dick like he owns the
thing.
For a second, Sam's out, blazed out to that sunflooded bedroom with his twenty-
something-year-old Daniel, Danny, Dan, perfect, wonderful Dan; before he's
back, sudden and awake and aware and this is Marc, not Daniel, so different but
oh does he fuck him good.
Sam bounces his ass back into Marc's hips until he thinks this magical V has
carved itself into his buttocks forever, lets Marc turn him around onto his
back without pulling out in between, kisses and kisses and suddenly there it
is, the most amazing pressure against that one stupid tiny little gland in his
ass and Marc has to wrap his giant, strong hand over his mouth to keep him from
screaming through the best orgasm Sam's had in months.
There is no stopping to the punishing pace and Sam forces himself to bite back
the tears of overstimulation until it's okay again, until Marc pushes his knees
down onto his shoulders and kind of bends him in half to really go to town now.
Sam thinks he'll brake, okay, this is it, this is how he is gonna die; anal
prolapse of death and misery, but it's so fucking amazing and Marc comes undone
so prettily on top of him with the most feral and painful expression ever. His
lungs protest even before Marc collapses down onto him but they stay pinned and
done and wasted like this for an impressive amount of time until Sam pulls
himself together to gently push the guy off of him.
Sweat makes Sam's hair stick to his face and Marc's chest, their skins slippery
against each other - and Sam couldn't be happier about it.
The movie is still playing, forgotten in the back of the room, when Sam comes
to with a startle and due to a most annoying ringtone he knows very very well.
Ignoring Marc's confused and sleepy grunt and heavy arms he untangles himself
from, Sam sprints to his backpack and groans at the pain in his lower back all
the way of it. Wiping sweat and hair out of his eyes, Sam digs the fat portable
phone to the surface.
"Dad?"
"Why isn't your brother answering his phone?"
"Why should I know?"
"Sam, this is not funny. Where is he?"
"Don't fuckin' know, I'm not at the motel right now, so-"
"What?! Where are you?!"
"Jus- Dad, the wrestling club throws a little party and-"
"I don't fucking care about your club; where the fuck is your brother, Sam?!"
Sam's awake. All of a sudden and very intense. "I. I don't know, I- I left him
in the room, where- Wait, where are you? Aren't you in the-"
"Hank called me over for a quick look into something; I'm about four hours away
right now; I- Sam, I don't care where you-"
"I'll check on him!" His sweatpants are in his hands even before Dad started
his sentence. "Don't worry, I- I'll call you in, in twenty, okay?!"
"Sam, I swear to God-"
"I'm GOING, for fuck's sake!!" The phone shuts up and is shoved deep into Sam's
pocket after or while t-shirt and shoes are pulled on.
"Wha's goin' onnn?" a sleepy and cute and adorable and terribly wonderful Marc
groans from the other side of the room where Sam can barely bear to look now
that he knows he has to leave and doesn't know when or if he will return.
"I'll, I'll be- There's, uh, m-my brother, he- I'll be back in an hour or two,
just sleep, sleep; okay? Okay. Sleep. Don't worry. Sleep."
There should be a contest for storming down stairs at eleven PM without waking
any parents or cats with your sense for carefulness being reduced to a
squirming nothing on the floor. Sam would make it to the world championship
every goddamn season.
Through pitch black night, without stars or anything, with ripped laces and a
heartbeat as violent as the thoughts flickering behind Sam's eye sockets, he
runs down street after street, around corner after corner, acid in his lungs
and legs not existent when it's about his family.
Dean would always pick up his phone. Always. At least if he wasn't in a coma or
something. Sam is afraid he'll eventually get to know what this "or something"
could possibly look like.
He bangs at the door but there's no answer. Calling for Dean only earns him
angry shouts from other rooms. Shaking fingers find a paper clip in the tiny
check-in office and finally grant him entrance with a few skilled bends and
prods.
His eyes swim through the darkness of the room, he yells again - then sees.
All breath and sweat and spit drops from him at once when Sam falls to his
knees in the door frame. He doesn't believe this.
With an empty and another halfway empty bottle of whatever next to him on the
nightstand, there's Dean, sitting on the bed in the darkness with his eyes on
the glass between his fingers.
"I'll fucking kill you," Sam wheezes when he feels like he can move again,
pulls himself up on shaky legs and the door closed behind him. Halfway in the
room, the emergency phone rings and Sam picks up without letting his eyes leave
his brother for one second. "He's here. He's okay. I'll take care of 'im. Yeah.
No. You don't have to come over yet. Tomorrow; okay. Bye."
Dean doesn't look up when Sam comes to a halt right next to him.
"What in the name of hell do you think you're doing?"
Still no reaction. So Sam slaps his head, hard.
"I'm fucking TALKIN' to you, asshole!!"
"Don' scweam like tha'; Gosh-"
"I'LL SCREAM MY LUNGS OUT IF THAT PLEASES ME!! LOOK AT ME!!"
Dean doesn't. Sam sends his glass flying across the room before it shatters
against a wall John won't pay before or after they leave. Sam grants exactly
two seconds of waiting before he climbs on top of his brother and grips his
jaw. His nails digging into this gut-wrenchingly perfect skin is like oil to
his joints.
"Look at me!" he pants through his teeth, shakes the useless skull in his
fingers.
Dean's reaction doesn't come. His eyes are lidded and heavy, dropped down
without really focusing anything.
"You think this is funny? Is this funny to you, huh??"
Dean huffs something but it's way too soft and low to understand.
"What? Say that again, motherfucker, what?? Do you know how fucking scared I-"
"'owwy," Dean's mouth lulls.
"What?" Sam feels his brother's jaw move underneath his fingers and lets go of
it. His eyes can't find a good way to focus and jump all over Dean's face, his
pale cheeks, the slack lips, the-
In the corner of his left eye, he sees something orange.
The pills are precious because money is meant for food and gas and ammo. They
get them for broken bones after many days of tears and pain, just to be able to
fall asleep again. The cap is cracked open.
"'orry," Sam hears.
His vision blurs. "You stupid- You-" It's hard to think, so hard to think. "H-
how- how many did you-"
"Naaah," Dean moans, tries to touch his forehead but misses by miles, "One,
jus' one, Sammy, God-"
The grip into Dean's shirt turns Sam's knuckles white. "Are you sure?!"
"Ye'," Dean slurs, frowns at the violent shaking he gets that lolls his head to
the side.
"Are you REALLY sure?! DEAN?!"
"YE' GO' FUC' S'MMY!!" Dean cries, his whole face scrounged up in agony, his
hands coming up to protect himself but Sam pulls both of them into one of his
own. There is not the slightest struggle to pull them free.
"You fuckin' idiot, God, Dean; I-" His whole body hurts, inside and outside,
left and right. Sam lets go of Dean's shirt and brushes up his neck to feel his
pulse. It's slow but steady, the skin sticky with cold sweat. Dean leans into
the touch and Sam watches his shaky fingers bump against the hint of nine-o-
clock-shadow.
Sam sniffles, then sobs. His nose tickles from the tears and snot falling from
it.
Dean's eyes rise up to meet his own.
"Why'd you… why'd you do this…?" Sam croaks, cradles his brother's face and
suddenly feels the urge to count all the freckles, keep watch of if they're
still there, all of them, if they're in line, if they're okay-
He collapses with his arms thrown around Dean's neck and bawls. Bawls worse
than when he had to leave Bones behind, worse than when Dean had to leave for
Sonny's, worse than he'd thought he still could bawl for his ass of a brother.
"'orry," Dean mumbles into his hair, over and over again, as if this doesn't
make Sam's crying worse.
"You asshole! You idiot! I hate you!! You can't jus- LEAVE ME here, you- I-"
"'orry," he hears, "'orry, 'ammy, 'o 'orry…"
The tears don't find an end until almost half an hour later.
"'m sowwy," Dean slurs.
"You better be." He feels like shit. He sounds like shit. Probably looks like
shit. Great. Just great. Curled up on his useless, absolutely wasted big
brother, Sam sniffles his chest, nudges the amulet over with his nose. "You
stink."
"'S the whisky."
"You don't say."
"'oo much?"
"Yeah, way too much, Einstein. And one of our Chuck-Norris-pills."
"Jus' wanted t' sleep."
Sam bathes in the body heat he cannot take for granted anymore after that last
hour. He's so angry he'll give Dean the shittiest time of his life for the next
few months once the sun is up and he's sober enough to be reasoned with, but
right now, all he can do and wants to do is lie here and be grateful for his
brother to simply be alive.
"Din't want t' think 'nymore. 'oo much think."
A familiar hand finds his hair. It is neither light nor warm, but he lets it
search its ways anyway.
"Sowwy, Sammy."
There's a heartbeat underneath his ear. Sam closes his eyes to hear it even
better.
"I'm 'n idi't. Wooorwst browtherrr ewerrrr."
Sam chuckles at how Dean tries to sound dramatic even now that he cannot
properly pronounce any word in the English language. Or, any language, that it.
"Yeah, you are."
"'D I cockbl'ck you, Sammy?"
"Yeah." Sam remembers. Thinks. Gives up. "Yeah, you did," he sighs.
"Aw. 'm sowwy, Sammy."
There's shifting underneath him. He peels his head off his brother's chest.
"You wanna move?"
"Yea', yea'," Dean nods, clenches the hand in Sam's hair as hard as he probably
can aka almost not at all, "'P 'ere, c'm 'p 'ere."
"Up? Next to you?"
"Yea'."
Sam does but scrounges his nose once he hits the pillows. "Ugh. Did you eat a
Ghul's ass? Seriously…"
"No eat," Dean states and shoves their noses together.
"You stink," Sam repeats. Dean pets his hair in response. "You stink and I hate
you."
Slack lips brush against his own.
His breathing stops for more than one reason.
"'ammy."
Another. Sam can only stiffen his body and stare.
"'mmy."
"Stop." He's awake again, up on his elbow, staring down on his brother who is
so close to falling asleep he doesn't even react or keep his eyes open anymore.
Panic ties up Sam's chest. "You're drunk," he tells the mess of hair in the
pillows. There's a stutter to his voice and a cramp to his stomach.
"'ammy."
"… Don't." It's soft, confused. He feels lost.
Dean falls asleep.
Sam is alone.
After putting his brother into stable side position and being about ninety nine
percent sure he is not going to move - he barely does when he's sober and has
never done it once when he'd come home drunk or even only tipsy -, Sam leaves
for Marc's once more.
He can't stay in this bed, this room; not like this, not with this new stream
of "what if"'s pulsing in his brain. What he needs is what Dean had said - not
wanting to think. Too much think. And he knows a perfect cure for that.
         [http://41.media.tumblr.com/4f7facc970e23be2c77692430b5f7c38/
                     tumblr_nkah6yQqiM1tbglmro1_1280.jpg]
Marc awaits him like Sam had told him to: deeply asleep. Maybe he will ask
himself how Sam got back into the house without a key… and maybe not.
The bed he climbs into is warm and smells nice, smells like sex and latex and,
okay, a bit like ass, but that cannot be changed when a colon is involved. Sam
undressed and sighs at how the sheets shift and brush against his bare skin.
Reclaiming his spot on Marc's chest tickles sleepy noises from him, motivates
an arm to drape itself around Sam's back and shoulders.
"Hey. You awake?" His fingers find a nipple to flick at.
Marc makes an unwilling noise.
"My ass is lonely," he purrs.
Marc groans, squeezes his shoulder tighter. "My dick's asleep."
Great. Sam huffs against tight skin on bulging pecs, traces lips and fingers
over it in random patterns. He tries hard not to stare out the window into the
starless night but into the white, tidy sheets.
There's a nose in his hair and a hand on his back. There's warmth underneath
and around him and a heartbeat underneath his ear.
But it's off. Wrong.
When Sam falls asleep, he dreams of an empty orange bottle.
As soon as he can get Marc into it, Sam wraps himself around him as tight and
overpowering as he can. A blowjob to get his attention, a ride on his lap as
soon as enough blood rushed south and as soon as he finally found the condoms.
When he lets his hips drop, his mind finally, finally, for fuck's sake finally
goes blank. It's in to the hilt and Marc's hands hold him by his slim, boyish
hips, maybe think they can decide on the rhythm like that, but no, not today,
not now. Sam doesn't exactly need a hand here.
Slow eight-figures, just to feel the wonderful girth inside of him, the
fullness - then a slow rise and drop, his hands securely placed on Marc's
chest, his knees wide apart. His eyes are closed and invisible anyway behind
his bangs. Tiny gasps and mewls escape him, but they're soft, low.
"I never thought it'd be like this," he hears Marc say, "With a guy, I mean."
He breaks into a smile. "You like it?"
A jolt goes through Sam's body when his ass is spanked hard and once out of
nowhere. His smile doesn't falter but for a bite to his bottom lip.
"Uh-hu." The returned smile is invisible but not inaudible to Sam. "You like it
too?"
"Uh-hu," Sam parrots and dwells in the subtle squelching noises from where
Marc's dick is sliding in and out of him. They haven't even started sweating
yet. This is gonna be a great morning. He picks up his pace because ugh, as
soon as the initial burn and incredible stretch fade and his muscles open up
all nicely, it's like they beg for more, and oh, how happily Sam gives in to
them at a time like this.
"I could do this all day." The affection in Marc's voice is adorable, but yet…
Sam cannot really put his finger on it. Uncomfortable? It makes him want to get
up and push him away, just go home and never talk to him again. This is a
flirt, a game, whatever, nothing that deserves such a loving tone.
"Gotta leave after breakfast," Sam hums with an especially nice thrust. He
smiles even though he doesn't feel like it.
"Is food at five PM still breakfast when we call it like that?"
He huffs a laugh. "It's a family-thing, I can't miss it; sorry." It's a "I
think my brother tried to kill himself last night so I gotta check if he ended
up succeeding"-thing. You wouldn't understand, mortal.
"Aw, it's the weekend; come on!"
I don'tgetweekends. "Shhh, now jus' close your eyes and lemme handle this here-
" Sam bends his back, places his hands further behind him and his feet on the
bed. His own eyes roll back at the first hard crash downwards and Marc doesn't
sound disappointed at the change either. "-okay?"
"Okay," Marc pants. Good boy.
There is no more talking, no more distraction. It's not like either of them
could have continued anything of that sort, anyway. Sam knows how to angle his
hips, easily bounces thanks to slender but strong thighs and calves. His
shoulders support him when his head drops backwards, bent, in bliss, perfect.
Almost unneeded is the fist that slides around his cock so that he fucks into
it with his movements, unneeded as in his prostate gets all the intention it
hopefully needs to shut its needy mouth for the next probably dry weeks. It's
never guaranteed to find some nice dude who also is into him and on top of that
looks good and maybe if Sam is lucky has a dick that knows how to make him
loose his mind. The last three months were a good example of that.
Or Phil. Phil is - or, better said: was - a good example of how some not
fulfilled requirements - or, in this case: just one - can ruin the whole
package. Phil was cute alright. Nice, big, broad shoulders, a smile that Sam
would have done evil things for if it had asked him to. But he wanted to talk.
Talk a lot. Get to know Sam. "What are all these scars about, baby?" Oh, and he
also called him baby. Which was. Not okay. In any way. Sam is no baby.
Nobody's. "Baby, why don't you talk to me?" "Baby, don't you like me?" He
almost followed Sam to the house they were squatting in which would have been a
catastrophe in every possible way. Phil was really cute. Too cute.
But Marc is good. If he keeps his mouth shut, he is perfect. Perfect to fuck,
shut Sam's brain out on, satisfy his needs, maybe share a little piece of
warmth and give away the tiniest peek into a life not as broken as his own.
If only just for a few hours, Sam can pretend his life isn't all that shitty.
It's almost eleven when they reach the motel. Sam's fingers stutter over the
ridges of his backpack's straps.
"You live here?"
Sam doesn't like the pitiful, negative, disgusted way Marc wraps the "here"
into. "'S jus' temporary," he lies, "'till we find a house Dad is happy with."
There was this house once, until it burned down. They haven't been to Lawrence
in years.
"Oh. Okay." Sam doesn't like the distrust in the "oh".
"I gotta go. Thanks for everything." He forces a smile that he hopes is sexy.
Maybe better put a hand on Marc's knee in addition. "And for driving me.
Thanks, really."
"You're welcome." Marc kisses him. Both are tired but this is what you do after
spending the night, right? "So. Monday? As usual?"
"As usual," Sam nods, exits the car. His smile fades until Marc's car and all
of it is gone.
The room stinks like a bar. And not like one of the good ones. Actually, not
even like one of the remotely acceptable ones.
"Dean, you gotta get up." He doesn't push softly. Not that he intends to. "Come
on, Dad's gonna give you hell if he finds you like this." The Impala is still
gone - Sam had checked that first, of course.
His brother makes an unhappy gurgling sound and a face that would look funny in
the eyes of someone who didn't go through an emotional roller coaster of a
night.
"'S your own fault." Another shove.
"… What time's it?" Yeah. Those almost two bottles did their deed to Dean's
voice.
"As good as eleven."
"… Urgh."
Dean is lying on his stomach and hides his face in the pillows. Fortunately,
there is no puke to be seen. Sam sits down next to him and the well-used
mattress makes a sorry sound. It could have also come from his absolutely
destroyed ass but oh, it's his souvenir of some nice hours, so he'll cherish
the pain as long as it lasts.
Dean's back is warm through his t-shirt where he rubs it in small circles. Not
that the ass deserves it. "How long've you been up?"
"Dunno. Took a whizz. Puked some. Brushed my teeth. Back to bed."
"Sounds like a busy night."
"Yeah. Whatever. And yours?"
"Hm?"
"Your night. You weren't here."
Why and how he could have been so upset last night… for the sake of his life,
Sam cannot imagine it right now. "… It's not my job to rub your belly if you
decide to drink your own body weight in whiskey."
"Urgh… Don't say that…"
"What? Whiskey?"
"Urgh."
It's almost fun to do this. Almost. Sam flattens his palm. It has grown big
enough to connect his brother's shoulder blades with thumb and pinkie when he
spreads them. "I'm fuckin' tired. 'Cause I ran here, in the middle of the
night, with my pants around my fucking ankles, Dean, because Dad called me to
say that he couldn't reach you."
No reaction. Of course not. Sam wants to sigh to relieve the pressure in his
chest but his lungs won't open up enough.
"And then I- I couldn't sleep, bec- You. You were lying here, an'. You were
out. Like. Reallyout. And then I saw the pills. You know you took one of the
pills, right?"
Dean doesn't move.
"You did. And you'll have to tell Dad. He doesn't know yet."
"… What'd you tell him?"
"That you're okay an' that I'm taking care of you." His palm rubs trough spiky,
gooey hair. It's out of place like everything in Sam's life. Sam hates how Dean
always tries to make it look good, to show off. High school dropout but hey, at
least his hair looks good. "Better tell him as soon as he arrives. If he counts
'em and sees one is missing, he'll flip out."
"I know," the pillow grunts.
In the silence of the room, his heart bumps against the dry base of his tongue.
"… Why'd you do it?"
No answer. His lungs shrink and shrink and shrink.
"Dean."
Nothing.
"I thought you'd. You. That you'd tried to-"
"Oh for God's sake, Sam; you quit that bullshit talkin' right now, you hear
me?!"
Sam does as he's told. Between teeth and palate, his tongue is sandpaper.
"C'mere. Come. Lie down, okay? It's alright. I'm alright. I didn't do anything
to- to- God. Why would you think that, huh? Do you think I'm this stupid? This
selfish?"
Next to his brother, pressed up to his warm and alive body, Sam could never
bring himself to lie about this, no matter how angry he is and how much it
would hurt Dean and no matter how much he does deserve to be hurt. Sam's
forehead rubs over Dean's shoulder when he shakes his head.
"See? I'd never. Okay? … Hey. … Hey. Sammy."
He sobs.
"Don't cry."
"I'm not crying." He sobs again. Dean's t-shirt dampens where he has buried his
face into it.
"I'm not worth that." Dean's voice is raspy and deep. The way it reverberates
in Sam's ears and neck and spine is one of the many sweet pains Sam has learned
to endure and accept and crave. "I'm a jerk, right? Big, big jerk. Stupid big
brother. Stupid big brothers sometimes do shitty things." Fingers brush through
his oily teenager mop of hair. It's a mean trick. A mean trick that makes pain
subside and tears dry and that makes Sam decline haircuts. One of the many mean
voices in his head whisper that if his hair was short, would anyone even bother
to touch it?
After a while of last, soft quakes of Sam's chest, Sam's arm is steady enough
to wrap itself around his brother. "… Man. Shit. What am I saying?" Dean
snickers into his hair, "I think I'm still drunk."
It should bother him, right? The sweaty, disgusting smell here against Dean's
neck, right? He shouldn't be able to tell apart the aftershave and even the
deodorant from the whole monstrosity of it. "Y'sure smell like it."
"Still stinky?" The giggle tickles on Sam's scalp.
"Like you bathed in it-"
Wait. Wait a moment. Stop. Still? Oh. Like, still as in "as a continuation of
last night"? His thoughts vanish for a second, then break loose again, leave
him lost and in a place he doesn't want to be.
"What, uhm. What do you remember? From last night, I mean."
There is a gap between the question and Dean's quiet answer. "What'd you mean?"
"'S just a question," Sam lies.
"Did I do something embarrassing?"
Sam's left knee twitches against Dean's thigh. "Mh."
"Did I puke on you?"
A rejecting sound.
"Did I cry?"
His eyebrows furrow slightly. "Why would you cry?"
"Shit do I know." The answer comes fast. Very fast. Too fast. But silence
follows, so that's all of an answer there is to get. "… Wait… Did you bad-touch
me?!"
"What?! No!" The words are out before Sam can push himself away a few inches to
glare at his brother with all the outrage he can scratch to the surface.
"You took advantage of me!" Dean's pretty mouth makes one pretty exaggerated
"o". He sometimes jokes about how being a movie star is his true destiny, and
in moments like this, Sam would almost grant him enough talent for maybe a C-
class soap opera. At most. "While I was drunk! On the bed! M-my pie…!? You
monster!!"
The pretty "o" vanishes before Sam can protest again, breaks into open, dark
laughter. On muscle-memory-mode, Sam gasps for air even before Dean's fingers
find his armpits and ribs and the side of his back. Involuntarily, he kicks his
legs under the tickles he cannot escape, the ones that makes every body hair
stand up and tingle so bad in his lungs that no matter how terrible he had been
feeling only a second before, he has to laugh. Laugh so hard it hurts, until
his belly cramps and he's drooling and tears start to build in his eyes from
the exertion of it. And Dean laughs along with him.
"My gay lil' monster," Dean huffs while breathing away the pain Sam's foot
planted into his shin under the covers.
The fingers slip up his chest, collarbone, neck, jaw, ears, into his hair. Sam
cannot catch his breath.
"'M not a monster," he wheezes. The nails scrape. Sam's head is light.
There's a nose against his own. A forehead.
A brush of lashes against his cheek later, there are lips.
He makes a sound he doesn't want to make, feels his body jolt and jump and
squirm on the inside but cannot move. Desperate efforts to hold in his breath
only result in a more erratic one.
His eyes are loosely closed, tired from the tickling, his mouth paralyzed.
Dean nudges against him harder, just a tiny nod, but it sends their mouth
crashing closer as well as bloody heat into the back of Sam's head where Dean
holds him; into the big space between his shoulder blades where sweat pools
under his handed-down Star Wars t-shirt.
Sam is wheezing but still can't move. Dean's breath that comes shooting from
his nose Sam cannot only smell but taste; like mint and whiskey and sour sleep
and Dean.
It's soft. So fucking soft. When his hand finally moves, it's numb; his side
number when it slides over the bed, just a few inches, but Dean follows
immediately as if this was a move they did together, holds him, and Sam has the
impression of being draped over completely even though his brother only rolls
himself over the tiniest bit.
Another sound comes when he tries to turn his head. It reminds Sam of Bones but
this here came from his own throat. The necklace's leather string tangles
around his fingers like it wants to tie him up here and he grabs it as if it
could keep him from falling. Dean's jaw pushes Dean's bottom lip into Sam's
harder. Until Sam kisses back.
This sound came from Dean. More like a deep breath, really, with the hint of
something Sam cannot put his finger on.
The mouth disappears, brushes over Sam's cheek, temple, buries itself in the
hair above his ear. Dean's arms are almost crushing him, the shared heat
between their chests enough to burn their skins, Sam is sure, so sure of that -
and then it's gone.
Dropping onto his belly without the support, Sam presses his ear into the
pillow while he hears the bathroom door fly open and crash shut. He turns cold,
colder than simple drying sweat should make you feel like.
Through the paper-thin walls, he listens to clothes dropping on slick tiles and
water being run.
As much as he wanted not to breathe earlier, he wishes he could be able to now.
Dad returns half an hour later and Sam stares at his knees, pretending to do
his homework. The scolding at the other end of the room is short but effective.
Dean is clever enough not to show one little sign of rebellion, of "it wasn't
that bad". An endless loop of "yessir" and "I know" and "I was reckless" comes
in quiet breaths from an exhausted, miserable big brother, the oldest son, the
failure. If Sam wasn't as terrified out of his mind, he would be sorry for him
right now, maybe feel the need to go over and defend his brother. But he can
barely think straight.
The thought of leaving for the library or Marc's or somewhere, doesn't really
matter where, just away from here, out of this room, crosses his mind. It
really does. But Sam is afraid his knees won't even let him get up.
"… Pill?" he hears. His stomach cramps.
"'T was just one. One, sir." Dean sounds like he's about to cry.
"… You took a pill? Two bottles of liquor and a fucking PILL, Dean?!"
Please don't scream, please don't scream, please don't.
"Jus' one," Dean's voice croaks.
"What; because you had a fuckin' headache or what?! Are you SHITTING ME, Dean?!
Don't tell me you didn't EXACTLY KNOW WHAT YOU-"
Linoleum floor, door, bright sky.
Sam is out. The sun is, too.
Chapter End Notes
     There is an_audio of the phone call between John and Sam and another
     of Sam finding Dean in their motel room.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: This chapter contains a positive John Winchester moment
     (yes, it exists) and also heterosexual talking/thoughts. Strap your
     holsters tight - let's go!
Two days into being back on the road, it isn't as bad anymore. He's got the
backseat to himself, hogs the discman and devours Tolkien in his probably two-
hundredth read-through.
This time, he would have had the chance to say goodbye. Dad had told them two
days in advance; a shitload of time to work with, honestly. But when the moment
was there, right in front of him, Marc exhausted and kissing him softly after
pulling his jeans back on… "Tomorrow again?" he heard. He nodded. Five hours
later, they were three hours out of town.
It's his game. His rules. He sets them. He controls. He decides. Eat or die.
Or, better yet, first eat and then die. It's not like Sam gives a shit.
At the gas station, Dean grabs himself a candy bar. Sam intently goes for the
water bottle.
"You gotta eat," he hears behind him.
"Fuck you," he says.
Sleeping in the car doesn't get better with age, actually. Neither with height.
At least it's not freezing, just a bit chilly at night; and they're driving
south. Sam can sleep with his shoes off at this rate.
At night four, Dad's old bones let him give in to a diner and motel on the side
of the highway. Just to make Dean suffer, Sam contemplates not ordering
anything, but eventually has mercy with his begging stomach. The warm weight
inside of him doesn't feel right but it soothes the cramps and lets him breathe
easier. Dad is generous and they get dessert - milkshakes and a large beer.
Strawberry flavor explodes on Sam's tongue and the creamy texture has him
sighing into his straw. Dean doesn't finish his vanilla one.
The room is extra-crappy and extra-small and Sam is happy he brought his
blanket from the car with him because no fucking way he is gonna sleep on that
"bed" without something in between it and him.
Sam directly heads for the bathroom, undresses and climbs into the shower.
After over seventy hours in one car together with two other people and the same
pair of socks and jeans, with only short brushings of teeth and appliances of
deodorant in gas stop stalls, he's ready to peel off the first few layers of
his skin if that's what it takes to feel clean again.
The water runs, hot. Sam allows himself to breathe and relax for only a few
seconds before he has to wash down in army-manner in order to leave enough
warmth for the other two.
He hears the bathroom door but leaves his eyes closed. Maybe Dad, just taking a
piss. Or Dean, putting his toothbrush-
Clothes fall. Sam opens his mouth to say something but the curtain is being
pulled open before he can make a sound. Dean steps into the tub, naked and
tired and with his eyes in deep circles. Water splashes into Sam's eyes when
Dean's bowed head meets the stream.
The hand around his neck sends his breathing to hell while Sam tries to keep up
the eye contact, doesn't want to lose, lets his focus flicker in between left
and right green.
"You didn't talk to me all week."
"Won't talk to you all year if I-"
"Sam."
His lip tastes like salt and iron when he sinks his teeth into it. He didn't
turn on the light in the bathroom and is thankful for that, now that his eyes
can no longer stay plastered over that damn face. Its image is imprinted onto
his retinas anyway, so instead he stares over a round shoulder his nose didn't
even reach only a few months ago.
So simple. It's so fucking simple to turn him defenseless. Dean knows that
exactly, the bastard. Knows that Sam cannot stand the view of a miserable big
brother, all dependent on that tiny little fact that Sam is there and Sam is
there for him.
"Sam, I- What I did was stupid. Okay? I won't do it again."
Water from above makes his hair stick to his skin and run over Dean's fingers.
The warmth doesn't reach Sam's stomach that tries real hard to remind his head
that this conversation could be about the pill-incident but also about the-
"Sure hope you don't!" he snaps, loud enough to make it sound bitter and to
push his thoughts away.
"I won't." Dean's voice is soft and quiet. When Sam hears John sit down and put
his journal on the table through the closed door, he realizes that Dean had
kept his voice low like that all along, that Dean doesn't want John to know
he's talking about that night to him. "I promise, Sammy. Okay? Don't be mad at
me. Please, man."
It has been a hard few days. Not that any days aren't hard lately. Yellow Eyes'
traces aren't getting clearer at all and John is getting more and more
frustrated with every new day that doesn't bring any news. And then Dean's
slip-up. Dad had been furious, even in the car these past few days. Years of
unspoken words and unresolved tension taught Sam to endure trips like that but
it doesn't get any easier - he just gets stronger. Colder. Doesn't drown in
Dean's sad eyes when he peeks up at their Dad and gets no sign of a response.
Doesn't flinch at any of the many unnerved sighs from John, the way they make
Dean's shoulders spike up and his head drop. Not anymore. Not that often
anymore.
But this, this he could never dismiss. This sting when Dean's eyes are on him
like giant spotlights, showering him with attention. Usually, he gets those
when Dean wants something, asks him to do something for him, to keep a secret
or sleep somewhere else for the night. They come in company of sweet words, so
rare and so soothing. Sam can count the "please"'s he gets per month on one
hand in contrast to a wide variety of mockings and swearwords. It's disgusting
to himself how he would lick them from the bare ground if he had to.
"You stink," he manages with a huff, rolls his eyes, grabs the soap bar that
has seen better and brighter days, better and brighter guests. His tongue licks
against the back of his teeth at the sound of Dean's soft chuckle, the single
approving knead of his fingers into his stiff neck before they vanish.
"Yeah, yours's rubbing off on me!" The bar leaves his fingers quicker than Sam
had hoped but he lathers his hair with what he could get.
"'S not." They are louder now. Serious lines are done and this is as much of an
explanation and apology and pretty much everything on what happened that night
and Sam knows. Isn't happy but knows. Accepts. "Jerk."
"Bitch!" The blow Sam gets into his ribs from a very slippery and strong elbow
punches some air out of his chest. "Turn around. Tryin'a wash my junk here,
princess."
"'M turned," Sam mutters because yes, he is. But his cheeks flush anyway, in
that stupid way shame makes them do it, splotchy and with spots of white in
between. Because yes, sure, that had to be mentioned. Totally.
They're back to back with the tiniest gap in between their bodies, big enough
to keep the illusion of privacy and small enough to share the stream from
above. Sam scrubs the soap into his hair extra hard to overpower the innocent
sound of skin on skin behind him.
 
It would be shameful if he'd give himself a chance to think about it for as
much as one second - but Dean never complains or mocks, so Sam will lie on top
or shoved right up next to his brother until his body weight has become a
threat of crushing Dean in the process. Even then, he speculates, there won't
be a change to that.
"You like my stink."
John is in the bathroom now, Sam can hear the water run. Dean's voice is low
and secret, just for him, but nevertheless he fears John will hear that smug
grin through the entire two rooms.
"I don't," he insists, arm thrown across Dean's chest, knee pulled up tight up
to his own belly. His other half is dangling from the edge of the too tiny
mattress. Honestly, he would try to make it look less like he has his face
buried in Dean's armpit if he had any muscular strength or human dignity left
inside of him. Dean's arm securely pressing him down right here, the pressure
and warmth of it, always has his eyes droop fast. He'd try fighting it, if, uh,
yeah. Dignity. Nope.
"Sure do. You always lie there."
'Cause it's comfy as fuck, he'd say if he was honest and brave and out of his
mind. Of course, he doesn't. Instead, he sighs, which is honest as well, at
least. It's not his favorite thing to do to forcefully ignore Dean over a
longer period of time, but sometimes it's what it takes to make the asshole
remember his place; to give Sam at least an illusion of being worth something
to his big brother as well. And as strangely satisfying the "apology" was, just
as harsh Sam now notices how it physically wears him out to get to that point.
He wants to sleep for days, and not in the car; like this, exactly like this.
"Maybe that's what turned you gay, huh? Being around me like that all the
time?"
A knee into Dean's flank, soft but bony, causes a labored laughter into his
hair and a smile on his own face. It's good that the room is barely lit and his
own eyes are closed; he wouldn't want to see how terribly and stupidly happy he
or how amused Dean must look right now.
"You sleep with them like this, too?"
'F course not, he wants to bark immediately but the breath for it dies halfway
up is throat. Because it wasn't meant as a lie in the first place - but it
actually is one. Sam's lashes drag along Dean's cotton t-shirt as he blinks his
eyes open in confusion.
He has never given this much thought, or any at all. But now that it's out of
Dean's mouth, it's just there, present and real and like a punch to the guts.
He does. He actually does. If they do not pull him into this position, he
climbs into it, searches for it; the warmth, the soothing rhythm of a heart.
This is bad. This is real bad. And on top of it, he took too fucking long to
bark his obligatory sassy comeback in order to distract Dean; oh fuck, and now
his heartbeat is turning it up a notch, just to make it even more obvious. Dean
surely can feel it against his side… but his one stays calm. The palm on his
shoulder rubs it soothingly.
They stay like that, silent and maybe a bit stiffer than before; at least
that's what Sam's impression is. The first few moments, he considers trying to
defend himself, tries to think of a harsh something to throw at his brother to
prove how utterly wrong and ridiculous that idea is, because duh, that'd be
just sick, wouldn't it? Who would be this sick, huh? Not him. Not ever.
But Dean doesn't make any efforts to make Sam feel uncomfortable, breathes
evenly as if he was close to falling asleep. As always, his brother's mood
bleeds onto Sam after a while. By the time John exits the bathroom, he has
melted into the position as if nothing awkward has ever happened.
"You'll grow together one day," their Dad chuckles after Sam hears his steps
come closer and then still next to them. He sounds tired, surely is after so
many hours behind the wheel. Droplets of water splash on Sam's cheek while
there are meaty fingers brushing through his hair, petting his head. Sam
pretends hard to be asleep. Dad's affection is too rare, too sudden to really
enjoy it; it is nothing to bathe in and think back to during hard times. The
hand is gone before Sam can come up with the memory of the last time Dad
actually hugged him.
The springs in the bed next to them scream, covers rustle, and then there's
silence.
 
The hand is back too early, too tight around his shoulder. Sam groans into
Dean's armpit as he is shaken, softly but not too softly. That is the hand who
doesn't take "no" for an answer, after all.
"Wake up, boys. Mornin' run."
Sam hates his legs. They're just too long, too skinny, too awkward. Like the
rest of his body, they don't feel right, hurt most of the time. Bones and
muscles and tendons stretch impossibly in the effort to turn him into a giant,
obviously. Sam is both excited and horrified about the idea of outgrowing Dean
or - scandalous thought, highly scandalous - even Dad.
When he runs, all that is forgotten.
In March, the air is still crispy in the morning. He read a lonely five on the
alarm clock on the nightstand; there is fog and neither sun nor moon to light
their way. A strange limbo in between grey and blue, contours so sharp it
almost seems unreal.
They don't know the path they're taking, never do, for the obvious reason of
not getting familiar with the surroundings at all beforehand. But Dad tells
them where to go, as always, and they eventually get there, as always, and Dad
turns out to be a good guide and right about his decisions for the route, as
always.
He's legitimately flying, ahead of both his brother and father, nose running,
face red with cold and exertion, and he's flying. There is no pain inside of
him, only air and the sound of their collective breathing, his own blood
rushing in his ears, his heart pumping to keep up with his feet that barely hit
the ground in between wide steps. From behind there come words like "left" or
"right" or "forward" and he follows even though he is ahead. There is no need
to think; he's on auto-mode. Flying.
When they get back to the motel and stop in front of the building to stretch,
Sam realizes his legs are shaking - and that he is almost ten seconds ahead.
Open-mouthed, he stares back at the two of them, wheezes, wipes his forehead,
bents his knees. Instead of making fun of Dean's boiling red head and his
groaning and panting, Sam folds and stretches his too long limbs, kneads them
with rare affection.
Nobody is going to mention this record because it's his, so he smiles all to
and for himself.
 
Two poltergeists and a witch and a good handful of weeks later, Sam cannot
remember how he could ever not have enjoyed doing his homework. Homework at
all. School. Maybe three weeks straight this time; Dad mumbled something in
that general context. Maybe he's lucky for a bit.
Dean has been in the bathroom for a respectable amount of time now. Over the
familiar rock music blasting from the kitchen radio, Sam can hear him try to
sing along. And fail. Badly. As always. Actor, maybe - rock star, never.
There's a short second where Sam almost reconsiders his opinion, about during
the second Dean emerges from behind the door and simply looks stunning. His
hair looks equally good to the time he spent on it and he's gotten a lot of
sleep these past nights so his skin is glowing. Sam can smell the familiar
aftershave up to the kitchen table, notices the silver buckle of Dean's
favorite belt peek out from underneath his slightly too short shirt. It's
cotton is worn out but stretches so nicely around his biceps that Dean doesn't
get tired of it.
There's a bar directly next to the motel and it's Friday night - a Dad-less
Friday night. It equals that Dean is getting some while Sam stays home alone.
The usual business. There had been nights were Sam had been jealous, afraid;
didn't know what to do with himself while his family was gone. Dean had told
him it would be okay, just a few hours, nothing would happen; here, Sammy,
look, I did the salt lines real tidy, see? Puberty changed that. Sam might be
counting the minutes until he's finally alone with a box of tissues; might be.
"You'll see Amanda tonight?" Dean will ignore him for the rest of the night, so
Sam tries to get at least a few seconds of attention out of him before he's
alone. Yes, he is desperate like that. Not proud of that, but… oh, well.
The bed makes a dangerous sound when Dean drops down on it. Bending over to tie
his shoes, Sam is sure his shirt is riding up his back pretty bad. "Who?"
Of course the jerk doesn't know who he's talking about. Sam guesses that
attention fades with growing popularity. That'd at least explain how Sam
notices all of it and Dean none. "Girl from my class. Practically threw her bra
at you when you came to pick me up yesterday."
Sam watches Dean go through his recent memories until his face lights up like a
Christmas tree. "Oh. Her!" Does he tell them apart by boob size or the length
of their skirt or hair? Names are obviously too featureless by now. "Nah, just
checking out the bar tonight. See what's on the market here."
He wrinkles his nose. "You're gross."
"Bite me."
It's not like he isn't happy for Dean, like he begrudges him for the nice
nights or dates he gets all the time. They all have a shitty time most of the
time and Sam could probably die happy if he knew Dean could get that happy
fucked-out vibe twenty-four-seven until the end of his life. He just wished he
wouldn't make it look so easy, so effortless. That's what really disturbs Sam,
because, fuck, it can't be that hard, can it? So why can't he do it? "She's
pretty though," he tells the papers in front of him.
"Amanda?"
He can hear how Dean is getting up and starts walking towards him. "Hum." The
pen spins around in between his fingers.
An arm length away, Sam doesn't even have to look up to very clearly see in the
corner of his eye how Dean grabs his crotch over his jeans and smirks like the
evil motherfucker he is. "You realize she hasn't the gear you're looking for,
young Padawan?"
"Shut up." Heat rushes up his neck and the pen spins faster and slicker with
the sweat on his palms. This is stupid. He is stupid. Stupid for saying that,
saying anything about that topic. It had been perfectly calm the past weeks;
Dean hasn't said or done anything… anything pie-related. "Told you I'm not
gay," Sam mutters with his head bowed low enough to let the letters in front of
him grow cloudy.
"Huh. So Sammy has the hots for sweet lil' Mandy, huh?" The pace the words come
in is too slow to pass off as mockery. Could it be that Dean is honestly
surprised? Sam peeks up and yes, Dean's face is showing that particularly blank
kind of expression. Idiot. Jerk. Sam had told him, hadn't he? Nobody listens.
It's a tragedy.
"Just said she's pretty." Exactly. Listen. God. Not everybody wants to get into
everybody's panties. Maybe every second panty. Or two out of three. Or… okay.
Maybe he does. But he isn't as bad as Dean. He likes to tell himself that;
kinda soothes the sour taste that half of all panties do not want him. Or, uh,
maybe two out of three.
"Why not ask her out? Try the women-business for a change?"
Dean sounds careful, the way he picks his words and lets his eyes dart all over
the room except for directly into Sam's eyes. Not as if Sam would have the
courage to hold that eye contact right now, anyway. "… You know I'm. Difficult.
Around girls." He has learned how to lie to men, how to duck his head and read
their eyes and body language in order to know what they want him to do, how
they expect him to react. It doesn't work with girls that way. Do they want to
hold his hand? Get his help with that difficult paper? Slit his throat? It's
all mystery to Sam. Guys are easier. He knows guys.
"You haven't fainted in front of one yet. I still have hopes for you." Sam's
eyes roll in their sockets when Dean sits down next to him. It's not like he's
annoyed that he has to talk about this topic instead of ignoring it like during
the majority of his life, more like being completely embarrassed about the fact
there is something to be embarrassed about. Dean never is uncomfortable with
that. If Sam would let him, he'd tell each and every dirty detail of every
"date" he has ever had, maybe even reenact some of them, draw fucking charts.
"I mean, we share genes, right? How messed up can you be? I can do it, you can
do it. Just gotta try."
The answer is "a lot" and Dean knows that very well. But the adorable fact that
he pretends he doesn't gives Sam enough room in his panic-struck mind to give
in to his efforts a little. He makes a face he is one hundred percent sure
doesn't get you into anyone's panties. But this is his brother he's talking
too. A brother who literally changed his diapers. If he could handle that, he
can handle this teenage angst. "I'm honestly afraid I'll puke on her if I try."
"That's not very sexy." The problem is that the second Sam's brain gets the
faintest idea to go talk to a girl, his knees get so weak he stumbles over his
shoes and he forgets how to spell his own name. Breathing is also more
important than being sexy, so there is only so much he can do not to make a
complete fool out of himself. "I could show you, you know."
Sam raises his brows along with his eyes now. He has to; has to check what
Dean's mimics tell him next to his words. It could be essential. Is this a
taunt? Is this a serious attempt? Wouldn't be the first time for the first
option.
"It's not like I'm hogging all the talent for myself. Not if my poor lil'
brother here needs some help."
He makes a face while Dean's stays calm, serious. It's a nice change. "You're a
saint," he hisses and hopes Dean doesn't sense his gratitude.
"So happy you finally realized that!" Smug fucker. "So, what now? Want me to
teach you or what?"
There is no clearer way asking for official permission to give Sam shit. Sam
needs his fingers to scratch at the back of his head, so the pen drops onto the
papers. He's stupid. He really is. But he really really is desperate in that
department and Dean really really looks sincere about actually being a help.
"Maybe. Maybe a few tips or something. Maybe that'd help." People sell their
souls for less, so…
"Okay. Tip number one: haircut."
Wow. That was fast. "Haircut?" he repeats.
"Haircut. You're my brother and I respect you… but you look like a scarecrow.
You know what scarecrows do? Scare chicks off. Off your dick. And you'd want
them on your dick. So ditch the… 'that'. Whatever you call that mess on your
head."
The words come so quickly that it's obvious that Dean must have kept them for
some time. It's a bit of a shock, because, uh, Sam could have sworn Dean
enjoyed his hair up to now. He wouldn't run his fingers through it all the time
if he didn't. Right? "But I like my hair." Before Sam can pay attention to not
let his disappointment leak through, the words are out there. He feels naked
all of a sudden.
"You don't have to shave it down. Just trim it or something. Something that
actually looks like a cut. Something that says a little less 'heyyy I am used
to ice cold water showers and no food for days' and a little more 'ayyy gurl,
sit on my happy stick because I look amazing'." His brother has this unique
talent to see his sorrows, pick them up by the collar and then turn and spin
them until Sam can laugh about them. He goes from "close to a panic attack due
to loss of hair" to "oh God why did you have to make that gesture along with
the term 'happy stick' you five-year-old" in only the little seconds it takes
Dean to make his case clear.
And okay. Maybe it has been some time that he let someone take care of his mop.
And maybe that last time Bobby had done it. And, no offense, but Bobby isn't
exactly an artist. "… I saved up some."
Dean looks so happy with himself. Didn't Sam get a favor done by him, not the
other way around? "Great. That's great! I think I saw a salon somewhere three
streets over. You go there tomorrow."
Sam's eyes lower at the word. "… 'Salon'," he repeats, slowly and with that
glare he knows his brother hates. Dean used a word in the wrong context? Glare.
Dean pronounced a word wrong? Glare. Dean actually succeeds at pronouncing a
foreign word? Glare.
"Shut up. That's what it's called." He knows he is an ass for doing it but
right now he feels good enough to land some punches, even if those don't hurt
and just serve as little candy to chew on later if he feels like it. The image
of Dean squinting his eyes and trying hard to suppress the tiny blush creeping
up his neck definitely is something he enjoys.
"'Salooooon'," he howls, bending over the table Dean is getting up from and
laughs hard, harder when Dean kneads his thick locks in his fingers once before
letting go again. Sam squints up in between his bangs and sees an amused
brother with a raised forefinger.
"Yo, wank your miserable lil' wiener while I get mine sucked, alright? And try
not thinking of my pretty pretty pie while you're at it."
Sam laughs again, buries his homework underneath himself when he throws himself
onto the table. Dean looks slightly uncomfortable and Sam can get the faintest
idea why he usually is the one on the other side of the table - literally. This
is fucking fun. He grabs his own shoulders and makes a whiney face, maybe a bit
like when- "'Oh baby, the way you salooooon all over me…'!"
"You lil' fucker." Dean laughs along, but it's more nervous, Sam can totally
see through that stupid face. To make his point, Dean delivers a soft punch to
Sam's collar bone and makes sure to let his ring dig into Sam's skin. It
doesn't stop Sam's amusement one tiny bit. "Take care, okay? I'm just next
door, so if anything's wrong, jus-"
"Yeah, I'll cry for help, alright, whatever. Leave with God but leave."
Adorable how he is still the tiny kid in this setting, how nobody seems to
notice he's grown about two feet in the past one and a half years; that he has,
in fact, a set of two functioning balls. Too young to be left alone for a
handful of hours, not too young to shoot a gun; too young to be trusted, not
too young to be carry his unconscious, blood-soaked father on his shoulders.
It's a wild world.
"Okay, okay, Mr. Impatience!" Dean's at the door, finally. His jeans should
make tonight's intentions clear. It's the light blue pair of Levis. In this
light, it's even more obvious how it shifts and folds in every crease and
stretches over every bulge. Sam hates these jeans. "Have fun. But not too
much." And he's out of the door - which opens again before Sam can even take a
single breath. "And not on my bed like last time!"
"Just GO!" he laughs.
The door opens once more and Dean's dopey grin appears in the slit, smooches a
kiss into Sam's general direction and disappears.
"Last time" he said. Duh. That had been like three years ago. Last time. Fuck
you.
 
Soft pushes and foreign body heat pull Sam out of his sleep. The darkness of
the room tells him that it is way too early and way too late not to be asleep.
"You have your own bed," he scolds the arms wrapping around him from behind.
"But yours is warm already. 'M cold."
He gives up before he even starts fighting, sighs at the warm breath hitting
the back of his head. Falters. Blinks. "Did you drink?"
"Nah."
"I can smell it, idiot." Sam rolls onto his back, digs his elbow into Dean's
belly. After the pill-incident, Dad put him on strict prohibition and it's a
rare occasion but Sam agrees with that choice. "You shouldn't," he says, softly
knocks his knuckles against Dean's solar plexus, "How many?"
"Just one beer," Dean breathes.
"Dean."
"Okay, maybe three."
Sam's elbow digs deeper.
"Ouch; okay, okay, six; okay? Six. Happy?"
"No." Sam feels like he is nine years old again and argues with Dad who wants
to leave them by themselves for an entire week, again. Imagines that his
opinion matters. "Dean, you shouldn't."
"Doesn't do no harm."
"Sure was close last time."
"Told you I won't do that again." His brother's voice is certain but the shock
still lies heavy in Sam's stomach. He hadn't seen it coming then, never would
have thought Dean would feel the need to… to do whatever he eventually tried to
do. It's hard to stay loyal sometimes, but Sam has to. Dean's warmth helps him
through it. "Did I scare you that much?" It's nothing more than a whisper, like
a kid's voice. It gives Sam hope that his brother did not plan to do anything,
that whatever Dad and himself are thinking was going on maybe really hadn't
been Dean's intention at all. That Dean maybe is scared himself about the
possibilities he didn't see; wanted to see.
"Scared even Dad," he puts out there for Dean to drink in, to let him grasp an
ounce of the horror he felt that night (still feels).
Dean makes a sorry sound and nudges Sam closer to his chest. He runs his
fingers through his bangs which Sam is already scared to lose tomorrow. "You
know there's nothing wrong with your hair, right?" It's like Dean can read his
mind. It should be scary but somehow it isn't. "I only said that because. Well,
girls, you know? It's different with them."
Clouded in familiar smells, Sam quickly drifts off as soon as they stop
speaking. He imagines hearing "I like your hair" through the pillows.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNINGS: This part contains underage drinking as well as
     heterosexual PG-action.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It's off. Just like that, it's off. Sam's head feels three pounds lighter, even
more so when he notices a girl around his age checking him out in the coffee
shop. Fortunately, he kept his bangs the way they were; long enough to hide his
shy eyes behind.
"Woah; hey there, handsome!" he is greeted outside of the motel, barks a shy
laugh and hands one cup to his brother, "Should've taken me with you though.
Could've been a help."
"You slept like a stone, no chance." It's shorter in the back, only curling
around the back of his ears instead of his neck. When he puts it right, the top
layer can hide the tips of his ears. Both him and Dean run their fingers
through it, unable to contain the curiosity about the novelty. "I like it," Sam
admits and has a sip of strong, black brew.
"Yeah," Dean beams, ruffles through it, "Good job. How much?"
"Ten," he says and could have sworn earlier that he would miss the money. Now,
he really doesn't. Dean had been right. As always.
"Huh, not bad. Maybe I should get mine done, too? What do you say?"
Sam hums, eyes the longer strands, the short stubble lower down. He shakes his
head, has another sip. "Better save up for my birthday present."
Dean laughs, bright and awake. His yet coffee-free breath smells like
peppermint. "That is soon, huh. Six weeks o' something?"
"Eight," Sam corrects, "and you know how it goes. Time's money."
"Very funny," Dean says and gulps down his liquid breakfast, worth fifty cents.
Of course this all is a joke and both know that, but pretending they have
enough money to spend on big presents for each other actually is fun before the
taste of it turns sour. Last years' presents had consisted of tiny things,
stolen or worth less than five dollars. Somehow, always around each other's
birthdays, the other sibling had to contribute to food, gas or medicine, and
none of them would ever question which departments have priority over others.
This late January, they had been at Bobby's, not really planned at all but it
had happened. Bobby prepared homemade burgers and even if they had to take
turns standing next to the grill with an umbrella to protect it from the never-
ending fall of snow, it had been the funniest and coziest evening in a long
time. Bobby proposed a toast to the "birthday boy" and passed him a wrinkled
twenty when he thought neither Dad nor Sam would be watching. Which was insane,
because how could Sam not take in every second of his brother's carefree, non-
stop smile and laughter?
"I'll kindly accept a Ferrari. Red, obviously," he grins, last year's present
of a bottle of beer and a night of stargazing in the abandoned field behind the
farm they were squatting in bright as day inside of his head.
"Classy," Dean snorts.
It's a cruel thing to say - but Sam is glad Dean dropped out of school. Well,
at least in times like these where someone has to take a day job or otherwise
there won't be food on the table. Another week has passed and Dad just called
to expand his absence for another three days. "Father of the year" award goes
to… not John Winchester.
"I've been thinking."
Sam looks up from his copy of "Pride and Prejudice" (the school library's
crappy and it's a classic, so shut up) to watch Dean fixing his hair in the
mirror. The swing of his hips to Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" is so subtle
that Sam wouldn't have noticed it if he didn't knew his brother this well.
"Thinking? You?"
"Watch yo mouth!" Dean scolds Sam's image in the mirror that sticks its tongue
out in response. He smacks his lips and adds a bit more product to his hair,
arranges it. "Why don't you join me tonight?"
Not much holds Sam back from dropping his jaw. "What?"
"Well, join me," he says, oh-so casually like he has suggested this a million
times already, "to the party, I mean. That guy I work with; it's at his place.
And the best is-" Sam sees his brother's eyebrows lift in the mirror already
and then even better when Dean turns and grins at him wide enough to blind. "-
he is, like, a twenty-four-year-old frat-student. You know what that means,
Sammy?"
Sam tries really hard not to say out loud the first few things he connects with
those words.
"It means booze. And it means college girls." Oh, yeah, right. Stupid him.
Thank God he has his straight-as-an-arrow-brother to show him the right path.
"College girls, Sammy! Come on, this is perfect. College parties are the best!"
He scrounges his nose. Unnoticed, his fingernails start playing with the edges
of the book's pages. "Won't they notice I'm a little… too young?"
An annoyed huff from his brother while he sets the comb down, half-shuffles and
half-dances over to the couch Sam is occupying. "I was thinking of presenting
you as the new Einstein, brain as big as a bowling ball 'n shit, but you gotta
stop asking stupid questions like that, kiddo." Sam makes another face. "What?
Not your first fake identity. And, to be honest, one of the most accurate
ones."
"Are you trying to sound nice right now? 'Cause you gotta work on that."
"Come on, don't be like that, Sammy. You gotta live sometimes! I think it'll do
you good, getting your head free, seeing different people. Maybe there'll be
pot… Don't touch that, okay? Don't."
"Interesting that you're assuming I'm going." Actually and of course, Sam's
been sold since the second Dean first suggested this. But it's more fun
tickling more and more nonsense out of his brother, seeing him this excited.
And God, he is. He never complains of course, but Sam knows he hates working a
nine-to-five. And even though this one even lets him stare at cars all day, he
beams with joy of doing something more spicy tonight.
"Oh, 'cause you are, little brother. You're gonna make out with at least one
chick tonight or I'll lock you up with one in a closet." Sam wants to protest
when Dean grabs his book and claps it shut in front of his nose. He barks a
small laughter when he reads the title but obviously is too lost in his
thoughts to mock Sam any further about it. The dreamy look on his face is never
a good sign. "Ha. Remember the closet in Columbus, when-"
"Fuck you, Dean."
"You remember."
"Yeah, I do alright, thanks."
"It was so fun. You were crying in there. I almost pissed myself laughing!"
"If you don't stop right now, I'll come to your work and tell everyone about
Fort Collins."
"… Now you're just being mean." Yeah, he is, he really is, but oh, he so does
not give a single fuck. Pushing past his brother and his shameful pout, Sam
starts pushing down his sweatpants and kicks them off his feet while he walks
towards his duffle he keeps under the bed. Okay, alright, a quick shower and
then maybe this pair of jeans? "This either is the worst striptease I've ever
seen… or you're getting ready."
"Oh, I wonder which one it is," Sam snarls and pulls his t-shirt over his head,
tosses it over to what turned into the laundry-corner.
"Put the black shirt on!" he is directed through the quickly closed and locked
bathroom door.
Where the air was thick and rich outside, it's warm and sticky inside the
house. No wonder with so many people sharing it, to be honest. Sweating is
inevitable but Sam's seen enough pretty bad pit stains on others in here to not
feel too insecure about his own. The music is different, the people as well.
There are so many girls that it's hard not to run and hide. Fortunately, the
red cup in his hand holding the second coke'n'something is starting to promise
that he is super handsome and awesome and not too socially awkward at all.
Of course, he lost Dean after like two minutes. And by "he lost" he means "was
ditched"; the first version sounds nicer, though. From his eagle's nest aka the
wall next to the bookshelf, Sam watches the crowd, listens to snippets of
conversations here and there, lets his eyes cling to a bare thigh or low-cut
shirt there. (Totally not awkward, nah.) From time to time, Dean appears in his
field of vision, right in the middle of everyone, vividly talking with a girl
in his arm. Somehow, every time Sam gets a glimpse of him, it's a different
girl. The guy's good.
His smile is different from when he's with Dad or Sam, smoother, softer. He
doesn't grab their shoulders like he does with Sam's, bows his head with grace
instead of shame, blinks slowly and with intention. He belongs here, belongs
with these pretty girls easily a couple of years older than him, clinging to
his lips and laughing about whatever joke he just told them. So easy, so
effortless. It punches a sigh out of Sam, leaving more room for more liquid
from his cup.
Being here is a bit like being electrocuted, very steady and very softly. The
adrenaline is incredible, surely comparable with getting ready for the first
strike of a hunt. There's so much to look at, to observe; a bit too much
actually.
"Hey!"
Dean's sweat-damp, glowing face appears in front of him. His pupils are blown
way out of proportion but Sam doesn't smell anything strange on him, not even
alcohol. Through the now familiar burn of humiliation there's a short wave of
guilt; he should look out more for him, he should-
"You can't just stand here; you gotta talk to people, Sammy! Here, come, I'll
introduce you to someone." His tongue is way too lazy already to defend his
safe spot on the wall. Also, the music is too loud to speak in a comfortable
volume. Also, Sam is scared out of his mind.
Dean's palm wraps itself around his shoulder. It's different, on girl-shoulder-
mode instead snot-nosed-little-brother-mode; maybe cannot switch that fast in
between the two of them. Soft and maybe a little bit too hot in this climate
and with the alcohol lighting Sam up from the inside. "I think you'll like her.
She's a real cutie."
Okay, okay, relax, you've got this. Dean rehearsed this with you. He told you
what to say, what to answer. You've got this.
"Jamie? Hey, here we have him, finally."
"Oh," she exclaims, "hi, Sam!"
He's dead. He's so so dead.
Jamie's the prettiest girl he's ever seen, hands down, game over. Sam almost
spills his drink over her thin cotton blouse that ends right above her navel.
His world is turning so slowly right now that he has enough time to wonder how
much better exactly it would taste being licked from her skin.
An elbow to his ribs snaps him back to reality. Fuck, why is the music so loud
all of a sudden? "Uhm, hi!" Almost having to scream in her face to be heard is
about as terrible as not having one single idea where to pin his eyes to or
what to do with his hands. "I'm Sam!" he adds.
Her giggle is, to be fair, the most wonderful sound ever, but still rips and
shoves all possibly accessible blood in Sam's body from and into his face.
"Yeah, I know. Your brother told me. I'm Jamie."
She's smiling. She's actually smiling! Despite him being the sweatiest, most
red-headed and nervous person in the entire building. She must be Mother
Theresa or something, holy patience and goodwill and shit. Would explain why
Dean thought she'd be a good match for him.
"D-do you, uhm, should I get you something to drink?" Wow, his brain is still
working. Congratulations. Maybe this is doable.
Jamie holds her bottle of beer up against the ceiling to check how much there
still is inside. The way her long, brown hair shifts back over her shoulder
tells Sam that he would love to bury his face in it. "Sure, yeah, thanks. Let's
go together!"
She grabs his hand. She actually grabs his hand. The butterflies in his stomach
lift him off the ground like during a run.
His shoulder slips away under Dean's hand as Jamie pulls him towards the
kitchen.
"You're so shy!" Jamie's cheeks are glowing, from the beer as well as the
laughter Sam managed to get out of her. She laughs a lot, actually. Sam likes
that about her. Her tone is cute enough to overpower the humiliation her words
send down his guts. As in an apology, she brushes his shoulder with her skinny
fingers. "But I like that. It's cute."
Helplessly, he laughs, has another gulp from his cup. The third. He shouldn't
drink this much; never really drank anything besides beer when he could talk
Dean into handing him one. But it helps so much! It's like he isn't even afraid
of girls anymore, doesn't have to choke on his tongue with every second word.
They've been talking for God knows how long now, because damn, is she clever.
He also likes that about her. She's majoring in political science and no, Sam
couldn't watch and listen to her talk for eternities just because her mouth
makes the prettiest movements.
They've settled on one of the couches in the living room. The people dancing
all around them don't bother Sam at all, neither the fact that they have to
scream at each other to understand despite sitting close enough to feel each
other's breath on their faces.
She just said you're cute. Say something. Say something!"Y-you're v-very, uhm-
"Amazing. Do me a favor and use actual words next time.
"Aw, honey!" Her voice is a purr now, her palm dry and hot on his slippery
cheek. He thinks he might die of a heart attack any minute. "How old are you?"
"I-I'm-" This could be a trick. Maybe she'll run off as soon as the words are
out there. On the other hand… she must know he's younger than her, right?
Younger than anyone in the room, definitely not legal to drink. "I'm sixteen."
One added year is as much of a lie as he can handle right now. But she must
know. And she's still sitting here with him.
"You're still a baby!" she laughs, laughs hard enough to spill a bit of her
beer and all of Sam's self-esteem. He cannot lose his smile though, his mask,
even though he wants to cry and run and never do anything aga-
First her nose against his, then her mouth. Sam breathes in, smells perfume and
make-up and beer.
She pulls back after way too little seconds and beams at him. Even though he
must look like a total train wreck, confused and surprised and horny and drunk,
she smiles, bites her bottom lip. Then kisses him again. Longer this time, long
enough for Sam to move their faces against each other in a slow rhythm,
absolutely not matching the currently playing song.
It's indeed different from kissing a guy. Softer, slower. Delicate. Even though
Jamie is clearly into this more and more with every moment, she doesn't eat him
alive just yet (maybe, hopefully), still keeps her mouth soft and welcoming for
him. He's careful not to ruin it, this sensual moment. No. He really cannot be
gay.
They kiss, take sips from their drinks, laugh, kiss again. Hopefully endless
loops. Sam is aware of the almost painful throb between his legs but won't give
in to it, no, this is not the time and the place for this. With a girl, he
cannot be as easy. Jamie deserves to be treasured, to be carried on someone's
bare hands, to be bedded in rose petals and all that stuff Sam very suddenly
feels like he could absolutely pull off.
Her hand on his thigh makes him forget how to breathe.
"We could go to your place, you know."
He blinks, swallows the fur from his tongue hard enough to hurt his throat.
This is surreal. Was he roofied?
"I really like you," Jamie continues, kneads the ball of her thumb dangerously
close to where his dick is waiting to be touched, "And your brother, he said-"
"My brother?" It's echoed before he knows what he's doing, before the weight of
the words punches into his stomach.
No. No no no no.
"Yeah, Dean, right? He said that we could leave together later, the three of
us. If I'd want to."
Sam stares blankly into her face, barely notices her sheepish smile, the
naughty curl of her lips.
"I really like you, Sam. And oooh, your brother…! He's really-"
"I have to go."
"… What?"
He's on his feet, her hand abandoned on the couch. "I'm leaving," Sam huffs.
His cup finds a remotely even surface to stand on where his fingers let it go.
It must be roofies. Must be. His head is spinning as if he is going to throw up
any second.
Behind him, he hears her call out for him even over the crowd and the music. By
the time the door falls closed, she's cussing.
The walk was about fifteen minutes, right? How long has it been already? Sam
just wants to lie down and curl into a ball and never return to the outside
world.
He has to sit down on the pavement, rubs both hands over his sweat-dripping
face. Every muscle in his body is shaking.
He should have known. Yeah. Should have.
As if any girl could be interested in him. As if he could be the charming,
flirting one, making her gasp and her heart throb. As if.
Of course this had been Dean's plan, right from the start. She had probably
been all over him, desperate for whatever he would be willing to give to her,
like all of them were. And then he had played out the "you wash my hands and
I'll wash yours"-card, in this case meaning "fuck my desperate little brother
and I will fuck you in return". For her, Sam had simply been the backstage-
ticket to the other, hotter brother. Hadn't kissed and touched and talked to
him because she had thought he was nice - but because she had been told to do
it. Because it were steps X to Y that finally would result in getting the main
course. Fucking dessert.
Sam should have known. Should have known that it wouldn't work. It hadn't
worked until tonight, didn't work tonight, wouldn't work in the future.
Get used to it. Swallow. Bury deep. Accept.
"Sam?"
He's the best you have and yet you're unable to accept that he is, in fact,the
best.
"Sam."
He looks up, would recognize this silhouette everywhere, his ragged breathing
pattern caused by running. If somebody would ask him to close his eyes and draw
a portrait of his brother, he could do it with his left hand. Every freckle
would be in place.
"What's wrong? Why'd you leave? Are you okay?"
Too tired to smile, he still does it, pulls it form somewhere he didn't know he
could keep those. "I don't really think I am," Sam croaks.
"What happened?"
Dean looks so genuinely worried. Adorable. Jackass. Sam won't drop his smile.
"Don't play stupid, okay? Just. Just don't." He might cry. He hates alcohol.
"Hey."
Sam cannot shove fast and hard enough when Dean slips down next to him, reaches
out to wrap him into his arm. He's stared at with so much confusion… It's a
terrible joke, really. "Don't!" he says, louder now.
Weak knees aren't too stable but Sam pushes his body up on them, continues
walking, wipes his nose. The second set of steps behind him follows him as
always; his eternal shadow.
"Sammy," he hears, wipes again, "Sam. Wait. Please. Calm down. Tell me what
happened."
"YOU TOLD HER!" It's the alcohol, must be. Otherwise, why should he cry and
scream in the middle of the night about something this stupid? Dean just stares
at him as if he was a madman. Who he probably is. Obviously is. "You TOLD her
to be like this to me! You promised to fuck her in return! Y-you- you
practically PAID her to do it!!"
Confusion melts into pain. "Sam, I-"
"Shut up! Just SHUT UP! You know, I'm not even mad at YOU, okay?! So stop
lookin' like- like that! I just- FUCK." Sam's throat burns from too harsh
drinks and wrong kisses, but mostly from the hate climbing up his tongue. His
knuckles are white where they frame what he presses into two tight fists. Dean
remains silent. "I'm just. Just. I should have known it wouldn't work. Okay?
I'm. It shouldn't hurt that she didn't mean it. I don't even know her. But. I,
uh-" A sting on his nostril tells him he just scratched it with his thumbnail
while wiping his nose yet again. Well, fuck his sleeve. "It really fucking
does."
It doesn't change anything to say it out loud. Dean wouldn't understand, even
if Sam was sober and handed him a twenty-pages-paper about tonight and all the
times before tonight that he had felt like this.
Dean stays quiet. Sam nods to himself, doesn't look him in the eye. Forced
dimples in his cheeks hurt, so he drops them, turns away, starts walking.
Dean follows.
"I didn't mean it," he hears from behind, quiet and almost inaudible even in
this empty night.
"Doesn't matter," Sam answers, doesn't have to wipe his nose anymore now. The
sting in his stomach tells him it is already digesting it, everything.
Hopefully all the sensations and tastes and smells as well.
"No, I… Sammy… I just wanted to give you a start-up. 'Cause I know you're shy,
and-"
"It doesn't. Matter. Dean." Each word a sentence, a world.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam stops. Hears Dean stop. Turns around, blinks against moonlight. His jaw
might have ticked just now. "This isn't about you. Believe it or not, it
isn't." Dean's breathing is off even though they had been walking very calmly
the past few minutes. Sam is tired and heavy, his body, mouth, eyes, mind. It
should be enjoyable to finally let go of those words, to spell them out and
relieve the pressure on his insides for a bit. But somehow, it isn't. "It isn't
about you, thinking that I needed help. This is about me. Me, thinking I didn't
need it. That I could do it on my own." He huffs a laugh that could be a sigh.
"Crazy, right? Me. Stupid, nerdy Sammy, huh. Looking out for myself. Getting
shit done. Yeah. Right." Shit. His sleeve turns a little bit wetter with a
quick wipe. "Bein' brave 'n shit. Mature." The next laugh is a sob. "What did I
expect, huh? That she actually wanted me? That she wanted this… this freak?!"
The fabric can't soak up any more from his cheeks, the tip of his nose. Through
the swell of it, Sam sees the golden glimmer of the pendant come closer, fast.
Doesn't care. "I mean, who did I think I am? Shit, why can't I just be more
like-"
Dean's neck is wet even before Sam's face is pressed up to it.
"You stop talkin'," he hears, "Stop talkin' this nonsense, this- You ass. You
complete ass."
There's no alcohol, only Dean and his aftershave and sticky lipgloss. Sam hopes
that Dean won't be mad that he's washing all of it away with his tears and
snot.
"How can you say those things, huh? Don't you dare think like this about
yourself, you hear me?"
It's hard to believe when everything and everyone else is screaming the exact
opposite since forever. But how would Dean know how that feels like?
His brother nuzzles the back of his neck, pets his back. Voice turned low into
a mere whisper, he tells him: "You are the smartest and bravest kid I know.
You'd guide me through any damn monster's cave, blindfolded, and man, you'd get
me out without a single crooked hair. Maybe identify three new species of, of
stoneswhile you're at it, for fuck's sake."
Sam snorts a laugh and actually snorts, right onto the back of Dean's favorite
t-shirt. He'd love to tell him that it is, in fact, called "minerals", but the
additional body heat surrounding him makes him too sleepy to do so. His
brother's voice in his ear won't stop muttering.
"You've grown so much. You're so strong, Sam. You really are. So much stronger
than I could ever be. If anybody is to blame here, it's me. You got this? Me. I
fucked up. I didn't think this over, I was just so- so eager, eager to help you
out. This whole sex-thing, it- I thought I could make it a lil' less terrifying
for you. 'Cause girls… You know, girls are the only thing I can handle. Barely.
God, not even that, can I? Look at me. I'm such a loser."
Unconsciously, Sam shakes his head. Bad decision, his stomach and knees tell
him. He sinks a bit lower into Dean's arms but is held, will always be, knows.
Big brother, best friend, parent, hero. Never a loser, never to him. He'd like
to tell him that, but his tongue won't move like he wants to. Also, Dean's
voice keeps coming and coming and coming, raw and rawer by the syllable.
"You know, last year when I went for that road trip? Five days, five states?
Well, stayed at a girl's place instead. And you know what? She was perfect. She
was so fucking perfect. Smart and beautiful and just so, so full of- And what
did I do? Did I tell her that? Did I tell her I never wanted to leave her ever
again? That I fell in love with the way she laughed, the way she kissed me?
Yeah, no, not really. You know what I did? Fucked her for three days straight
and then waved goodbye. Don't even have her number or anything. I'm just…"
Dean sighs, so heavy it feels like Sam is holding his big brother instead of
the other (actual) way around. He's pushed up a bit straighter until he can
look into Dean's eyes when he blinks his own ones open. There's a hand around
the back of his neck, protecting, warm; a forehead against his own, by now
merely covered in a thin film of sweat anymore.
From this perspective, Sam cannot see Dean's mouth but knows it's pulled into a
tight, polite smile. He knows this smile. Since many years, Sam tries really
hard to forget about where he himself copied it from.
"You wouldn't believe how fucked up I am, Sam."
The flicker to these eyes shouldn't be there. They shouldn't glisten like this.
It's more horrifying than any monster, each drop that could fall from these
lashes as lethal as one from Sam's spinal cord.
Sam wants to say "You're not" and "Don't cry" and "Don't be sad, please". But
it wouldn't change a thing. "I'm so fuckin' drunk, Dean," he croaks instead,
because yes, it is true, and it's real, and it's easier to take care of than
anything resting and gnawing away deep inside of them. When he is taken care
of, and when Dean can take care of him, then everything will eventually be
okay.
Dean sighs, lighter now, and closes his eyes. They remain like this a few
seconds before he breaks their contact, pulls him tight under his arm and with
him down the empty street. "Alright. Okay, kiddo. Come on. Let's get you tucked
in tight."
Sam feels himself nod, forehead resting heavily on his brother's shoulder.
Had the room been this hot before they left? Sam is very positive that it's
like, at least one hundred degrees in here. At least.
Dean drops him onto the mattress and the soft bounce his body makes upon
contact sends his world spinning. The sound that escapes him is not a very
elegant one.
"You gonna puke?" he hears.
Sam frowns, concentrates, feels. "Nah," he decides, rubs his belly with the one
and his eyes with the other hand.
"I shouldn't have shown you how to mix those."
"Would've figur'd it out myself. 'T was jus' coke 'n. 'N... What was the other
one?"
"Rum," the bathroom door says.
"Oh." His arms flop down next to his body, just as heavy as the rest of it. He
wants to sleep forever. Again, he frowns. "Wasn't it jager?"
Dean's head peeks out of the bathroom, toothbrush between his lips and worry in
his eyes. "Whaf fhe fuck did fou dfink, Fammy?"
"Jamie said 't was good, so she mixed up s'mething fo' me."
"Fhe- For fuck's sake, Sam; you don't take drinks from other people! No
lollipops, no puppies, no beverages! How many times do I have to tell you
that?"
Suddenly, peppermint and warmth is all over him. With his eyes this salty and
dry, Sam can barely open them, makes a face when Dean pets his hair and face.
Hadn't he just started brushing his teeth? Everything is going so slow and fast
forward at the same time… God, maybe college parties aren't meant for minors
for a reason. "'M sick," he huffs despite his earlier statement.
"Put a bucket next to you."
Sam blinks in confusion. "When?" he slurs, but Dean simply chuckles and pinches
his cheek. With the alcohol numbing him, he can barely feel it but pouts anyway
in protest.
"No more grown-up-juice for you for the time being, huh."
Sam would shake his head but despite the state he is in, he is conscious and
wise enough not to do it. Maybe he can avoid the bucket.
It's chillier on his belly somehow. The change makes sense when Dean pushes his
t-shirt over his head. "Hey!" he complains. When did his button-down get lost?
Dean obviously pretends he doesn't hear him, has his Chucks off in a jiffy and
unbuckles his belt before Sam can do something about it. "Hey!" he repeats,
"Stop! Hey!"
"Come on, gotta get you undressed. You can't sleep like that."
"Not a kid!" Sam whines, grips the seam of his jeans when Dean makes an attempt
to pull it down. All he gets is a nasty look that doesn't soften with neither a
pout nor another "don't". Another pull, stronger this time, and his jeans are
gone - his boxers halfway with them. "HEY! Y-you can't just- HEY!"
"God, stop whining! You're worse than five-year-old you!"
Maybe his voice does sound whiny. Yeah, maybe, but it has a fucking reason. As
fast and effective as he can manage, Sam pulls his underwear back up, almost up
to his navel, tries to push himself up on his elbows but quits halfway through
due to exhaustion. It's just no good. He can barely move by now, too tired, too
drunk, too emotionally wasted. What a successful Friday.
Blankets up to his chin, Dean tucks it in all around him just like he had
promised earlier. Sam makes another sound he knows his brother doesn't like.
Just because he can. Ha.
Dean sighs, rolls his eyes. Sam can see that even in the darkness of the unlit
room. It never fails to make him chuckle triumphantly. His brother smiles then,
tiny and thin but he does. Calloused fingers brush through his bangs, over his
forehead. It tickles, so Sam makes another sound. "Such a pain in the ass,
little brother." The combination of words and tone does not really match, but
Sam is beyond caring, nuzzles the warm palm, eyes closed. The low bass of
Dean's voice is soothing, as always. "Can't you just stop growing up, huh?
Would you do that for me, kiddo?"
"Spell," Sam slurs, already halfway gone.
Dean's chuckle is low and oh-so soft; just like a lullaby. "Spell? I should
find a spell for that?" he asks.
Sam's nod is barely a movement anymore, but Dean will understand. He always
does.
Chapter End Notes
     There's an_audio for the scene on the street after the party.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Even though he might be a little high on that "yay, it's my birthday"-
excitement, Sam has no problem with smashing the top of the box right back on
where he lifted it off just a millisecond ago.
"No."
"Sweet sixteen, Sammy!" Dean laughs, with cheeks all red and eyes tearing from
the effort of it. Actually, his laugh is loud enough to be heard two blocks
over, from the fucking moon, probably.
"You can't be serious." Sam decides that he doesn't deserve this. Nobody
deserves this. The fucker chose the most unsuspicious box, too; smeared the
words "happy birthday, baby boy" all over it with some cheap sharpie. And is
that only his clearly damaged sentiments speaking or did Dean actually use his
elementary-kid handwriting on this? Anyway… "No," he repeats, pressing the box
shut in his lap as if that would make its content magically disappear.
"What? You don't like it? Is it too small?"
"I hate you!!" Red beet can suck it because, damn, Sam is very positive that
his body is winning that color-game. "I won't keep this!! Fuck you!! FUCK YOU,
DEAN!!"
Dean is still rolling over the bed, holding his by now surely aching belly,
while Sam jumps off his own (and with his knees this jelly right now he has no
idea how he does it without falling face-down on this ugly-ass carpet). The box
hits the bin with a heavy, decisive thumb.
"Hey, don't throw it away!" Great, Dean obviously found his breath again.
That'll make it more fun for Sam to strangle it right back out of him. "I spent
thirty bucks on that thing!"
"Even 'f t' was a HUNDRED, I won't keep it!!" It feels good to flex the muscles
in his hands, fingers pulled into a tight fist, thumb on its side in order not
to break it once it hits. And oh, will it hit.
"Come on, man! Have a heart!" Dad always tells them to keep a cool head, let
nothing get to you, always stay focused. Well… Dad is not here. And Sam is also
very positive that he would make somewhat of a dildo-exception for this rule.
"I think he likes you!"
Knees and fist first, Sam disturbs the poor motel's guests with the gurgling
screams and laughter of his brother.
 
Of course he is weak. Of course he knows he's disgusting and despicable for
this, for picking the box from the bin in an unguarded moment, shoving it deep
and deeper into his duffel bag to the point where he panicked a bit when he
tried to get it back out and wouldn't find it for endless moments. But it still
was there. Wrong and humiliating and so fucking tempting. But, fuck it. Here he
is.
Dad's out drinking, Dean's out fucking; Sam doesn't even care, wouldn't care if
it's the other way around. As long as they're gone and, most importantly, gone
for long, hopefully the whole night, he's pretty much blessed out of his skull.
It's embarrassing to do this here anyway, even without the pressure of time in
his neck. Who sweats this much about some alone-time with himself? Gosh.
Flushed from head to toe, it still doesn't help to get rid of all his clothing.
Better, but still boiling. Maybe comes from the narrowness of the room,
everything crammed so tight in here Sam might develop claustrophobia.
"God," he moans to himself, bites his lip, chews, tries to keep his breathing
both calm enough not to hyperventilate and frequent enough not to faint. It's
good, so so fucking good, and needed. The plastic feels off though, so much
different from a real dick. More solid somehow. The silicone won't give as much
as flesh does. Dean's voice echoes in his ears, the played disappointment
coming with the words "too small?" bright as day the moment Sam fails to grind
the toy deeper. He has seen his brother naked and that guy should know that
this here is beyond average, isn't that hung himself even if he'd like to
imagine that. More lube, he decides, way more lube.
Up to now, a dildo hadn't really crossed his mind; at least not in any remotely
serious train of thoughts. Too many potential ways to get caught, maybe being
carded in the sex shop and not looking too persuasive for an eighteen-year-old
with his cheeks glowing red like a Christmas light... No, it hadn't really been
an option. But now, here he is, holding one of those impressive things in his
sweaty palm while twisting and pushing it inside of himself. And of course, it
had to be his brother who got it for him, of fucking course. Because while
shoving a piece of plastic up your ass may be super strange by itself already,
it still isn't strange enough for Sam Winchester.
It doesn't vibrate, is just plain, clear silicone, about nine inches long and a
good two in girth. After Marc, there hadn't been anyone, so it's more of a
struggle to really get it inside. Nevertheless… this is fucking bliss. His dick
is resting on his stomach, flushed and hard and leaking but barely touched.
When his insides complain, he gives it a firm tug but aside from that, Sam
doesn't need anything but the burn and friction the toy delivers.
The head easily pokes his prostate while only being halfway in. It's way
harsher than a spongy cockhead, way fatter than one of his own bony fingers. He
has to take this slow and hums to himself with the knowledge that he has the
time to actually do so. Took him three weeks to build up enough courage and
desperation, but now that the opportunity arose, he couldn't get naked and on
his back fast enough.
His toes curl against the remotely clean sheets. Damn. It's good, better than
he had expected. Still unexperienced with its new task, his wrist twists and
prods carefully, sometimes too harsh, then too soft. Sam's other hand strokes
his belly, his thighs, down his balls, rolls them maybe once or twice. If he
wasn't this lost in the moment, he would ask himself when it had been the last
time he had this much privacy all to himself.
The noises are dirty-wet, dumb push against flesh, his own breath and shifting
on the covers, the traffic noises from outside. He could do this all night,
will do this all night. Can he come from only this? And if yes, how many times
in a row? He's already close, close from only barely getting it started, not
even going serious yet-
The sound of a key turning inside of a lock never has been this horrifying.
He didn't hear any footsteps, why, how- He has to get to the bathroom, quick,
real fucking quick; but the door handle already moves, SHIT.
Sam manages to pull the sheets over himself in time with Dean shoving his damn
face into the room. God, no, this can't be happening. This shouldn't be
happening! This is just not fair. Maybe it's just a really really weird
nightmare? Please let it be a nightmare. "Get out!!" he bellows, face burning,
fingers cramped tight around the toy's base, "Leave!! Don't look!!"
Of course, Dean doesn't stop in his steps, pulls the door closed behind
himself. Obviously, he has problems adjusting to the not-existing light,
doesn't turn on any though. Searches for Sam, finds him in the bed. A confused
smile, maybe didn't expect Sam to be still awake. "Woah woah woah. Who got your
panties in a- Wait a second." First, the smile falters. Next, it reappears,
beams. Sam wants to die. "You can't be serious."
"I said GET OUT!" He needs a crossroad demon, a fairy godmother, fuck, a
wishing well; anything.
"No. Fucking. Way. Sam." Sam hates himself and the world and especially his
brother. The toy squirms inside of him, hurts with the added pressure of
humiliation. But he has to hold it in place, cringes when Dean kicks off his
boots and makes two or three steps into the absolutely wrong direction, his
direction. "You're using it? That thing fits up there?"
"Get out or I'll kill you!" He couldn't hold back the tears he clearly feels
filling his eyes right now even if he was being paid for it. "Get out! Please!"
"Huh. You beg so easily. You know I like that about you, little brother."
There's a knife under his pillow. He could throw it. He knows he would hit,
bull's eye, knows that Dean knows all that as well. But the guy just stands
there, smirks wide and bright, his hair a bit roughened up, shirt halfway
caught in his jeans, leather jacket absent due to nice temperatures shortly
before June. Just stands there and watches, taunts, God, can he just move,
laugh, do- do anything but just stare?
There's a short something ghosting over Dean's face, as if he was contemplating
something, and Sam's body jerks without Dean moving much of a muscle. The
tension in between them, the possibility, no, the promise of Dean doing
something to him any minute now makes him do this. It's a reflex, stimulus and
response, nothing more. Dean watches it happen, fuck, did clearly hear that
painful gasp for air at the shifting of the toy. Another change, Dean's jaw
going slack, fingers twitching. Then he moves.
"What are you- Please, leave, Dean, please."
Under Sam's wide eyes, Dean throws himself down on the empty bed next to him
with marked coolness. It isn't exactly the worst that could have happened (like
getting the covers ripped from him and getting laughed at) but not exactly what
Sam would welcome right now either. This has him confused, even more breathless
than before. He blinks into the darkness, watches his brother cross his arms
behind his head.
"J-just for a minute, and I-"
"I'm fucking tired, Sam, tired and dumped. Dumped. Me. Okay?" Seriously now? Is
this the beginning of a self-centered loathing session? In this fucking
setting? Seriously? "I just wanna sleep. Feel free to get rid of that or
whatever, I don't fucking care. Can't even see my own feet. You too ugly for
your own eyes or why you do this in the dark?"
"Shut up," Sam croaks, wipes his eyes with his free hand. He doesn't move,
cannot move with that thing inside of himself. The only choice there really is
is waiting for Dean to fall asleep and then take care of everything in the
bathroom. Yeah. Great plan. Terrible plan, actually, with the demanding pull of
his ass and the itch of the lube, but fuck, beggars cannot be choosers, can
they? It's not like Sam is giddy to do anything with his asshole of a brother
around to make fun of it later… which is as predictable as the sun and moon
swapping places every damn day of the year.
They stay like this for a while, Sam's hand cramping more and more with every
minute, but he has to stay completely still, or else-
That noise, was that… Yeah, well, okay, why not, but- Oh. Uh. Did he just...
Did Dean just-
"Hey. You don't look, I don't look."
Since he spent the past handfuls of minutes in the darkness of this room, Sam's
eyes are adjusted to it and work just fine. And exactly because of that, he
does not dare to turn his head just the tiniest bit to look what's going on in
the bed next to him. Doesn't have to, anyway. Knows. "Dean. What the actual
fuck."
"What?" Dean sounds so casual that Sam could almost cut out the fact that he
just got his dick out of his pants and is now stroking it, like, three feet
next to him. Except that he can't. "Come on, grow up, kiddo."
It's the ultimate sentence, really. Whenever it comes up, it's meant to put the
veil of silence over whatever situation has been going on, to accept, get over
it, move on. Don't ask questions, just do as you're told. But Sam can think as
hard as he wants, he cannot wrap his head around the fact that Dean just
suggested jacking off with him in the same room. Even for them, this is beyond
every definition of "fucked up"… which says a lot.
Sam turns his head to the other side, facing the window, carefully flexes his
fingers around the dildo's fat base. His legs are bent in strange angles - the
outcome of a quick and failed try to cover up and curl in on himself. It starts
getting real uncomfortable now, and something starts telling him to relax, just
let go. Sam takes a shaky breath, repositions his feet flat on the bed, is
surprised by how loud all of it is and how quiet in contrast to the slow,
steady drag of skin on skin next to him.
Closing his eyes, Sam tries to calm down. Okay, maybe he cannot understand this
here, actually really really doesn't want to understand any of it. Okay, maybe
this here is a fucked up situation. Maybe his brother is an exhibitionist…
scratch that, he absolutely is. Maybe Sam can get together the courage to wrap
the sheets around himself real tight and somehow wobble across the room to the
safety-promising door…
Another few moments pass. Nothing changes. Traffic rushes and Sam's breath
comes tight through his teeth while Dean's sounds soft. His hand moves in a
slow rhythm, relaxed as if he was alone in here. As if it really doesn't matter
to him that Sam is here. As if there is nothing wrong with doing this kind of
thing with your brother right next to you...
Sam's fingers twitch.
"She got me really pent up, then changed her mind… Fuck. Hate it when they do
that. Cat and mouse, ha. How old are we, seriously."
Dean's voice is like gravel, rough all over Sam's skin as if he was scrubbing
him down with sandpaper. In combination with the noises his hand makes around
his dick, it's kind of feral, dark. Sam has the sudden need to swallow. "Hm,"
he says.
When he shifts a little, the toy bobs upwards, close to his prostate. Sam
twists it until it rests right there. Breathes, breathes again, shuts out the
noises from the bed next to him - and pushes in.
Just breathe, breathe, it'll be okay eventually, breathe. Dean's cool about
this, God knows why, but he is. He doesn't give a single fuck what you're
doing, doesn't even really notice you're here. You know that feeling, right? So
get over it, Winchester. This is nothing big. It's pleasuring yourself, isn't
it? Everybody does that. Every guy does that. Well, yeah, okay, maybe not like
you're doing right now, but… Dean's cool with it, right? Hell, he was the one
who got you this thing in the first place. Okay, right, it was meant as a joke,
but uhm, but… Yeah, okay, you're really desperate to get off, buddy.
Maybe if you move real slow, there won't be any- Fuck, he must've heard that.
Shit, no, please don't… Oh… He doesn't stop… Okay, maybe he didn't hear… Okay…
Hm… God, this is… This is, uhm… real nice… oh…
Sam regrets the extra lube now, really does. Even timid movements make those
tiny smacking sounds, like sloppy wet kisses. And even through the sheets and
against the traffic noise from outside, it's clearly audible in the tiny room.
Sam bites his tongue while he palms his cock, listens for choked laughter, a
mean comment, a sign to stop; that this is going too far, sorry; you aresick,
dude - but nothing happens.
So he goes on, exhales dry and long with a few faster thrusts that hit, like,
all the right places. Still no reaction, the bed next to him so silent and
inconspicuous that it's easy to completely shut it out from his perception.
Okay, relax, okay, this is okay, you are okay, this is okay.
It gets easier by the minute. He doesn't have to be too cautious anymore,
doesn't feel like he has to, at least. Under the sheets, his legs fall open
wider, which changes the angle and pressure and everything. Blissed out, Sam
doesn't remember to keep his mouth shut and breathes something, doesn't pay
attention to it; doesn't matter. In the back of his head, he does notice that
Dean over there is getting faster now as well but punches that tiny voice dead
immediately, really cannot deal with it right now. Doesn't want to. This here
just feels too fucking good to have it ruined.
He's back in Wyoming, at Dan's. He's hot all over not only because the sunlight
beams through the windows in the bedroom all over them but also because he's
being touched and looked at and taken care of like ever before, like he had
never thought it was possible; possible for him, on top of that. That he could
feel like this, that there is a feeling, a magic spot that can make all the
clouds fogging his brain go away. Dan kisses his open mouth and shoves his way
too perfect grown-up dick into his still too tiny fourteen-year-old body, but
he had asked for it, begged, and Dan was happy to please.
"Ar'n't the sheets too hot?"
Yeah, yeah, they actually are, right. Sam kicks them off, grinds his hips
upwards and cringes at the suddenly much louder noises from in between his
legs. While his eyes fly open, he swallows a moan. That voice… it hadn't come
from inside of his head, had it?
Without giving it much of a thought, Sam turns to his left. Through darkness
and pillows, there's Dean, both hands busy where his fly is opened wide. Lidded
eyes flip up to meet his own, flip up from staring at-
Sam stutters a breath.
Dean smiles, shy, evil. "Dude, you're really into this."
"Shut up!" The huskiness in his voice surprises himself but he cannot take
Dean's face any longer, not in this situation, for God's sake. Eyes and mouth
pressed shut tight, Sam grabs his cock with his free hand now, works it hard,
hard enough to hurt, but he needs exactly that exactly now. When his fingers
press against his butt, he whines. All the way in, God, all of it, this is
really- "Mh, fuck," he hears himself now, listens, shudders at how aroused he
sounds. Dean is gone again, far gone, not existent; Dan is holding him, fucking
right up into him as if he doesn't care if Sam will be able to walk tomorrow
(knows he didn't at that time). So Sam fucks himself just like that, only for
himself, just like he craves, just like-
There's humming, deep in his chest, pressure about to explode. When it happens,
his whole body jerks with the effort of it, lifts him off the sheets and grinds
him right back into it. Sam has the decency to choke back every sound he could
probably make with his throat now, only gives more room for the ones from in
between his legs, but fuck this, fuck everything, this is his, only his.
The first sound he really hears again is that of a thin paper tissue. His head
lulls to his left and through his bangs, Sam watches his brother wipe his naked
belly with it. He blinks, doesn't think, doesn't want to, puts his legs flat on
the bed, sighs at the stretch of it. No way he'll pull the dildo out here. He
needs to shower. Now. His right hand slides from his dick up to his chest. It's
one sticky path from down there up to here, really. Yeah. Shower. "Dips on the
bathroom," he croaks.
Dean barely snorts at that. "Pf. Whatever. Knock yourself out." The tissue hits
the bin on the other side of the room. Dean rolls over on his belly with a deep
grunt and then lies still. Huh. So much for that.
It's super awkward standing up with that toy still inside, but there is no
other way, really. Poor sheets around his lower body. "Jerk," he hisses as soon
as he is in the safety zone aka a hand's width away from the bathroom door.
"Bitch," the pillows answer.
 
Dad wakes them with tired eyes and weak pushes, his voice dark and low as if he
had been drinking the whole night. Which he probably did. "Thirty minutes,
boys."
The problem is that Sam does not want to get out of bed ever again. Also, while
we're at it, add: does not want to look at his brother ever again. Now that the
darkness is gone, everything is so fucking real.
As always, they brush their teeth next to each other. They don't talk. Dean
starts stripping to get in the shower while they're still at it and Sam only
barely manages to be done and gone before the boxers have to go.
Coffee, black; cereals, cheap Kellogg's dupes. There is not much lying around
to pick back up and Sam reminds Dad that they have to do laundry again soon.
Dad nods but Sam knows he'll have to remind him later.
Led Zeppelin hums from the speakers. From the backseat, Sam watches his brother
nod his head along with the music. They won't talk about last night and Sam
knows it. Dean will play the oblivious one if Sam tries to initiate anything.
Thing is, Sam cannot even begin to put together what he'd like to say. Is he
even sure that he would like to talk about it? Maybe Dean is right and it's
best to act like nothing ever happened. At least sounds easier than getting all
of that "sooo you watched me fuck myself with a rubber-dick last night, huh?"
out of his mouth and into his brother's face. Yeah. Definitely easier.
All Sam wants to do right now is sleep. Sleep, and stop thinking. And most of
all, stop remembering those kisses from all those weeks ago. But just like
during all those past weeks, they simply won't let him rest in peace, no matter
how hard he tries. Right now, they burn brighter than before, somehow.
Led asks the three of them "Why don't you take a good look at yourself and
describe what you see, And Baby, Baby, Baby, do you like it?" and no one feels
like answering.
 
No. It won't end like this. Not like this, not in this shitty cavern of
nothing; just NOT.
Iron and fear fill the moist air along with burnt incense and spices - it's
hard to breathe even without the image of John lying on the ground in a pool of
his own blood, not moving. Two heads are gone; where lion and goat once were,
there's only raw flesh and gushing blood now. It shouldn't still be moving,
should have ended with the lion, definitely should have with the goat. So much
for the plan.
It should be strange to him, weird that it's Dean's voice directing him inside
of his head. Somehow, it feels natural enough not to question it. Not that he
has the time and or nerves for that right now, anyway. Breath rattles through
his lungs as he tries to do as he's told.
Situation, Sammy, concentrate. Focus. What's going on?
Dad's down. Two out of three heads gone. Chimera still going strong with only
one head, the snake, at the end of the creature's tail. It's focused on you and
you could make it, still have the machete Dad gave you earlier, "just in case",
with a bored expression. But the goat got you earlier, you look like you might
have a concussion.
Now you fall on your back, curse. The creature stomps on your arm holding the
weapon. You drop it as you howl.
I am behind the rock. You told me to stay here, keep quiet and watch; you're
too young for this kind of job, Sammy. Dad had nodded in approval.
You're down. The tail with the last head on it is long enough for the body to
face you the right way around, bathing you in its blood while the snake hisses
so close to you; five feet, maybe eight.
You told me not to, but my muscles jump.
You told me not to, but I pull my gun.
You told me not to get involved, but I won't let you die.
Dark red, almost black blood ruins the paintings on the cave walls; spells,
signs of worship. Only one or two candles go out - there's only so much more
blood left in the giant body, even less circulating up to the three-and-then-
some meters of tail. It collapses; not on Dean, thank God.
Concentrate, Sammy. Don't panic. What's going on?
You wail for Dad.
Go check on him.
There's- There's so much- God, Dean, he's-
Is he breathing? Put your ear to his mouth.
Yeah. Yeah, he is, Dean, he is.
Where'd the sonofabitch get him?
Abdomen, right flank. Some flesh is missing, I-
Got his kidney?
No, that would be a hand or two lower.
Thank God. Take your jacket and roll it together, press it down where he
bleeds. Take his jacket and knot it around him,tight. Don't let him drain, you
hear me?
Yeah, got it, yeah; no, I won't. What about you?
Me? Ah, you know me, I'm fine.
"No you're not," Sam pants, stumbling next to his brother, feeling him over,
slapping his face, "You're not!"
Pf. Bull. I am okay.
"No, you're NOT!!" Tears well up in his eyes. There's blood, some Dean's, some
the monster's. The one from Dean's nose and in his hair is warm, fresh. Sam is
shaking so hard that he almost falls over.
"'M 'kay," real Dean splutters, tries to move his good arm, can't. He's on the
edge of consciousness. "'M 'kay, S'mmy."
Take Dad and then me. Take us to the car. Drive us to Malachi. You remember
him? One or two hours from here. That old oak tree, then turn right. Remember,
Sammy?
"Yeah, yeah; I will- I do-"
Dad is heavy but before Sam can really take another breath, he's splayed out on
the backseat and Sam's back in the cave, hefting his brother up with his good
arm around his shoulder.
"Don't fall asleep." He tells it over and over, even when Dean's in the
passenger seat and his hair paints untidy red grass blades onto the window.
Sam remembers Dean's fingers on his own when he let him put them on Baby for
the first time, how he guided them where to turn, to press. "Gotta be gentle
with her," he had been told, "she's a real lady. She deserves that much
respect, kiddo."
Sam jams the keys into her, turns, slams his feet onto the pedal. She roars
alive just as proud nevertheless. Maybe she knows he deserves that much respect
right now.
 
It's a shame about the jacket. He really liked that jacket. But the blood won't
come off from underneath his fingernails no matter how hard he srcubs, so he
doesn't have illusions about the denim fabric.
He gets used to it somehow after a week, to the sharp sting of antiseptic all
over the slowly rotting house Malachi set up for them to stay and recover in.
Every day he comes over, brings food, news, meds. Sam nods, listens, changes
sheets and bandages. Malachi looks over his work and pats him on the back for
it, has a chat with John who tells Sam "thank you" before he leaves for the
other room.
His heart almost stops and he rushes to Dean's side at the window. "You
shouldn't get up yet!" he scolds, gets a snort of laughter and a wicked smile
that he missed for three horrible days straight.
"That bitch smashed my arm, not my legs, kiddo."
"Then it was a doe who smashed your skull." It doesn't take much to make Dean
climb onto his bed again even though he doesn't look to happy with it. Just
another sign to Sam that he is not nearly as recovered as he'd like to see him
be yet. With a huff, he sits down next to his brother. "That's the term for a
female goat, in case you're wondering."
"I know that." He pouts, glares. It's too cute. How could Sam ever not have
seen it as that and nothing but that?
"Yeah, sure." Sam brushes Dean's unstyled bangs out of his eyes. He had been
allowed to shower Dean down a few days ago but not again yet. It's ridiculous,
really, but since it's safer to have him lying down, he doesn't worry too much
about it. The grease from his brother's hair is the payment for his victory, a
sign that his body is still working, living.
That smile too. All of it. "Look at you. Blow one lil' snake's head off and
suddenly you're the man."
"Address me with my real name, peasant."
"Oh, great snake slayer Sammy!" Dean laughs, carves the dimples in Sam's cheek
so deep it hurts. There could be no sweeter pain, though.
 
Cicadas chirp their lullabies outside. Every bedroom window in the house is
wide open, naturally. The heat is just too unbearable. Even Dad agreed to have
his one ajar - as long as the salt line was extra-thick, of course.
"Need anything else?" A wet washcloth next to Dean's good arm on the
nightstand, a bottle of water, like every other night before. With his head
this tired, this clouded and busy, it's hard to get by at the end of the day,
he figures. But Sam doesn't complain, would never complain. They're alive and
they're here, he takes care of them. There's nothing more to ask for. Sam is
blessed.
Dean's fingers brush his wrist. He grabs them, gentle, careful, even though
it's the good arm. Never can be too careful.
His brother makes a determined "mh-mh" but pulls him closer to the bed.
"You can tell me. I'll get it for you."
Dean looks hesitant. It doesn't suit his brother, scares Sam to see him like
this. "Nah, it's just… It's strange not sharing a room."
A sigh washes through Sam. Of course. "I know." It's silly, right? Being
desperate for privacy all this time and when it's suddenly there, it's the last
thing on earth he wants.
"Why don't you sleep here tonight?"
His insides hum at the sight of his brother's eyes. Something is different
about them, but maybe it's just the strange light from the fairy lights
outside, the anti-bug candle from the cupboard. Yeah, must be. "But it's hot,"
he tries, his naked toes curling in on the chipping wooden floors.
Dean grins, pulls him in. "That's just me. Get over it."
Sam's knees hit the mattress. "You think you're so funny, don't you."
"Oh, you know I am." This smile, God, this smile. It's so much prettier without
the blood, should always be like this. It spreads like fire onto him and Sam
doesn't care that he looks like he's on drugs, smiling bright and out of his
mind when he drops down onto his side, next to his brother.
"The bed's too small," he complains.
"No, your ass's too big." Dean helps him shimmy his way into a comfortable
position. There might be an elbow involved but in the end, Sam ends up where he
belongs; where he stupidly refused to be those weeks before the Chimera and
after that night in that tiny motel room. His head had told him it was just too
close, too strange, too embarrassing. You don't masturbate in front of each
other and then the next day everything is candy canes and butterflies. It just
isn't. Except that everything is different after you almost lost everything.
Now, it's the most normal thing in the world to lie next to each other in
nothing more than boxers on Dean and Bermudas on Sam. It's too hot even at
night to even think of any more clothing. "You won't be able to sleep like
that!" But I'd love to stay like this, even though I won't be able to stand
straight tomorrow. Worth it. Fucking worth it. Sue me.
"Can sleep when I'm dead."
The jerk sounds so happy with himself, huh. Bastard. "But you need to sleep,"
Sam chuckles. He won't give up that easily. Even if he enjoys this, he cannot
be selfish. Dean's health has top-priority. End of discussion.
"How about you stop telling me what I want, huh?" Sam cannot hold back a
strange sound when Dean tugs at his hair and both have to laugh at it. It was a
bit loud and Dean pushes his forefinger against his lips to remind Sam that the
windows are open and Dad's an uneasy sleeper. "Now c'mere. Be a good boy."
They hadn't talked this much before the Chimera in what now feels like ages.
Now, everything is different; different as in "back to normal". Now, Sam
remembers that before the masturbation-thing, Dean probably saw Sam shit his
pants, pee himself, have his first wet dreams, grow zits; in short: every
fucking humiliating thing a person could ever witness on someone else, really.
And he gave away this smile, this deep thrum of a heart, bass of voice, only
because of something stupid as a desperate run for modesty. Which is a lost
game in itself for the two of them, anyway.
"Doesn't this hurt?" Dean's so soft, all swollen and squishy from the heat and
meds. Also, Sam might be feeding all of them a little heavier than necessary.
But Malachi provides them so generously that it is impossible not to do so,
really. Also, the rich wife of the idiot who summoned the Chimera has her own,
very worldly way of asking for their forgiveness. (It was supposed to let the
guy experience some kind of "rebirth". Yeah, rebirth through initial dying and
then returning to earth in a regular newborn's body, maybe. Dad is right…
religion really is a dangerous thing to people's heads.)
"Sam, shut up." So Sam does, finally. Dean's skin is warm and sticky. With a
deep inhale, Sam draws it all up into himself and feels himself relaxing in the
buzz it gives to his head. Sleep and summer and brother and life.
"God, I missed this," he hears close to his ear, brushing his hair; and he
nods, presses his wet temple deep into Dean's neck. Dean's arm around him is
sweat-damp and way too heavy and hot on his bare skin, but it's okay, he'll
have this for as long as he can, as long as he is allowed to have it.
"I thought it would be over," he babbles suddenly, slow, in secret-low voice,
"I thought I'd loose you. Loose Dad."
"Except you didn't." The response is even lower, raw like nails inside of his
chest, where it shouldn't be, definitely shouldn't be. It hurts, makes him
itch. Has it always hurt like this? "Dad's here. I'm here. You saved us, Sammy.
You were so brave."
He might cry, again. That tiredness sure is exhausting. "Wasn't. Just. Just did
what you told me to do."
"I told you…?"
Carefully, Sam pushes his body up some more, until they are face to face. Dean
looks baffled. "Didn't I tell you?" Dean shakes his head. "In my head." It's
hot, too hot already, but Sam must push closer, needs more contact, more proof
that Dean is here. His hand that is trapped between their bodies and the
mattress wraps around the back of Dean's shoulder, the other ghosts over where
the necklace lies, always lies, like a promise, a trophy. "You told me, in my
head. Your voice was there, all the time." The sting of the horns into his
fingertips feel good, numb the tingle there. Unfortunately, he cannot stab his
chest with it, too.
And Dean just stares. Stares into his face as if this here was a movie and as
if he was about to cry or maybe-
His mouth is exactly like Sam remembers, cannot forget about, is haunted by.
But he had to know if they're still the same, right? If every girl who will
have Dean after he's all ready and good to go will kiss the same lips Sam
already knows; he's gotta make sure of that, right? So he kisses harder, just
to feel the give of them, breathes hard through his nose while Dean sucks all
oxygen in between their mouths; god knows where there is any room for that
right now. But Dean manages. He always does.
He wants to pull back but his bottom lip gets caught, careful but insistent, so
he returns, grinds their mouths together. Not too sure to which one of them the
tongue belongs that starts touching the other one's, but soon it doesn't matter
anymore. It's a constant swirl, push and pull, suck and release. Dean's content
sounds taste like the chicken soup he fed him earlier, like parsley and salt
and carrots, like family and safety and love.
It takes a lot of self-control but Sam eventually catches his breath with his
head bowed, buried deep in Dean's nape of the neck again. Dean's heart is
hammering against his hand; on his neck, too. Fingers in his hair seem to
contemplate whether to pull or to pet or do something different altogether;
it's Dean's only working hand right now, after all. Sam's heart jumps up to his
throat and he grips Dean's shoulder tighter.
Dean rolls over, almost pushing Sam off the bed, but only almost; catches his
gasping mouth in another kiss, now Dean's, only Dean's. Sam accepts it, lets
him lick his way inside, shudders at the slide of calloused fingers down his
spine. He wants to cry and run and grind his hips all at once when he becomes
aware that he is, in fact, completely hard in his Bermudas. A tiny movement on
the bed is enough to let their groins connect, and Sam has to correct that;
completely hard and leaking. Just like Dean is in his tiny white cotton boxers.
It's terrible. He never wanted this. Never thought that this was possible, that
this was a thing. Okay, they are close, too close, all of the fucking time and
ever since Sam can remember. But this is something way beyond "close"; this is
practically crawling underneath each other's fucking skins. Maybe this can pass
as a post-traumatic stress disorder shock symptom? It has to. He'd take
anything. Because this- This is just too much, isn't it? Inexcusable. Failure.
Freak.
Dean pulls back now with a pained expression, cancels their contact lower down,
as well. Pulls his hand back up to Sam's neck, stares at him in wonder and pain
and so much desperation that it hurts to look at it. "Sorry," he breathes,
terrified, "S-sorry, Sam, I-"
What? "Y-you didn't, I-I-" Sam has to swallow too much spit from his mouth,
licks more from his lips. "It, it was me, who- I-"
"Hey, hey; look at me. Look at me, Sam."
He does. Does all the fucking time. Maybe too often. Maybe too long. Maybe in
the wrong moments. Always when Dean's the most stunning, wonderful person Sam's
ever seen. Always in the moments Dean is looking, too.
"This is not your fault, I… I, uh…" The words die off until Dean's mouth just
closes without another one. Sam can imagine that they look alike a lot right
now, can watch his own terrified eyes in his brother's, even in the dark. "Can
we just sleep? Okay, buddy? Is that okay?"
"Yeah," Sam breathes, of course, yes, that's exactly what he would have begged
for right now.
They rush together again, naturally, soft; Dean on his back and Sam on Dean's
chest, both set of eyes wide and awake in the darkness. Trembling fingers do
not know where to grab.
"G'night," Sam breathes. He feels Dean nod.
The rush of their blood seems to be connected. It calms down only after God
knows how many soft blows of cool night air later.
***** Chapter 7 *****
"You did a great job there, Sam."
He's so tired he almost can't sit straight on the edge of this bed. Dad's voice
seems like coated in cotton, the praise thick like syrup in his ears. Sam
manages a wary smile. "Really?" he croaks. Maybe he's dreaming this. Maybe he
fell earlier and is in a coma right now. Surely, there is no other way John
would talk to him like this, right?
"Really," Dad assures. Sam fails to remember the last time he had seen him
smile like this. That expression definitely should show more often and in way
other occasions than being torn apart and successfully stitched together again.
Stitched by too long, too shaky, too young fingers. "You saved us. Both me and
your brother. We wouldn't be here having this conversation… well, any
conversation… if it hadn't been for you."
It feels strange grabbing his father's hand. Even after one and a half weeks,
Dad's still pretty much immobile. But he's stubborn, determined to get well -
so he will. He's the only person on earth who could make the missing tissue
grow back by using sheer willpower; Sam's pretty sure of that. And judging by
his recovery, he's already succeeding.
"Sorry that I interfered... You- you told me to stay back, but I just couldn't-
"
"Sam."
"I won't do it again, promise-"
"Sam."
He should sleep more, work less; eat more, worry less. But he can't. Every bit
of consciousness reminds him of three nights ago and it scares him so much he
almost throws up.
Dad stares at him like he's sorry, like he pities Sam. Like he's worried. Yeah,
right. Really a hallucination, after all. Sam knew it.
"You did what you had to do. You're a great hunter. The way you kept calm and
brought us to safety… Just like I taught you."
Just likeDeantaught me, Sam corrects. All there ever is is Dean, isn't it?
"I know I keep seeing you as a child. I just can't help it, you know? You're
still only fourteen-"
"Sixteen," Sam interferes.
"-sixteen, sorry." Dad's chuckle is dry and tired. Sam imagines that the way he
rubs his thumb over the chipping skin of his father's knuckles will make it
better. "You're still so little. But, in that cave? You proved that you're
capable of so much more. When this shit here is all over," Dad nods down his
body, "maybe we should take you along more often, huh? What do you say, Sammy?"
That onlyDeangets to call me that and you know that, Sam wants to say. "Yeah,"
he says instead, "yeah, I'd love to, sir."
Dad turns his hand around so their palms touch. "That's good," Dad huffs. He
sounds so happy, content. Sam should cherish this moment, his father's hand in
his. But he is empty. "That's good. I'm glad, Sam."
"Me too," Sam lies.
If he could see himself, he'd ask with a lot of confusion and concern what the
heck he thinks he is doing, renovating a house they'll only stay in a couple of
days longer than today. Fuck you, he'd spit into his own face as an answer.
Working keeps the head clear and busy. There is not a lot of time or energy to
spend on lingering in the past, in too warm sheets and lemony air. He scrubs
down a kitchen that hasn't seen a sponge in several years, removes more mold
from the bathroom than it should be possible for such a small space. It's a
race against time. There only are so many rooms in this little wreck and he
might run out of them before they're ready to leave. Sam figures he'll just
have to be working thoroughly to extend the tasks and goes for the tiles with a
toothbrush on day four of his mission.
The eyes on his naked back burn like flames. "You shouldn't get up yet," he
grunts into the tiles, scrubs hard enough to make the bristles bend.
"But I feel better already." Dean's voice is thin, a bit like Sam's. Maybe he
cannot sleep as well either, probably couldn't busy his mind with his limited
range of actions. Sam would worry about him but that would require thinking
about his brother, which he can't.
Sweat stings on his lips, in his eyes. Sam ignores the steady flow of it. "Go
back to bed."
"But I'm bored."
"Will you start every sentence with 'but' now?"
"What are you even doing there?"
"It's called 'cleaning this shithole up so you 'n Dad won't die of lung cancer
while growing several body parts back'."
"You on your period o' somethin'? Geez. 'T was only a ques-"
"You know exactly what I'm doing." Sam hisses the words, low enough not to let
Dad two rooms over hear him, loud and punctuated enough to get the message
clear. Glaring over his shoulder, he hopes he is impressive enough to be left
alone.
Dean's whole face seems tight, like he's really contemplating it. Yeah, Sam
knows he knows. They didn't talk much but about "Do you need something?", "What
do you want to eat?" and "More pills?" these past days, let alone look into
each other's eyes. The bathroom is narrow enough to feel the tension like added
weight on their backs.
"I'm just. Could you please, uhm. I smell like a freakin' badger."
Sam blinks through his saltwater-sticky bangs. Oh, for God's sake.
"A dead badger," Dean adds with a helpless smile; his way of puppy eyes.
"Yeah, alright," Sam mutters and gets up from his knees. The toothbrush flies
into the sink while it takes Dean only a handful of steps to cross the small
room. When Sam looks up from the fitting, he notices that the door has been
shut. He swallows stomach acids. "Okay, you ready?"
"Yeah." Only in his boxers, necklace and the cast in a sling around his neck,
Dean looks miserable. As miserable as any underwear-model reject can look like,
at least. "Can I keep these on?"
Sam nods immediately.
He steadies his brother when he steps into the tub to join him. There is no
shower curtain but the idea of drying the floor by hand later is a good promise
to Sam.
God, is he warm. Radiating heat all over, like a fucking heater, a bonfire. Sam
sets the water to lukewarm first, then lowers the temperature until he sees his
brother nod in the corner of his eyes. "Turn around," he orders, softly;
blushes at the sound of it. Dean obeys without comment.
The first shower of water makes his body flinch. The sling gets wet, there is
no way around that, but Sam has to be careful to leave the cast dry. Dean
really smells awful but it's hard to be disgusted for long as soon as that tiny
sigh reaches Sam's ears. "Hold this." He hands the showerhead to his brother to
get his hands on the soap. While he lathers it up generously in his hands, he
watches Dean showering himself down, the muscles in his back working with every
movement of his arm.
He should have seen it coming but somehow Sam's mind is blank until his palms
connect with Dean's skin. Both jump and Sam can actually feel the heat rising
into Dean's neck where he spreads the soap after regaining his composure.
They've done this a thousand times and then some. This shouldn't be awkward,
weird; like this. It should never be different from when they were little kids,
never should change, the only fucking thing in Sam's life that always was
constant, has to stay constant or he'll probably lose his mind. He's used to
watch everything run through his fingers, but not this, not his brother. It
simply can't.
As wide as Dean's upper back is, as slim his waist is, as compact the small of
his back right above his boxer shorts. Sam presses both thumbs in right there,
knows there are knots from all the lying down. Dean makes a choked off sound in
between pleasure and pain that makes Sam want to press harder.
"Turn around," he orders again.
"No, wait, uhm. Can you, uh, hold this in front of, uhm. I mean."
Sam's head spins for a few dangerous seconds before he can blink himself into
consciousness again. "Yeah," he says, "sure."
Dean hands him the shower head, grabs his fingers to get some of the soap. Sam
guides the jet of water where he guesses his brother's crotch is and even
though he cannot see shit (still too short to look over Dean's shoulder from
behind him, still) he turns his head to stare at the halfway scrubbed down
tiles on the wall.
Elastic snaps and the next sounds are perfectly familiar. The smell too, even
though it's way stronger and bites at his nose from the inside. It's gone soon
and not early enough at all.
"Okay," Dean says, clears his throat. Snap of elastic and he turns.
"Oh, uhm, maybe you should sit down; would that be better, maybe?" It's half
panic and half concern that speaks out of him right now, really. "You could
slip," he offers.
"Uh, yeah, sure." Dean's so pliant. Maybe he's in pain, maybe just as
embarrassed about all of this as Sam is.
Sam kneels down behind him as soon as he's securely settled Indian style, a bit
crammed in this narrow bathtub, but yeah, well, it's as good as it can get,
cowboy. Without a need of words, Dean lets his head fall back, eyes closed. A
drop of shampoo later, the showerhead in between his knees, Sam scrubs all
sweat and oils from his brother's hair, soft but with as much fingernails as he
can manage; just like he knows Dean likes it. His inner self snorts at the idea
that, yeah, he is an expert in giving his brother all kinds of massages.
Because that's such a normal thing, right?
Dean hums under his efforts. "Good?" Sam asks nevertheless.
"Yeah." After a short pause, Dean adds: "I can do yours too, if you want?
Single-handed, but… still."
"I'm good, but thanks." The answer is fast, quiet, hopefully makes his point.
"Dude, you could use it. Look at you. You adapted your feet's odor by now."
Maybe he's right, but Sam just can't. "I'll shower later, 's okay."
"We're in already now, so why not?"
"Dean, I-"
"It won't happen again, I swear."
Sam snaps out of wherever he tries to hide his mind into and stares down into
green.
"I won't do anything, just… please." There are no words that could complete
that sentence; Sam knows. Has played the same sentence over in his head a
thousand times by now, still hasn't found the right way. His brother is about
as far as himself, it seems. "Please, Sammy."
He nods, because what else can he do? "Yeah. Okay."
Water washes away lather and dirt. Sam cleans Dean's armpits, blacks out the
part of his brother that's covered in fabric which clings to him like a second
skin, massages his feet, rubs between the toes. Turns around, showers himself
down, lets Dean work him over just the same way.
It's okay now, it really is. His brother had asked for it, so he promised. So
it will be okay.
If Dean thinks of it as possible, it is. Simple as that. Because this is how
Sam's world works - by his brother's words.
Of course, Dean is right. Of course it works. After a few days of trying hard,
the effort slips away as it becomes reality. The dumb pressure in his throat,
the faint dizziness in Sam's head - it's the price for this, and he is more
than willing to pay. Dean laughs, so he laughs. Dean makes jokes, is a tiring
little piece of shit of a brother that makes Sam's head fume and his lungs
shout. That's how it is supposed to be, how Sam remembers it to be. So it's the
right way to go.
Dean's cast goes off during week five and Dad can walk again by week eight.
They leave a day later.
On the backseat of the Impala, AC/DC blasting from the speakers and dry desert
air unsettling their hair, Sam traces the new scars on Dean's arm. They're
topless yet again, Dad sweating like hell in his t-shirt. Everything is like in
a haze, a bit unreal, so it's okay to almost sit in Dean's lap.
Sometimes it shows its fangs, and it's nasty - but bearable. Sam catches it by
its tail and whacks it against the nearest wall as soon as he spots it; calm on
the outside, hurricane on the inside.
So when Dean's fingers brush his naked knee, or when his eyes get all cloudy
and wet in the sockets when they're all on Sam, Sam can endure it. The tiny
electric shocks that shoot into his fingertips every time they bump against his
brother's skin; they're alright. His punishment for not being able to lock the
monster up better, deeper, like Dean told him it needed to be done.
He blames the lack of foreign hands on him, foreign eyes and foreign bodies.
It's maybe just hormones, who could blame him for that, huh? Maybe after a good
fuck he will be sated, finally, and can relax and lean back, knowing that it's
just been desperation, nothing more or less.
The toy at the bottom of his bag weighs tons but there's no privacy on the
road, so he lets his mind play instead. Replays memories, sweet and heavy,
alone on the backseat, back turned to the other two, belly and aching dick
pressed into the back cushions. Thinks of how they touched him, held him, how
they pronounced his name. How they smelled, felt, moved. Searches for
everything that is not his brother and clings to the pieces he finds.
It scares him how little of them there is.
Close to Dallas and a Rugaru, Dad pulls in to a lonely ranch in the middle of
"fucking nowhere, Texas". The trunk is full of guns but lacks a share of flame
throwers. Not a too good circumstance for this next job.
"Behave yourselves, boys," John reminds with a sharp glare into the rear mirror
where his sons groan and pull t-shirts over their heads, obviously unwilling in
this heat, "His name's 'sir' to you two, you understand me? And do not, under
any circumstances, stare at his scars. He's been in Nam with me, so pay some
respect."
Sam's glad Dad warned them beforehand as soon as he sees the guy emerge from
one of the stalls. Holy fuck. Yeah, that looks, uhm. Wow. Who makes prosthesis
out of weapon parts? He elbows Dean before he can make that comic book or movie
reference Sam just knows lies on his tongue right now.
Turns out weapon traders make prosthesis out of weapon parts. Together with his
brother, he stands behind their dad who does the whole business himself and
wonders just how much sweat his body can produce, for fuck's sake. Just a tad
more and he can go swimming in his sneakers.
He's trained to the feeling of eyes on him, first and falsely accuses his
brother, but he's all over the pistols in that showcase over there when Sam
faces him. But that's impossible, there couldn't- oh.
The guy's tall, broad, slick black skin like licorice, muscles flexing where he
drops some boxes behind the counter. His dreadlocks pulled into a thick
ponytail behind his head, his eyes are free to glare at, no, devour Sam.
There's a faint buzz between Sam's eyes, a throb in his pants. Oh holy shit.
"Like something you see?"
Sam startles. His voice is almost as beautiful as the mouth it comes from.
"Yeah, actually, uh, these SIG Sauer's here, can I-"
"Not talking to you, dude."
Dean freezes; opens his mouth to protest and stops halfway through it. Sam
barely notices the confused look he gets from him. His brain is kind of
occupied right now.
"Dunno," he starts, casually strolling towards the counter, hands behind his
back because oh, he knows this game, "What can you recommend?"
"You ever been shootin'? You look a bit young, kid."
"Oh, I've had practice."
"Is that so? Okay, why don't you dismantle and put together this little
something for me then, would ya?" He holds a gun in front of him,
semiautomatic; easy. Maybe not as easy if the guy keeps staring at him with
these eyes of his. "Just a casualty."
God, Sam is hard just from the touch of their fingers when he's handed the gun
in question. He doesn't even know the guy's name yet, for fuck's sake. "Sure,"
he says, lets his eyebrows jump up his forehead once and flexes his fingers.
This is the weirdest pick up ever and Sam loves it already.
The gun is in parts and back in one piece in a few more seconds than his
personal record but the eyes on him are impressed nevertheless. "Just a
casualty," Sam hums and shoves the gun back over the counter.
He whistles. "Not bad, kid." Sam kind of wishes he was this guy's bottom lip so
he could get bitten like that, exactly like that, right now. Doesn't even
matter where, just- just this, fuck. "We have a shooting range in the back...
Wanna try any of these?" Of course he points to the ones exactly in front of
him at about the height of his crotch. Sam's knees give in a little at the
first hint of a bulge right there.
"Why not." It's hard to keep control over his voice but he idly feels Dean's
eyes on him, so he has to stay calm for now. The scenarios in his head unfold
and damn, he'd take any single one of them; and on the outside, he simply
shrugs his shoulders, wipes his bangs out of his eye. "Maybe this one?" Yeah,
exactly the one your dick is pointing at.
And he gets the drift, must have, because a smile like that doesn't appear on
anyone's face as long as he isn't a kinky bastard and there's a promise of a
fuck in the air. "Good choice," he hums, produces a key to the showcase and
takes the requested model out. Sam can barely get his eyes off those beautiful
hands, approves of the voodoo pendant on his leather bracelet. "Pa, we're in
the back, gotta show off this little beauty here."
Sir huffs a "whatever" in between the heated discussion with John. Sam follows
a few steps before he remembers Dean, his mouth already watering at what is
going to happen without any question to it. "Be back in ten," he huffs, shoves
his hands deep into his jeans' front pockets to adjust his boner in his
underwear. Dean nods. Sam is too pent up to see the tick of his brother's jaw.
One of the stall's a warehouse for all kinds of impressive stuff but all Sam
can really see are the sparks in front of his eyes when he has two of his own
and another two of the guy's fingers up his ass. "By the way, I'm Alan," Sam
hears from over his shoulder, shudders at the noise and smell of latex.
"Sam," he croaks.
"I'd ask if you're legal, Sammy, but on the other hand I really don't care."
Sam would protest at the use of that nickname (this one, out of all the
possibilities, of course) but his brain turns into an illiterate puddle like it
does every time someone presses their cockhead against his asshole. He barely
has time to remove his fingers before Alan pushes in.
Now he can use both of his hands to hold on to the metal shelving in front of
him and, God, does he need to do that in order not to get his face crushed into
it. Alan doesn't waste time and every inch gets not eased but fucked in. Even
though they are too far away to be heard from the main stall the others are
currently in, Sam tries to hold his noises inside of himself, doesn't want to
relieve the pressure just yet.
"Know a fag when I see one," Alan purrs into his ear and Sam now has to let a
sharp whine slip when the guy bottoms out with a smack of pelvis against ass.
Yes, yes, God, yes; this, exactly this, he had needed this and nothing else.
Alan's hung (like, wow) and doesn't exactly care that Sam's body is too narrow
and tight for its height. The rhythm is building up pretty bad pretty fast and
Sam soon forgets about staying quiet. It's a challenge to keep up with it,
really; usually Sam can move back at least a little bit. But now, he's more or
less crushed, held tight by strong hands that can almost create a ring around
his waist. It shouldn't be a turn-on but, on the other hand: there could be
worse.
Usually, he would never do this, something this quick and kind of anonymous. He
barely knows the guy, exchanged maybe, what, three sentences with him? It's not
his style. On the other hand, he's desperate. Too desperate. Somewhere deep
inside of his brain, he's happy that Alan is probably below double his age,
even if only by a handful of years at the most; doesn't dare to wonder what
would have happened if he had been an even older guy. Knows the answer, feels
horrible about himself. How far can one really go, huh?
He won't last long. In no possible or impossible universe could he not come
from this in like one or two more minutes, max. The pressure's intense, the
friction even with the lube Alan magically has stored in here (takes one to
know one, huh) bone shattering. Bent over in an almost ninety degree angle and
with his feet caught in the puddle of jeans shorts and boxers, he needs his
whole force to hold on to the shelving; hopes they don't rattle too loud, hopes
nobody will notice the come stains he will put here really fucking soon.
Just when Sam gives pretty much up on everything in life, has his mind so clear
and fucked out that he couldn't spell his own name, Alan decides to grab his
right thigh and pull it close to Sam's body. A pitiful and shameless moan is
all Sam can do about it before he comes after three or four punishing thrusts
into the new position.
After almost blacking out from the force of his orgasm, and Alan not stopping
only a second to let him catch his breath, of course, Sam tries to blink his
eyes open even though he can barely see in the unlit darkness; unlit but for
the small but intense strips of sunshine finding its ways through the wooden
walls and ceiling.
In a blur, he thinks he sees something move; looks closer, blinks again.
Green reflects the sunlight right back into his own eyes.
Sam yelps in panic and surprise, tries to pull his leg out of Alan's grip but
fails miserably. The pounding gets even harder as he hides his face in the gap
between his outstretched arms, stares into the shaking ground while he cannot
control his voice. His heart might explode and jump right out of his ribs,
yeah, probably; he also might puke his lungs out.
When did he slip in? Didn't Alan lock the door? Why is he watching? Why on
earth does he have to do this? Now, on top of that; now that everything is back
in order? Now that Sam finally got it together?
Alan fucks, Sam wheezes, whines. The sounds are obscene and Dean is only about
five feet away, can hear every single one of them without a doubt; maybe feels
the air move when they make it so, maybe smells the sweat and lube and
everything, saw him come, can see where he is being fucked into right now, his
still rock-hard cock slapping against his stomach and thighs with every thrust.
He can barely breathe, decides he doesn't want to, anyway. Sweat pours into his
eyes but they sting without the added salty water already anyway. Behind him,
Alan grunts, groans something; Sam doesn't even care anymore. It's like a force
of nature happening behind him and it surely would turn Sam on a lot to watch
the guy come if only he wasn't about to die of humiliation and sheer panic.
The sobs decrease quickly when Alan finally slows down, lets Sam put his foot
back onto the ground. When he pulls out, both are shaking heavily. Sam wants to
fall to his knees but won't show this much weakness, not in front of a
stranger.
Alan whistles, fumbles with the condom before he pulls his jeans back up.
"Catch your breath, kid. You don't want your daddy and brother seeing you like
this, do you."
Sam croaks a dry laugh and shakes his head.
"Alright." A smack to his ass. Classy. "Take your time. I'll cover you up."
Sam faintly hears the door open and close again, steps crunching into the sand
dying down with growing distance. Definitely not locked. Yeah, right. Because
he's always been such a lucky one, huh?
It feels like forever before he stands straight again, wipes his forearm over
his face until most liquid is gone. Sniffles and rubs his nose before he drops
back down to step into his pants and pull them up.
"Why, huh?" he asks into the darkness. It stays quiet.
He turns, makes a few steps around that particular row of shelves. Green is on
him, the light from the gap in the wood now catching in the pendant around a
sweaty neck. "Why do you have to do this?" he repeats, now clearer, not any
less raw or helpless or done for.
"I'm sorry." Dean sounds like a kicked dog, looks like one. They make a good
pair, as always.
Sam laughs, chokes on it, makes another few steps. Dean shuffles with his back
to the shelves, cornered. The bulge in his jeans is clearly visible even in
this shitty light.
"I'm sorry," he hears again, louder now that he is closer.
"I'm so, so sorry, Sam." Two feet between them and Sam can see the glistening
in his brother's eyes.
"Sam." One foot and he can smell Dean's breath. "Sam… Please."
They don't touch but for the air between their mouths, noses. Sam tastes both
their tears on his tongue, both their sweat. It's one and the same taste,
really. Searching for something to grab and run away with in Dean's eyes, he
ends up finding nothing that doesn't say yes. Yes, yes to whatever. Just yes.
Him, yes. Now, yes. Everything, yes.
When Dean whimpers his breath into his mouth, Sam drops to his knees.
"'M so sorry."
Dean almost rips the buttons from his jeans when he pulls them loose, knocks
Sam with the belt's buckle, but it's only his cheek. Sam's fingers find his
brother's hips and pull jeans and underwear down while Dean fumbles in the
front of them. The moment it's out, Sam wraps his lips around it.
Everything goes blank somehow, but not like anything he's known before. It's
like everything is in slow-motion, like wrapped in cotton candy. His tongue
feels heavy with the weight of Dean's glans on it, its slick, wet taste
exploding in his mouth. Like a faint memory, something very deep and very
precious it fills him to the brim, the whole being of it. Subconsciously, he
hums around it, shoves his tongue around it. Dean's incoherent stutters from
above tell him another handfuls of "yes", so he takes more.
"I'm sorry."
Sam turns his head like he turns his tongue with his lips locked, eyes closed,
senses overpowered by the sensations he floats on. It's so hot and raw, pulsing
and sensitive as if it could go off any second. Maybe will.
"S-Sam-"
Yeah, definitely will.
Sam surges forward and gags on what Dean's hips shove down deeper than he had
planned, but he lets him, only holds his hips as tight as he can in order to
feel more skin, more muscle underneath his fingertips.
"So sorry, s-so sorry; oh G- Sam, I-"
Fingers braid themselves into his hair and help him push-pull, guide him how
they want him to, like Dean wants him to. Sam moans as much as he can with his
brother's cock all the way down his throat.
Sam knows it's about to happen before it is, can tell by the throb going
through the whole length like someone's electrocuting it; maybe feels the
sparks of energy from Dean's fingertips on his scalp. When it arrives, Dean
whole body goes along, writhes and shakes, and he whines, simply because he
cannot control himself, Sam is sure about it.
After a few last, deep thrusts, Dean lets loose and Sam can pull back. He does
it slowly, carefully, watches Dean watch him through two layers of tears thanks
to his gag reflex and God knows what else. Dean drops to his ass on the dirty
ground before Sam is fully done, reaches out and of course Sam falls right into
his arms, on top of him like a thick sheet. He grabs at Dean's shoulders and
neck while he grinds his jeans- and cotton-covered cock into his brother's
perfect, flat belly. It doesn't exactly matter when exactly they start or
finish kissing like this, it really doesn't.
When they finally do, Dean stares up at him in wonder, sweat dripping and
cheeks pulsing with pink, one or two blood vessels popped in the white of his
eyes. Sam has the urge to lick them clean of the red.
Dean's eyes flicker in between his left and right eye before he decides on his
favorite, the right one. He somehow always ends up on this one when they're
this close, really, close enough to make it hurt, so close you have to stare
cross-eyed in order to see shit. Dean rubs his fingertips over where he holds
Sam's neck right beneath his hairline.
He smiles, so Sam does, too.
Eventually, they manage to get to their feet and out of the stall. The air
burns and flares in the heat, but it's okay, somehow.
"Where've you been?" John asks them when they enter the shop.
"Snake," Dean says, cold-blooded like he is, can be sometimes. It makes Sam
laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" Dad's confused and Sam loves it somehow, right now.
"Yeah, Sam; look, Dad, I fell on my fucking back because it scared me out of
fucking nowhere!" He points to his completely ruined shirt and jeans from where
they were rolling around on the ground only minutes ago. Sam's heart flutters
so hard that he cannot stop laughing.
"Since when are you scared of snakes?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe since I almost got killed by one, like, two months
ago?"
His belly is aching and he might cry from it; it's just too much.
"But I had Sammy here with me-" Dean pulls him into a headlock and rubs his
sweaty hair with fingertips and chin. Sam cannot really breathe but that's fine
with him. "- my personal snake slayer. Isn't that right, lil' brother?"
"No snake is safe from my eternal wrath!" he assures in between gasps for air.
John chuckles as he pats two heavy-looking boxes. "You gonna help your old man
with these, you maniacs?"
Immediately, Dean shouts an enthusiastic "yessir" and Sam does as he does,
grabs a box and follows him like an obedient dog, a lost duckling. Baby's trunk
is sizzling hot when they open it to stuff her some more. When the boxes are
settled, Dean turns to face Sam who has his mouth open to ask something
unimportant. It's kissed shut instead, sealed with tongue and more spit than
necessary.
Sam must look pretty wasted when Dean pulls back, can guess it by the way Dean
smirks at him, all twisted and mocking but so sweet Sam wants to keep their
heads ducked under the trunk's roof for eternity if it means more kisses like
that. Which he, by the way, can't believe he's thinking about. There's still a
slight chance that this is only just a dream and as soon as he'll wake up
everything will be back to miserable but reasonable reality again. Right?
God, is he tired. He could sleep for a whole week straight.
"Hey," Dean says as he bites his lip, smacks the back of Sam's head with his
flat palm, "come on, let's see if he broke his hip yet o' somethin'."
Sam smiles as he nods.
Under the merciless Texan sun, all he can hear are the cicadas singing: wake
up, wake up, wake up.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He's scared, scared out of his mind. Of course they don't talk about it. It's a
bit like before, a code-red worthy secret and completely wrong and off… but
somehow not. There's still an entire alarm system going off every time they
touch, either by mistake or because it's inevitable. And Sam knows it's not
only him who feels this way.
They're walking on thin ice with fear all over their faces every time they keep
getting stuck on each other. Honest to God, Sam's never seen his big brother
this nervous. It's ridiculous, really. It shouldn't be possible to feel like
this, should it?
Sometimes, in an unguarded moment, Sam has the premonition that Dean is about
to kiss him any second now. The air is on fire then, drawing him in, clasping
his fingers tighter into his jeans-clad thighs. And Dean… he looks like he is
about to kill. Or scream. Or run. Or, yeah, well, kiss Sam. All in one. But all
it takes it three ragged breaths and Dad is back, turns around, does anything,
really, and the moment is gone.
After the Rugaru, Dad promises to settle down somewhere, at least for a month
or two. Sam has to attend class, after all. Maybe not exactly because Dad
thinks it is important to him as a person but more like keeping Child Services
at bay. Sam bets Dad counts the days till Sam finally turns eighteen and is all
ready to drop out of the whole system like his role model of a brother. Family
business, twenty-four-seven. Yeah. Right.
Something bigger this time, maybe Memphis, Tennessee, so that Dad doesn't have
to reach too far for a job here and there. But that is a long drive. Sam has a
feeling it will come down to several jobs along the road, dropping the both of
them or Sam on his own for two or three weeks… and then on it goes. The usual
way.
In another motel room, lying in what is the first proper bed for everyone since
their forced time-out, Sam stares at the ceiling, listens to the traffic
outside, Dad's and Dean's irregular breathing. August heat is bearable with the
air con on full blast but it hurts to breathe this dry. Not that it's easy
breathing anyway these days. Maybe especially not with Dean right by his side,
even though he's facing away from him.
Sam is too scared to even touch his brother's back at this point. It's not like
Dean ever told him not to do anything, that this is a secret and you tell
nobody, you hear me?; no. But that trembling in their hands, it must have a
meaning, right? Something's wrong, holds him back. There are so many dimensions
to this, so many voids that it's impossible to trace all their depths and
possibilities. One seems worse than the other. Doing something or doing nothing
at all, silencing it to death or screaming it from the top of a mountain - it's
all impossible.
There is no way he could do anything about this. As long as Dean doesn't tell
him exactly at what point and how high to jump, he'll never leave this secure
ground. And, yeah, facing endless nothing as far as the eye can see, even
balancing on a pin head is considered "secure".
In his mouth, the taste is still there. Doesn't matter how often or hard Sam
brushes his teeth, how many onions or garlic he has in or on his food - it just
won't budge. Like it's imprinted in there, caught in his teeth every time his
tongue decides to run over them; on his lips like a very disturbing kind of
chap stick. It's dangerous since it gets him hard in the matter of seconds,
sends him right back to that warehouse and into his brother's jeans. But now,
darkness and the security of a blanket surrounds him...
Sam rolls over onto his side, faces the window and slowly closes his eyes as he
pulls his knees closer to his body. One tooth digging into the tip of his
tongue is enough. Dean's breath is in his mouth before his dick is, before he
feels it tremble all innocent and helpless, nothing like he's ever seen his
brother act like before. Dean's gasping his name, grabs his hair, just like Sam
likes it, how he's always cherished it when his "lovers" did it to him. A throb
in his boxer shorts sends goose bumps down Sam's spine while his stomach
whispers that he is fucked up, a freak; God, this is yourbrotheryou're thinking
about, dude; get it together.
Yeah, yeah, he knows, fuck, he knows. He wonders if this had always been inside
of him, hidden deep and in the shadows, had driven him closer and closer to
that sun he is orbiting around since and even before he can remember. Is this
what a life like theirs does to you? That you end up so dependent on that one
person who's always been there, really kept an eye out for you; that you can't
help but wanting them to give you everything, let them have everything of
yours? Is there such a thing as being addicted to being as close to a person as
possible, having the urge to crawl underneath their skin and never get out ever
again?
He had his eyes closed most of the time, didn't really have to look at it,
knows how it looks like anyway. Because, yeah, being this close lets you see
some shit you actually never wanted to witness or let others witness about you.
Waking up with a perfectly normal morning wood next to each other or
involuntarily flashing or showering with each other, shove fucking bed pans
under each other's asses; it's what they do. It comes with the job. It comes
with their family name. Family is everything. Family is all they have. And you
take care of your family, son, or so God will help me. Pretty sure blowjobs
were not exactly on John's mind when he told Sam that.
He's always known his brother had a nice dick. It's pretty much logical, given
how he is handsome all over. Nice size, too. As already stated, Sam's seen it
before. Just never tasted, felt it. Which should be a good thing, considering
the situation as a whole. Never really had the urge to up to he doesn't even
remember when exactly. But that lies in the past, now. Fuck the situation, fuck
Sam's life. Fuck his brother's wonderful, marvelous cock. … Wait, that sounds
wrong.
Sam wonders if Dean thinks about it, too. If he indulges in the memory of Sam's
mouth on him, Sam's hair in his fingers, Sam's fingers on his hips, Sam's nose
pressed up into his pubes. The thought that he maybe actually is thinking about
it shouldn't be this arousing, really shouldn't. Shouldn't make Sam wish to do
it all over again, watch his brother lose his mind, make him stutter Sam's name
when he comes, make him wrap his arms around him and kiss him like he wants to
eat him up.
Exactly in the second Sam's fingertips connect with the bulge in his boxers,
there's a palm pressing into the space between his shoulder blades.
Sam barely remembers to not make a sound.
The hand wanders in small circles. It's warm and a bit damp but maybe that's
just his own sweat getting caught in the cotton of his t-shirt. Dean surely can
feel him tremble, must feel. Sam presses his face deeper into the pillow.
Breath hits the back of his neck before the lips do, soft and dry. Sam cringes,
panics a bit, then notices that Dad's breathing has changed, that he is indeed
asleep. He sighs through his nose while Dean closes the gap between their
bodies. Sam's nostrils widen at the sudden heat he is covered with, his
brother's naked thighs against the back of his own. There's a fully erect dick
pressing into the small of his back where his t-shirt rode up earlier - and Sam
wants to run.
The movements are slow under the covers, cautious to make as little noise as
possible. It's torture, really, especially after those endless hours and days
in the Impala without them, after sitting on forks and coals through all of it.
Dean's palm burns its way over Sam's shoulder, down his arms. Up again, down
his flank, hip, thigh. Sam is so hard it hurts and pulls his knee closer,
strangles his dick in between his thighs to keep the last possible bit of
control over it. By far the worst though is Dean's breath right next to his
ear. It hitches when Sam's does, when Dean's fingertips brush over a bump, a
seam of clothing.
He doesn't even touch him in "bad" places, doesn't slip under his shirt or into
his boxers; just this, this slow drag of skin on skin - and it's the best Sam's
ever felt. Mmmh, o-okay, m-maybe scratch that, yeah, the best is when Dean
kneads his palm into him, doesn't even matter where; shoulder or waist or hip,
everything is just… mmmh.
Home. Brother. Security. Need.
"Sam."
His toes curl at the sound. Low, low bass, dark and choked and hoarse from
whispering so quietly that Sam is only able to hear it because it comes from a
mouth directly on his ear. Sam allows himself a sound, a "what?" and "yes?" and
"Dean" all in one; strangled puppy sound, huffed deep into his pillow. Sam
shudders only because Dean does, first.
"Take your duffel."
Sam hums with his lips pressed shut.
"Follow me."
Secrets burn like the wildest fire, always have, always will.
They get up simultaneously, blind in the dark, only guided by moonlight. Sam
grabs his bag while Dean leans over Dad, brushes his shoulder affectionately
and mutters to the unwilling grunts: "We're out for a ride, Dad; can't sleep.
Be back soon. Okay? We'll be back soon. Just sleep."
Sam's heart jackhammers against his tongue and stomach. The fucking jeans just
won't slip over his feet, goddammit. By the time he's climbed into his sneakers
and shouldered his bag, Dean's already waiting in the door, the little slit
created by impatience bathing him in moonlight. Sam follows the restless green
over the salt line, the parking lot, into Baby.
Dean slams the door shut when he's in, starts the engine. Faintly, Sam notices
that Dean's barefoot, shoes ignored and forgotten in the motel room. The zipper
of his jeans is pulled close, the button loose.
He must be staring, but it's just too much. Sam thinks he might hyperventilate,
just pass out from all the things filling every spare part of him right now.
It's thick and terrible and makes it impossible to breathe, to think.
When Dean returns his gaze, he seems filled to the brink with it, too.
Sam's palm finds its place on top of Dean's on the gearstick as they leave the
motel behind.
The drive doesn't last long, maybe five minutes, ten. When Dean pulls off the
highway and into what looks like a parking spot for hikers, Sam starts sweating
so hard that he has to withdraw his hand. Dean gets them deeper into the woods,
the path widened for the forest wardens' work. When it stops, the car does,
too.
Without the purr of the engine, their breathing seems irresponsibly loud in the
night. Sam is startled by the sudden opening of the car door even though he's
staring right at the one who's causing it.
"Backseat."
Sam doesn't even have to nod, just pushes his door open and nothing but falls
out of it, duffel first, face next. In this setting, his stumbling for the
backdoor painfully reminds him of a newborn deer, which doesn't make any sense
to think about right now, but his head is so empty that he can't help but spot
every teeny-tiny thought in there.
The door's barely open when Dean spins him around by his shoulder and, thank
God, slams him against the car. Otherwise, he would have fallen on his ass; now
is being kissed like Dean's starved for the taste of it, thank God, because
otherwise Sam would have lost his mind. Finally, fucking damn finally.
Sam grabs, maybe scratches in his wake, holds Dean's face, tugs on his hair; a
little bit of everything and still not enough, so he humps his hips into his
brother's, groans when Dean does. He squirms when hands squeeze between Baby
and his back, at how they replace slick coolness with alit palms.
Hot all over, their bodies seem to put all effort into melting into one,
pushing against and into each other as hard as possible, until it hurts and
then some, struggling to stay upright, not falling to the ground and roll
around on it like they did in the desert. No, this time it's different.
Dean's mouth pulls away and Sam wants to punch it for it, changes his mind
rapidly when it grazes its teeth along his cheek, down his ear, neck; groans
there, wants to bite, Sam knows, just knows, but it barely pinches the skin.
"Please," he hears, not in a whisper but still as timid and careful as one,
right against where his pulse is going crazy, having it told to his blood.
"'s okay" he replies immediately, confused and with his voice as wrecked as he
probably looks, "'s okay- D-don't cry, hey-" His words die with a yelp whose
outdrawn whimper he can bite down, but not all of it; not when Dean bites his
neck and pulls his too baggy jeans and shorts off his hips in one sudden move.
"You- you have no idea, how- God, Sam-"
He wants to pull Sam up for him to wrap his legs around Dean's waist, Sam knows
he does; so he kicks off his pants somehow, doesn't miss Dean's shin but nobody
cares. It's all worth it when Dean succeeds, pulls Sam's naked bottom into his
jeans-clad lap, sandwiches him between cold metal and raging hot flesh. Sam
gasps for air that he really really needs but Dean cuts off his supply with his
mouth, will only let him breathe him, shoves his pretty pink tongue next to his
and on and around it. The sneakers are forgotten on his feet and as long as
Dean doesn't complain that he's digging them right into the small of his back
and ass, Sam won't spend only a single thought on them.
Sam is close to both crying and coming when Dean lets go of him. There's a
demanding pull on the neckline of his shirt. Four hands manage to get it pulled
over his head eventually. Sam hiccups something incoherent when Dean's hands
roam over his sweaty chest, stomach, back up, cup his face. He drapes his arms
around his brother's neck and pulls him closer, still closer, 'cause every inch
between them is too much.
        [https://41.media.tumblr.com/3d0d62d16e0be2a1fdb5a676d9b6fbb3/
                      tumblr_nogn3uNarB1tbglmro1_540.jpg]
"Gonna kill me," he mutters into Dean's mouth, blinks helplessly at kitten
licks to his lips, rolls of thumbs over his nipples. If this is a dream, he
doesn't want to wake up ever again.
Dean's smile is devilish against the moonlight. "Not yet."
He is shoved into the backseat before he can really process what is going on.
Barely grasping the very beginning of it, Sam makes a move to scramble away.
"I-I can't" is out of his mouth and Dean on it immediately, soothing the
sickness with syrup and hushes in between kisses.
"It's in your bag, right? The toy?"
Oh. Oooh. Sam hum seems approving, so Dean climbs back out, makes quick work of
the bag's zipper where Sam dropped it on the ground earlier. Sam gets up on his
elbows, watches in amazement how his brother produces both lube and most
inappropriate birthday present in the history of ever. Yeah, this he could
take; doesn't really know how yet because he's about to turn into a puddle of
sweat and insecurity if Dean keeps playing him like a fiddle. But he has to,
simply due to the fact that Dean wants him to.
To Sam's displeasure, Dean knocks his legs apart to kneel in between them, eyes
racing over the exposed body in front of him, almost too caught up in it to
find his voice again, almost. "Wanna watch you use it," he tells him, corner of
his mouth twitching when he sees Sam's dick throb at the order.
Sam cringes under the blatant stares, earns a sloppy kiss for it; shudders as
he nods. His face is burning, both from the memory of the toy's last use and
the weight of Dean's eyes all over him, his thankful smile, the sweat on his
palms as he passes him both objects.
If he thought he couldn't get any more exposed than lying butt-naked on his
back in the backseat of a car with a hard-on massive enough to put any
jackhammer to shame, well, Sam was wrong. Dean slips off him, kneels right in
front of the car and grabs Sam by the hips, pulls him closer to the seat's edge
until his ass is barely resting on it. God, front row is nothing to this; Sam
can practically feel Dean's breath down there. A firm hand pulls first his
left, then his right foot on top of Dean's shoulders. Good, because Sam has
lost all feeling in every part of his body that isn't located in between his
legs or above his neck. And these places are so occupied with being tingly and
pumped full of blood that he wished they were numb as well.
While fumbling with the lube's cap, Sam presses his eyes closed, cannot stand
the humiliation of being this vulnerable. It's stupid because, duh, he's been
naked in front of other dudes quite often in these past months; and yet he
cannot decide between being aroused or put off by the attention. He almost
kicks Dean at the sensation of fingertips that out of fucking nowhere follow
his faint treasure trail, oh-so innocently brush the burning length of his
cock.
"Still this bare down here, huh."
His own fingers get a first hint of cool liquid while the curious ones trace
lower and lower, follow the curve of his balls and, almost without any pressure
at all, down his taint, slow down, dip deeper, press down there. And rub.
Fucking. Rub.
"'S like you shaved for me."
Sam can hear the affectionate smile in that voice, blinks his eyes open while
he shoves Dean's fingers aside to replace them with his own ones. Sees clear
soon enough to catch Dean licking his lips at the sight, the sight of him, his
stupid bony teenage body; almost chokes on his tongue when he tries to swallow.
If one could die from too much admiration, this is how. Sam holds his fingers
still, waits till Dean looks up into his eyes - needs him to watch the change
he knows will take place in his own face, the one he always hopes looks more
sexy than pitiful - then, only then starts pushing one of them in.
Something happens in Dean's face as well now, something Sam hasn't seen before;
not really, not meant for him. It shows whenever some pretty waitress slips him
her number, or in bars, when girls drop into his lap and he notices they're not
wearing anything underneath their tight little skirts, when they whisper dirty
little somethings to him and don't even notice Sam's sitting right there next
to them. It's that "got you" that races through his head, the promise that said
girl is his to take.
And now, now it's all on Sam. All for him. Nothing could have prepared him for
this, all of these spotlights on him, replacing every waitress, girl, skirt his
brother wants, exactly now.
Dean's fingers return in a pair of two. Their gaze is still unbroken when he
pulls Sam's cheeks apart some more, carefully ghosts over the currently way too
tight rim that desperately clings to one of Sam's bony digits, begging for no,
nothing more, please.
But this is Dean, Dean with his touches so soft and light as if he was scared
to hurt Sam if he dug them in with the pressure Sam pretty much guesses he'd
like to use. Hesitating, anticipating Dean, his lips parted and his eyes full
of please please please, Sammy; baby boy. Doesn't his body know? It should
know. It lived off him. Lives on him, still. Fucking still.
His finger pulls back just in time with Dean's dipping in.
Both their breaths die off, stumble, race. It's too hot, too much, but yet
drives itself deeper, slow and demanding, so good, so fucking, fucking good.
Dean looks so lost in it, so amazed and curious about how Sam can feel like,
what his body allows him to do, that Sam is pretty much okay with the too
quickly building movements. The thought that this is the first time Dean's ever
fingered someone without a vagina lets his heart take a leap.
"More o' that," Dean croaks, nods towards the lube bottle on Sam's heaving
stomach.
He complies, drips more where he's breached open, almost drops it when Dean
pushes in to the knuckle immediately after the "more" is enough (in his eyes).
At first, Sam wants to protest when he feels the second one lining up next to
the first (woah; wait wait wait, dude) but then Dean hums, all throaty and
needy and it fucks with his brain too much to go through with it. So Dean eases
in.
It's too much, everything of it, this whole situation. Too much too fast. Maybe
he got into a game that he is unable to play yet; yeah, he has experience up
his sleeve, but damn, this is like a hundred times the intensity, the
electricity. His body is practically throbbing with need while his heart is
chanting endless strings of "happy", his head trying to wrap itself around and
make at least a tiny bit of sense out of it all. "Carnival" is an
understatement right now.
Sam tries to say something that only comes out as one incoherent stutter when
the fingers twist.
"Good?"
This voice, oh goddammit; he can't, he just can't. Sam hides his face behind
his hands and whimpers, hears his brother chuckle.
"That a 'yes'?"
The fingers plunge in and out in slow twists. Sam tries to say "'s good" in
between his fingers but doesn't even understand himself what comes out instead.
He's never like this, ever,with nobody. What the hell, body? This can't be
real. He can't be that sensitive, that much of a blushing virgin. Oh God,
everything but that. He's been bent over in fucking Texas, for God's sake.
"Three," Dean mouths with amazement, and yes, there's number three, oooh wow,
"That enough? Ready?"
Ready to blow my fucking load, you jerk, Sam thinks but whimpers instead. When
he tries to withdraw his hips, Dean's hand chases him, won't let go.
"Hands 'n knees, come on."
Sam barely fights back when Dean manipulates him into position, is too occupied
with fighting the need to come here and now. Dean's fingers won't stop shifting
inside of him and now he's got his ass up in the air aka even closer to Dean's
face and relentless eyes; oh God, he's really gonna die of embarrassment, isn't
he?
It's getting really uncomfortable when Dean starts to withdraw, makes Sam's
head spin and groan little pleads of "no no no no, wait". He tries to push them
back in, but it's a lost battle as soon as Dean hushes him, kisses the bony
digits that want to interfere. Defeated, Sam sobs with his cheek pressed into
Baby's upholstery when Dean pulls his fingers free.
Immediately, there's cool, slick silicone pushing at his rim and warm fingers
that guide him to grab around it. His eyes slip shut with soothing droplets
from the small bottle, generous this time, thank God. The tip is eased in
before he knows it but what really makes Sam shiver now is his brother's held-
in breath.
The angle is strange and it's tight, almost way too tight, but Dean is watching
and Dean wants it to happen, so it has to work. Some soft twists and nudges and
it slips deeper, the view probably good judged by how painfully Dean exhales,
so close Sam can feel it everywhere down there. The goose bumps it creates make
his insides squeeze the toy involuntarily, that sensation creating even more
goose bumps and then all of it all over again in a damn vicious circle.
When it's deep enough to brush his prostate, it's pretty much over and done.
Sam has to gasp for air, receives hot, sweaty palms on the back of his thighs
for it. Wow, he didn't know it was possible for knees to give in even in a
kneeling position; kinda impractical right now. Maybe he croaks something along
the lines of "can't, Dean, can't" because his brother shushes, whispers "easy,
's alright, I've got you" in return.
His orgasm hits him the moment Dean puts his hand over his own and around the
toy.
Even though he knew it was coming, this is just insane. Sam doubles over, back
arched so deep it hurts but his balls are so painfully closely drawn up to his
body that he doesn't even feel that. Dean follows his escaping body, grabs his
thigh hard and pulls him upright, forces him to kneel like he positioned him
earlier. This only brings back more tension, intensifies the pull of his
insides, shoves the toy into that damn spot that makes him yelp and ruin Baby's
backseat.
Sam loses all concept of time and reserve as Dean takes control over the toy
and fucks it in hard.
He's cried before during sex, whined and yelped and begged, oh yes, he has. But
of course, Dean turns it all into ashes, burns it down and replaces all that
glory with himself, imprints it into Sam's body like a glowing piece of iron,
something Sam can never forget. Caught in Dean's arm lock, he can't pull away
or kick, maybe couldn't even without it thanks to the rippling spasms his whole
body seems to be infected with. Poor body, poor poor body; it writhes as far as
it can around and against the merciless thrusts Dean puts it through.
Eventually, Sam starts crying for please, please, please; not exactly any idea
for what (more or less both seem unbearable) but it doesn't matter since it
doesn't have an effect on the punishing pace the toy hammers into him, right
into that damned-to-hell spot. He's out of come eventually but the stimulation
just won't stop, almost drives him insane, leaves him sobbing and caught in
this body, between sat-through seat and obvious torture expert of a brother.
Only when Sam is close to blacking out, already goes slack and everything, the
hand stills, squeezes his own fingers back around the silicone. "Hold this," he
is instructed, doesn't even try to speak up with his throat this sore and his
tongue this swollen.
In this fucked-out daze, Sam barely notices his brother's frantic breathing,
lets him pull him up until he's kind of on his side and belly, facing Dean.
When Sam blinks his eyes open through tears and spit, Dean's fist around his
dick is nothing more than a blurred spot of pink.
"O-open up-"
Eyes slipping close, Sam does, of course, does.
"Oh, fffff-"
There it is again, bitter and sticky on his tongue, on the insides of his
cheeks and palate as well when he wraps his lips all around the tip to suckle
on it. He earns a fist into his hair for it, floats in bliss. Lazily, he rolls
his tongue and dips it into the slit, listens to what it does to his brother's
voice. And oh, it does a lot.
It's a bit like when he's in pain, a bit like when he spots a freshly out-of-
the-oven pie on some diner's counter, a bit like when Sam elbows or knees him
to wake him up after a long night out. Tiny and perfect and just for Sam.
Sam looks up into Dean's eyes when he pulls back out, studies the wrinkles on
his nose from the exhausted frown, the red of his mouth, the film of sweat on
his forehead. He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls the fly closed. With
a tired sound, he goes back to his knees onto the ground in front of the car so
that they're on eye level, holds Sam's face and kisses him the instant that the
position allows it.
It's slower, thicker than before. Way, way too much spit, from both of them.
Dean's thumb rubs Sam's sweat back into his temples. Their foreheads rest
against each other while they take a moment to catch their breath.
Sam, still on his stomach, tries to get up on his elbows, but Dean pulls him
back down. "Don't sit on her."
Uh. What?
"Did we get lube on her? … Oh shit." Both their eyes go wide, Dean's wider.
"Move."
"Wha-"
"Move, Sam!"
Confused, Sam is pushed over by his brother who hunches over the upholstery in
panic. He swallows a bit of his shame that hits him in the stomach like a
freight train over how Dean inspects the seat and the uhm, well, liquids he
left there.
"Oh shit, oh shit. Agh, fuck."
Now, it's Sam's turn to drop his jaw. He either really dropped unconscious or
Dean is actually licking his come off the leather seats. He's really thorough
with it, too, takes a generous amount of time to get it all off. Sam can only
stare and mutters a "Jesus Christ" under his breath.
Dean seems a bit feverish when his head comes back up, looking at his little
brother in a mixture of embarrassment and seriousness. "What?" he barks, "You
know how hard it is to get this off once it's dried? Fucking impossible, dude!
Can't have her stained like a cheap mattress o' something!" Dean wipes his
nose, gets out of the car. Sam still stares at him. "C'mon," Dean snarls,
reaches out for Sam to hold on to his arm, "No more stains in there. Don't you
dare make more stains."
No ounce of an idea how, but Sam manages to follow that order, even with his
jizz slowly hardening on his stomach and the lube practically all over his
butt. Good thing that Dean's steadying him since his knees are practically
useless right now. The dildo still up his ass doesn't really help with standing
straight, either.
"Pull it out," Dean suggests.
Sam cringes. "N-no, I-I-" He makes a face. God, will anything ever not be
embarrassing in his life? "It's, uh. It's dirty, an-"
"It's anal, for fuck's sake, Sam. Kinda normal not to be all flowery and
sparkly."
"… I can't believe you just said 'anal'."
"You get rid of that or I'll do it, your choice; but it's happening now."
Sam makes a face, even more of it when he pulls the toy free with a wet plop of
a noise. His ears redden under Dean's concerned look.
"Hurts?"
Sam shakes his head out of reflex. He's had worse, so it's not really a lie,
right?
Dean's face softens, finally. "Thank God."
His vision goes cross-eyed when Dean cups his face and kisses him on the lips,
slow and sweet. The toy hits the ground with a sad thump but Sam couldn't care
less, has to wrap his hands around Dean's hips, right above his jeans. Gosh,
his skin is so warm. It's like sinking into a bathtub.
Dean gets rid of his shirt to wipe down his face and armpits, hands it to Sam
who, well, basically uses it all over, last on the dildo. The shirt flies
somewhere into the woods, maybe gets caught in some branches; who the fuck
cares. Sam pulls his clothes back on and dumps the toy into his bag, writes an
imaginary note to scrub it down properly as soon as they're back.
When he's done, he finds Dean sitting on Baby's trunk, gets welcomed by a heavy
arm around his neck when he slumps down next to him.
For a while, neither of them speaks. The night air is cool, the smell of trees
and damp ground somewhat refreshing after the crammed narrowness of the
backseat. Crickets play their songs in the grass.
"Hate me yet?"
Sam looks up through his lashes, catches Dean looking for his eyes and then
quickly turn away once they're there. "Why would I?"
"Dunno. 'Cause I'm a damn freak, maybe?" Sam frowns at the word, frowns harder
at the tension creeping into his brother's face. "'Cause I did this to you?"
"I could have said 'no', Dea-"
"But you did. You did say no, and I just-"
"Wha- Not like that, idiot, really; like, push you away 'n shit."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Short silence, some blood to his cheeks. "Liked it."
Dean's expression lights up, gets stuck back on Sam's face. "Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"Hm." His brother looks shy but happy. Happy is good. His eyes drop in between
his knees where his naked feet are dangling in the air. "Would've done it
earlier," he confesses all timid and hoarse, more to his feet than to Sam who
feels his pulse climb up his throat again, "Couldn't think of anything else
after that night I caught you with it."
Sam's head might turn into a lighthouse. "Since… ever since then?" he croaks.
Their eyes meet before Dean's flicker away again, are replaced with a nervous
laugh and a strained neck. "We should, uhm... head back. Okay? Come on."
Back in the car, Sam is too comfortable and sleepy to do anything but stare out
of the window. Baby comes to life with a proud roar.
Two minutes into the ride, Sam's almost asleep, forehead against window and
all. His lips curl into a faint smile when the familiar warmth of a palm wraps
around his knee.
Chapter End Notes
     This part has been on my mind pretty much from the beginning of the
     story, so I had high expectations of the result. Connecting all the
     sentiments and dimensions gave me somewhat of a hard time but, yeah,
     I'm pleased with how it turned out.
     PS: About three chapters to go from here.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: This part mentions homophobia-related violence.
"It should be weird… It should, right?"
The words burned in Sam's mouth all day but right now, Dad's getting them
drinks and is finally out of their hearing range. Nevertheless, he can't help
but turn down to a whisper.
Dean raises an eyebrow, then melts into a smile, turns his head to cough a
laugh.
"'Cause it isn't," Sam continues, so hunched over the desk that he's almost
lying on it, "and it freaks me the fuck out."
"You're thinking too much," is all he gets out of his brother before Dad
presents them with two root beers and one real one. They take them with
gratitude.
Freaking out about not freaking out should not be a thing. On the other hand,
neither should monsters, mutants nor demons, so Sam's pretty much out of luck.
No matter how he turns or flips it - what happened two days ago feels so right
that it's surreal. Kinda like they had it coming, like it had grown and grown
and now had crossed the mark of "bearable" before it exploded right into their
faces. Or, well, more like right into their pants. Not like they hadn't been
aware of their dependence on each other or of their quite exaggerated need to
be around or touch each other. But, again, not in this way.
This is another dimension, another galaxy, for fuck's sake. It feels like
someone stomped into Sam's brain and ripped open a gate he hadn't even
considered yet, had been hidden behind mountains of boxes and curtains. But now
it's open and woah, is the view blinding. The way of blinding that one would
imagine a lightning bolt dishes out right before it splits your head.
"I'm feelin' generous tonight," Dean hums from somewhere Sam hasn't looked at
for a while now. The bar is busy, perfect to let him take his eyes off
everything Sam could possibly want to touch or lick or... Whatever. "Sammy." He
almost strains his neck with the speed he turns to face his brother who's
faintly smiling, fingers loosely holding his bottle. Oh man. "Let's see what
their jukebox has to offer, what'd you say? My treat." Sam can only nod while
hoping not to drool.
On their feet, Sam's eyes are plastered where there's sunburnt skin between
sun-bleached hair, freckles underneath thin leather string and definitely even
more underneath that thin green t-shirt. He shouldn't be this aware of all
this, should never see it. It's not meant for him but for sweet waitresses,
cheerleaders, princesses. Not for little brothers.
"C'mere."
Sam leans into the jukebox just like Dean is doing it, stands close enough to
let their shoulders touch. With their heads bowed over the selection, it's a
bit like a private space, light and colors reflected right onto their faces.
Brave enough, Sam takes a glimpse to watch the facets of it in Dean's drooped
eyes, wonders if his lashes have always been this long and curled in a perfect
bow.
"Your hair's gotten so long again," Dean mutters almost absently, eyes glued to
where he flips through the vinyl with his forefinger on the controls. There's a
numbered listing of all available songs which would be easier and faster to
help him decide, but Dean ignores that. Taking his time, he tilts his head the
tiniest bit so that their temples touch. Sam leans into it as decent as he can,
only passingly pays attention to the colorful covers in front of them. No,
right now rather bathes in Dean's warmth, the faint sweetness of root beer in
his breath mixing with the cheese burger from earlier; in the addicting thrill
of excitement and wrongwrongwrong.
"Maybe next time I bite you, I can leave a mark?"
It's easy like that, really, to send all available blood into all the wrong
places.
"Your hair'd cover it, right? Nobody would have to know."
Suddenly, Sam's very eager not to stare at Dean anymore. Unfortunately, the
clear plastic window above the vinyl shows their reflection just fine. And that
guy looks so non-chalant, can whisper things like that with not a single change
to the casualty of looking through some jukebox's collection with his little
brother as if they're totally not desperate to rip each other's clothes off.
First Dean's lashes, then the tip of his nose brushes Sam's cheek. "Think it's
long enough yet?"
Okay. Alright. If he didn't have a boner before, he now definitely does. "J-
just choose a song already!"
Dean's dark chuckle sends the (obviously long enough) hairs on the back of his
neck straight up. The nose is gone again and Sam stares at the letters of
titles and artists, pretending to read them along with his brother. Almost at
the end of the selection, Dean stops harassing the flip-button. After feeding
the machine some coins, he gently presses "play".
Forcing his dick against the cool jukebox helps turning it down, so Sam can
follow his brother back to their table. There's that swing to Dean's hips, a
slack roll of shoulders to the intro of Billy Squier's "Rock me tonight" which
makes Sam curse the stupidity of letting that bastard decide.
Dad's scribbling something into his journal, doesn't pay attention when Sam
slips down next to him. Dean doesn't do the same before giving one extra eight-
figure of his hips and one of that smiles that makes Sam see stars lately
(always, maybe). By the time Dean slumps down next to him, Sam's completely
hard in his jeans yet again.
While Sam tries his best to calm down by casually sipping on his drink, Dean
just can't stop his little show. His bottle becomes his microphone as he groans
along with Billy, as off and exaggerated as possible, winking at Sam and
pointing at a very irritated Dad who looks like he's ready to give the kid up
for adoption by the next line. Sam laughs as Dad just shakes his head and
snorts a dry chuckle into his papers, then laughs some more just to cover the
excitement rushing through him when Dean leans onto him, puts his hand on his
thigh and squeezes, just for show; obvious enough to make it look innocent. But
he can pull it off, can make pretend where Sam is too shy to even look into
Dean's longing eyes when that wet-hot mouth hums "you're in for a ride" against
his cheek.
"We're leaving for Greenville tomorrow," Dad announces.
Dean's performance dies off. All shine is blinked out of his eyes quickly.
"That's, uhm, some hundred miles into the opposite direction from where we-"
"I'm aware of that."
"But you promised-"
"Dean."
"Sam hasn't been to school in months, Dad!"
"Dean."
Dean's mouth slowly closes. Sam's stays shut, hides the grit of his teeth.
"It's nothing big, only something I'd like to have a look at. Won't take long."
"'S what you said the last three times," Sam mutters under his breath.
Now, Dad looks up from his journal. Sam mirrors his gaze, hears Dean sipping on
his bottle, facing the other way. His hand is still on his thigh. "I will do
what is necessary," Dad tells him, all slow and firm like Sam's some stupid
snot-nosed kid who needs to be disciplined, "and I will do it as many times as
it's necessary. Would you like to be responsible for a family losing their
children to what could be a Blackfeather, Sam? Because I don't."
His eyes drop to where his hands are wrapped around his bottle. Of course he
doesn't. But would said family like to be responsible for Sam missing yet
another few days of education because they mistook some more or less
extraordinary grown black bird for some red-eyed, death-bringing creature?
"Thought those were extinct in the US by now."
"Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. We'll see when we get there."
Sam hums. Dean remains silent. Billy still sings about what they won't have for
another few days.
"It's not like I don't want you to go to school, Sam. You know that, do you?
But you have to understand that we have to make compromises sometimes. What do
you prefer; saving people or solving math problems?"
Sam doesn't have an answer. It's not like it's expected of him to really make a
choice, anyway.
In the end, it is a Blackfeather. In the end, John agrees to settle down for a
week. It's mockery, that's all it is, really. See, son, you were wrong, you did
bad, but I'm such a good father, see, I'll reward you even though you clearly
don't deserve it. Amazing.
Through the heat of the classroom, the smell of books and pens and paper is
exaggerated in Sam's nose. His jeans are clinging to his ass on the
uncomfortable shit of a chair and he's got pit stains that would put any
construction worker to shame - and still, he can't imagine a better place for
him to be. Except that he can.
Of course he barely allows his mind to wander there, even without and
especially with calculators and literature and maps and long, decisive
sentences around. Not one single brain cell is free to think of green and dirty
blond and pink lips and blue, blue jeans - and that's a very good thing.
Everyone is moaning in distress about the announced homework and the teacher
for holding them in after the bell to actually announce it. Yet again, Sam
cannot identify with anyone in his class.
In the hallway, there are eyes on his back, that spot of sweat-shiny skin where
his hair fails to reach (yet). The well-known heat of it runs down his spine
like a lukewarm shower, spikes into his fingernails, tickles his tongue. It's
different from when he felt it a few months ago in school, even different from
that weapon trader's. Where it lit him up before, something cools down the
flames before they can lick at his insides.
He doesn't turn. Can't.
The school's library is dusty and crammed, empty on a sunny lunch break like
this, of course. Sam holds his breath more than necessary just to make the next
inhale even more intense, to soak in all those scents he missed so much. While
his fingers run over the backs of Dickens, Defoe, Doyle, he smiles to himself
about how much of a lunatic he must look like. Instantly, Dean's voice rings in
his ears with a stupid phrase. His brows would furrow because Sam wouldn't
budge because gosh, just look at these works, Dean, look at 'em, they're so
great, can't you see it?Dean would frown and shake his head, hard, just to
sneak Sam's newest treasure out of his duffle when he thinks Sam isn't looking,
as if Sam wouldn't notice it at some point.
When the air in his lungs gets harder to process, Sam blinks out of his little
daydream just in time to avoid being completely startled by the presence of a
guy about five feet away from him. This stare. He knows this stare. Sam feels
it strip him bare, crawl underneath the waistband of his jeans and boxers, pull
off his sneakers, flip his hair. It hits hard enough to let him break a sweat,
little enough to let him act like he didn't notice anything. Somehow, nausea
spreads in his stomach. This doesn't feel right.
He avoids the weight of that gaze like he does with so many things lately, all
those things that confuse him and make it hard to breathe and think. He turns
to walk down the remaining row of the shelving but the eyes won't stop
following.
After Kant, Kemp, Knowles, the tension becomes unbearable.
It's not like he wants to play hard to get, really. It surprises him himself
because he really really really could use a fuck right now, one that pulls his
head out of his brother's ass for a single second to just let Sam breathe
again. But somehow, that's the last thing he wants.
"'M not interested," he huffs along with a shy smile - his more silent excuse.
The guy (Sam doesn't even really look at him, more like through him) keeps
staring, but Sam senses the change in him. It falters, lets the a first hint of
guilt bloom in Sam's stomach, right next to that nagging burn of wrong. But the
guy did look him down like that, right? He clearly did. Sam's brain is turned
inside-out, but not too bad not to notice that stare. He practically lived on
it for two years now, after all.
But all there has been is gone now. It breaks with an almost silent hiss.
"What did you say?"
Something makes Sam check for a good route for an emergency run and he wonders
why. His stomach flips while he almost stumbles over his own, way too-long
feet. The smile feels wrong on his mouth but he needs to keep it here. "I-I,
uhm, I just-"
"What did you say to me, faggot?"
Sam's back bumps into King. He would be sorry for the sweat stain he leaves if
he wasn't too busy shaking, breathing and figuring out what he just did wrong.
Big steps take the guy really close to him really fast while he still cannot
find an ounce of a too-big promise, a too-long stare, a too-shy blinking of
lashes into the guy's general direction.
Halfway through settling with being innocent (he didn't do nothing wrong here,
didn't lead anybody on; did he?), Sam neglects his senses' alarm systems and
oh, the fist against his jaw hurts in so many more ways than just the obvious,
physical one.
The crack is awful, the snap of his neck tendon-rippling loud in the muffled
silence of the library. His body goes on auto-mode, ducks from the next hit,
lunges forward, runs, runs. Ignoring the confused stares, the wild shouts from
behind, the burn of his lungs, the ache in his face and chest, he dashes past
library shelves, hallways, schoolyard, streets. Panic blinds him, makes him
deaf and senseless, lets him leave all the pretty books and papers behind, the
promise of a test and new vocabularies.
It's his fault for saying "no", right? Destiny's way of saying "screw you for
thinking whatever you were thinking" and "keep to your last"; yeah, must be,
right?
There are the things he can have and the things he deserves, and then there's
what he aches for. They're not the same.
Between burning sun and sizzling asphalt, reality stings hardest.
After one or two hours of wandering around town, Sam has to accept that the
swelling won't go back, actually got worse with all the sweat and heat. Sam'd
go back to school and use a dispenser or sink there… except that that won't
happen. To be honest, he has no intention of ever setting another foot into
that building. He wonders what John'll have to say about that.
In front of the bad excuse of an apartment building they're renting a flat in,
the Impala stands as proud and slick as always. Sam barely dares to have a look
at himself in her mirrors or windows, takes a last of the hundreds of breaths
that lead to him entering and confronting and admitting. Yeah, he has been an
idiot. Yes, he let some worthless, unprofessional nobody punch him in the face.
Can we just go now and continue living our hellish lives, please?
Behind the door, Sam hears muffled sounds of an old TV, frowns and wonders,
enters.
Everything is dusty, abandoned. A bit like that library, only with more cat
piss and less books. There's more light though without stocked shelves
shielding the tiny room from it. In the middle of it, in front of the wall to
the west, there's naked legs dangling from the rotten sofa. Their rhythm is
hypnotizing, really.
Batman's playing while Sam drops his backpack next to an empty milk carton on
the dining table. "Where's Dad?"
"Out. Getting his nails done o' s'me shit," the sofa tells him.
Sam toes his sneakers off where he blindly shuffles and eventually comes to a
halt. After successfully identifying the episode on air, his chin drops so that
he can have a look at his brother's feet. He runs his thumb over them absently.
"Sit down."
It's not an order, not really; with a pronunciation this softly more like an
invitation. Not that there is a single thing Sam could deny his brother
nowadays, anyway. Dean barely makes space for Sam's scrawny ass but that's
alright. If he can sit here and be in peace and forget about the outside world,
he'll be okay. Somehow.
"Got out early?"
He hums his approval, faces the dusty screen where Batman kicks the Riddler's
ass. Dean's body heat is intoxicating and kind of makes him sleepy. God, yeah,
he could sleep for days.
There's a change in mind when Dean's leg pulls back and swings itself over Sam,
stretches back out in front of him and locks him in between. Sam can feel the
tips of his ears redden. His brother's hairy legs are almost as sweaty as his
fingertips that graze over them. Dean squeezes him tighter. It wakes the urge
to swallow.
"You okay?"
There's a breathing of "yeah" as Sam allows himself to lean back into the
cushions, probably crushes Dean's left leg behind him but that's the egoistic
fuck's own fault. The nervous sound to Dean's voice makes him do this, somehow
asks him to prove his answer right. There's eyes on him and he knows it. He
always knows when Dean looks at him. But since that night in the woods, it does
different things to him than before. Nothing's like before.
Sam's eyes are glued to his clean fingernails that wander across Dean's knee,
the scabbed and rough skin there from too much kneeling in graveyard dirt. It's
softer the higher up he moves, almost doesn't give when he adds a little
pressure to it. These legs are strong and bowed just beyond this side of
hilarious, look great in every jeans and, God, Sam's been so envious of them
since he can remember. Where he has sticks, Dean has these treasures; firm and
defined muscle under milky skin that didn't see a lot of sun this summer. He
doesn't wear shorts that often anymore. Maybe Sam should be grateful for that,
now that those legs make him want to write poems about them.
As if they cannot decide between shoving apart or squeezing closed, they twitch
into motion with Sam's fingers almost up to the leg of Dean's boxer shorts. "I,
uhm- I dunno when he'll be back," Dean mutters somewhere out of Sam's field of
vision, maybe looking down and into his own crotch where Sam fidgets with the
thin cotton. Sam is intensely aware of that first rush of blood right down his
own cock at the sight of the exact same thing happening to Dean's. "Could be
any minute." It sounds like an apology, a warning. Surely is. He hesitates
before he pokes the tip of his finger just underneath the fabric.
Dean's hand covers most of his own. "Hey." Sam turns his head to the left when
Dean pushes himself up into a sitting position. It's silly that he doesn't want
him to see; it's inevitable. Just a little while longer though. A little while
longer in this peace, the intimacy of just them and the TV and nothing else in
the whole wide world. Dean's chest nudges his shoulder, a free hand guides his
chin back towards him.
         [http://41.media.tumblr.com/e8a1f113c54878defa3371cea4b77207/
                     tumblr_nn0db8EwLv1tbglmro1_1280.jpg]
To touch like this is like deflating a tire and filling it right up again; it
makes Sam sigh into the kiss and harden to completion against denim and
brother-leg. Dean's hum in his mouth leaves Sam with a shower of goose bumps
down his neck and as if the guy'd known it, his fingers trace them, play with
the hem of Sam's too loose t-shirt to pull it down just a little more.
The fingers falter and bring the growing intensity between their mouths to a
halt when they slip back up to cup Sam's cheek. Sam's breath hitches at the
throbbing heat of pain and when he opens his eyes again, Dean stares at him in
wonder.
"What's this?"
If he had an excuse, he'd shoved it out there the minute he entered the flat,
really. So Sam stays silent, tries not to watch the change in his brother's
face. It's like waking up from a nice dream and realizing you just came back to
the exact same shit you went asleep in earlier.
"Who did this to you?"
Anger bleeds from that voice while the bruise is examined further.
"Sam?"
"It doesn't matter," Sam croaks, as low as he can manage. It's barely a whisper
but still way more than he'd like to give right now.
"Does to me. 'T was a guy, wasn't it? What'd he do, huh?" The fingers are rough
in their worry. Sam has to hiss. "Imma knock his fuckin' teeth out."
"He just, I-" Goddammit, he hates this. Hates seeing his brother all furious,
himself all helpless and stupid and useless, the cause for all this trouble. He
wants it over with. He can't take it, not now, not while everything feels so
fragile underneath his toes. "I told him 'no'," he hears himself say.
Dean's eyes dart up to his own ones, stay there. His face is all stone. "You
what?"
"It's not his fault, he- He just got so angry suddenly, I, I didn't even know
what was going on."
Dean keeps staring. Sam's jaw feels loose.
"That never happened before," he huffs. The words feel strange in his mouth.
When he actually puts them out there, it's so so different from just running
them through his head over and over.
Dean's hand wrapped itself around his shoulder while Sam wasn't paying
attention to it. Now, he feels the thin film of sweat from it rubbing into his
shirt. A tongue darts out and skims over pink lips, green flickers dangerously.
"You rejecting or them being complete douches?"
"Uh, both, kinda." He's small, so small and useless. Dean looks at him like
Sam's on drugs or out of his mind or both. Yeah, well, he feels like that, too.
His gasp for air turns into a choked try to chuckle. "He, uh." Salt pinches his
eyes and the corners of his mouth pull up in reflex. It's hard to breathe.
The word feels like a sideways-stuck twig in his throat. He never thought about
it. He never put it in his mouth or head, not even for fun. When the
abbreviation swept past his eardrums in that Texan stall, it sounded like a
dirty nickname, so why is it so much different with the entire thing? "He
called me 'faggot'."
Between Dean's mouth dropping open and the door flying open, there's just so
much time Sam has to scrape his composure off the floor and smack it right back
on his face. He regrets putting that word out there, feels like he'll choke on
the bitter-moldy taste of it in the back of his throat. He shouldn't have. He
shouldn't have.
"Hey boys," John pants between bags of groceries, newspapers, God knows what
else. Sam cannot really see that well right now. Their eyes meet. "School's out
early today?"
Sam nods, the bruise facing the wall. For a split second, he wonders what John
would say if he told him the same he just told his brother. Wonders what he'd
do.
John's gaze stumbles, then stays some more. Something ghosts over his face. It
reminds him of Dean when he just saw the bruise for the first time. But John
doesn't see it. Right?
"You alright, Sam?"
Still caught between Dean's legs, his brother casually facing the TV, both
their sweats mix under Sam's palm.
He blinks a few times against dust and sunlight, weighs the words on the back
of his tongue. "Peachy," he mutters then, throws a tired smile next to it and
hopes John'll bite.
A nod, a shuffle, and the eyes are gone again.
Slowly turning back around to continue watching the cartoon, Sam tries to
remember when John's eyes turned into searchlights he has to fear instead of
those of a father looking out for his son.
John will notice the bruise during dinner. Sam will shrug it off and will be
called an idiot for letting it happen in the first place. He will nod since
it's true.
They share a bedroom in this flat, just the two of them. Sam cannot really
explain to himself how he hadn't thought of that fact earlier. Now that he does
realize it, it comes to him that maybe that simply was protection for his
sanity.
It's tiny. It's crammed. There's one window and thick curtains, one queen. He
won't survive this night. He won't, just won't.
Fortunately, Dean is sentenced to do the dishes, so Sam has an excuse to brush
his teeth alone, to shower cold and jerk off, just in case. Dean's become
quieter lately but Sam is pretty sure he'd be getting shit until eternity for
creaming his underwear at the first hint of a touch. Now, he's gained himself
at least a dozen seconds of lead.
The covers feel cool against his back. He wishes it was cold enough to make
sweatpants reasonable, but in the narrow heat of the room he cannot bring
himself to pull them on. On his back, one leg dangling from the edge of the
mattress, he listens for John and Dean, traces their movements, hears other
tenants through both floor and ceiling. He tries to keep his mind off the
things he could let his mind wander to instead. The cocktail of hope and
anxiety in his stomach makes him regret the second serving of too salty mashed
potatoes and gravy.
By the time Dean closes the door behind him, Sam's pretty sure his heartbeat is
making his whole body jerk with it.
Sam listens into the deep silence around them, imagines that the traffic noise
from outside is louder than the tap-tap of naked feet on first wooden and then
carpeted floor, the rustling of sheets, clothes, skin. It's nowhere near hot
enough to sweat from just lying around but yet, here he is.
Dean's breath is so loud. Has he always breathed this loud? It's nerve-
wrecking, really. Not exactly annoying, but… unsettling? Sam'd love to strangle
it out of him for some reason.
It doesn't help that even without looking at him he knows exactly that Dean is
lying on his side, facing him, arm propped up on his elbow, head resting on his
hand and eyes resting on Sam. There are three, four, five mindful blinks before
Sam has enough courage to turn to his left.
There's pity, concern, love, desperation. All of it. All for him. Sam feels
terrible for putting Dean through it. His bruise aches.
Fingers reach out to brush his healthy cheek, only the tips and feather-light;
as if he could break with too much impact. Sam watches what a low sound from
his chest does to his brother, takes notes on the sudden blinks, the jumps of
his eyes over Sam's face. In the darkness it's hard to tell, but Dean seems
different. He's always so reserved, mindful to keep it cool, always smiles,
always pretends that everything's alright. When Sam was young, he believed in
it. When he got older, he started understanding - and was hurt there was no
exception of honesty for him. Nowadays, he's beyond acceptation. Nowadays, he
wants nothing more but to learn these kind of things from his big brother.
"You okay, Sammy?" Whispers, of course whispers. This is for them, only them,
nobody else. Dean could mouth it and Sam'd understand anyway.
Another experiment of a sound lets Dean's eyelashes flutter. Sam feels his
blood rise into his face with something low and familiar that could be a tired
sigh of someone very desperate.
The room feels tiny like a shoebox and as wide as the galaxy all at once,
depending on which position Sam decides to look at it from. Yeah, they're here,
Dean's here, John's outside, not with them, as good as non-existent. The last
time this happened was in the woods, just them and Baby and the grass under
their feet and the stars above their heads.
Dean's hand drags lower, down Sam's neck, collar bone, shoulder, arm. Sam
closes his eyes because maybe if he doesn't look, Dean doesn't look either,
doesn't see him blush and shiver.
His dick is completely hard even before Dean shimmies closer, before he presses
up to Sam's side and lies down, nuzzles his temple and tickles his own nose
with Sam's still shower-damp hair. Sam tries to breathe but instead, his throat
makes funny sounds with Dean's arm across his body and that familiar, solid
heat against his naked thigh. Dean moves carefully, slow, maybe because he
wants to give Sam enough time to withdraw his consent, maybe because he's not
so sure anymore that he even wants this himself. As in a silent approval, Sam
wraps his fingers around Dean's biceps, just to have more skin contact, just to
assure his brother with another sweaty layer of skin that yes, his nerves are a
fucking wreck and that yes, he needs to hold on to him or his head will spin so
hard that he'll fall off this carrousel.
Dean mouths at his cheek and Sam hums, feels his skin light up there, nudges
his face more to the left. It's like shoving two puzzle pieces into each other
and the satisfaction of that moment of "click", of them settling in on their
destined places, drums through Sam's spine with the shuddering inhale of his
brother between their mouths.
Nothing of this should be possible. There shouldn't be a thing that can turn
Sam's brain and knees and stomach to jelly and set his lungs on fire. It's
dangerous enough as it is but on top of that, it's Dean, Dean who has this
power, Dean whom he never could deny anything, whom he would give everything
without asking what for or why - Dean, the only person Sam still has the hope
would do the same for him.
The throb of the bruise is quickly forgotten over the overpowering one between
his legs and his mouth, is pressed silent into the pillow when Sam rolls onto
his side. Legs wrap around what they can get, are pulled closer by skilled and
strong arms. The creak of the bedframe startles both of them, snaps their eyes
open and their mouths apart for one panicky gasp. Sam watches his brother
contemplate, wonder, dismiss, accept. Dean makes a face and Sam follows, of
course follows, gets his mouth licked right open and stays perfectly still
except for pulling his limbs tighter around his brother. Movement is out of
question; too loud, too suspicious. He doesn't know how yet but they'll manage
somehow, yeah, somehow. Dean always has a plan, after all.
Even though they lay together so many times as brothers, intimate, yes, but
never sexual, it doesn't feel off. It should be like with a completely new
person, as if he'd discover Dean anew or something. But it isn't. It's more
like filling out a painting he already has the outlines to, taking up blank
spaces that were there all the time and only waited for the right moment, the
right kind of brush, the relaxing cup of tea in advance. There's nothing he
doesn't know yet. He's touched this chest, these legs, has seen these eyes,
smelled this skin, felt these hands and this hair, yes. It has always stung, it
has always burned, tingled, tickled. But never like this. As if someone turned
up his settings of perception, there's so much more unfolding in front of him,
on his tongue, under his fingers, against his legs.
Responsibility is what holds Dean on a short leash right now; Sam can feel it
in the held-back bites to his lips, the impatient dig of fingers into his back,
the almost imperceptible rut of hips. He floats with them, mirrors them. He's
safe within the borders that Dean sets. He trusts - he knows he can.
They rut and kiss and kiss and rut until Sam forgets which year it is, until
he's nothing more than a boiling hot skull stuck on top of a throbbing dick
with one squishy, sweaty organ-puddle in between. Until Dean takes Sam's hand
in his and shoves it down his shorts. Sam's eyes go wide at Dean's gasps, wider
when one of those too-well-known rough palms wraps around his own dick. There's
a million things on his tongue but he holds them back, can only do so with the
help of Dean's eyes that he can dive into, the slightest hint of a daring nod,
a huff when Sam complies and moves his hand. The eyelashes flutter again and
Sam is sure he drools at this point. Before his eyes roll back into his skull,
Sam imagines seeing Dean's lips curl into the faintest smile with the first of
not too many tugs.
It's over as quick as it started. Sam barely has time to dwell on the sensation
of his brother's pulsing dick in his hand (it's perfect and raw and hard for
him, only him, because of him, oh) before it's actually pulsing, right along
with his own, trapped between their bellies. Dean flicks his wrist as skilled
as if he had jerked off as many guys as he has rubbed off girls and Sam doesn't
stand a chance. More than a reason to mock his brother, it's a compliment that
Dean shoots just as quick as Sam does. He'll cherish this. Oh, he will. It's
their secret. Sweet, dirty, embarrassing secret; that type of thing you smile
about in silence with each other without ever really bringing it up. And if
Dean won't be a total jerk about it, Sam won't, either.
Honestly, he'd love to shower right away. Honestly, he's pretty sure Dean feels
the same. But he's held close, with both their soaked shirt-covered bellies
resting against each other. Dean can't decide between snickering, panting and
kissing, so it ends up all in one, and Sam lets it happen. He's too worn out to
care or do anything but this, to be honest. And it's okay. If Dean decides that
this is the way it should go, then it's the way to go.
"I feel like a teenager again," his brother confesses. His voice is as raw as
his mouth looks.
"Half a year ago, you literally still were one."
Dean kisses his laugh into Sam's mouth. It's sweet when he swallows it down.
They wipe their hands into each other's shorts so that they can entangle
completely again, wrapped in what they should name one of those very
complicated knots Bobby taught them after. Dean takes a long time to catch his
breath, he's still shaking here and there, his face pressed deep into Sam's
hair. By the time he stops, Sam is almost fast asleep.
There are kisses to his ear and temple. Warm breath sends promises that put him
to sleep in a blazed-out smile.
"Just one word, Sammy, just one word. I'd snap his neck for you. I'd break his
legs. 'D he touch you? I'd cut off his fingers. Cut off his dick. Whatever.
Just one word, Sammy. Just one word from you and I'd do it."
***** Chapter 10 *****
"This is a joke, right?"
Yeah, he wished. Unfortunately, what he stares into is a bowl of cereals and
not a wishing well.
"I agreed to stay here, even though there is no reason for that, based on your
behavior of the last weeks, Sam. You complained about nothing but that for
weeks and weeks and weeks, and now that you have it, you want to throw it
away?"
The bruise got better over night. Better and bluer. More like violet. But John
doesn't exactly tell apart details like this.
"I did this for you, Sam."
The word is still stuck. It digs into tissue and won't let him rest. He can't
go back there. He can't.
"Some idiot punches you and you decide to run? Is that it? Is this how you
decide to solve your problems? By running away?"
"Dad," Dean warns from somewhere too distant, too low.
"I don't care, okay? I don't care about your delicate little feelings, Sam,
because this family doesn't act out of swings of moods and weather; it does
what needs to be done and that's it." To prove his point, John picks his pen
back up and picks up where he left off with his journal.
Sam keeps his head lowered. The milk turned colorful a while ago. Now, it's
just a disgusting shade of nothing with too-mushy bits in between. "Huh. You
know what? Just do it like you always do."
John's eyes never relaxed, haven't when they dart back up to Sam. "Excuse me?"
"Like you always do." His mind is blank, his throat so tense that he can feel
it in his teeth. "Grab us and run off to the next hunt, you know? Like always.
But - oh. I forgot. You never do what we ask you to do. Sorry. My mistake." The
grit of teeth, the tightened grip around the pen from across the table is
surprisingly not-threatening. It feels satisfactory. "Maybe I should put it
like this: 'Oh, please, Dad, I made so many good friends and school is awesome,
please let's stay here forever' - better?"
The lift of John's eyebrows shoves the corners of Sam's mouth upwards.
Somewhere unimportant, Dean looks like he's about to jump to his feet and wave
a white flag in between the two of them.
"Watch. Your. Mouth. Samuel."
"Or what? Or you'll make me run ten laps around the block? Send me to war? Make
me watch my brother getting torn apart by some monster? Make me wish I was
never born?" John wants to get up but Sam's faster. His stomach feels like it's
on fire. His legs are ready. "Newsflash: That's my life, every fucking day of
it, every fucking single second of it."
He doesn't even bother to look up to where the hand appears out of nowhere to
offer him a cup of coffee. He simply takes it, has a sip that doesn't really
calm his stomach at all, but at least the heat helps a bit with it.
"Nice spot," Dean comments and slips down next to him.
At this early hour of the day, it's hard enough to find a place the police
won't search for truants - but his brother always finds him. Sometimes Sam
wonders if Dean secretly shoved a GPS transmitter under his skin.
"You were really mean earlier."
Another sip. Count down slowly from ten backwards…
"You shouldn't say things like that. You know he doesn't mean to-"
"Dean, just shut up, okay?"
And Dean does.
The rooftop wasn't easy (and definitely not legal) to climb but the view is
worth it. Sam regrets not bringing his jacket, though. But there's either
running from your responsibilities or being responsible, you know?
After a while of silence and coffee, Dean mutters something along the lines of
"It gets easier when you get older".
Sam is too tired to remind his brother of how he's been told that for more than
a decade now.
"Congratulations," Dean grunts as he wrestles off his jacket, "He's gonna pass
out in some bar thinking his son hates him. You happy with yourself now,
Sammy?" The flat is empty, just like Dean promised.
Sam shrugs. "It's a start."
"Man. You're scary when you're pissed."
"That's kinda the point."
It's dark outside already. Between him kicking off his sneakers and turning on
the TV, arms wrap around him from behind. They're too warm on his "all day out"
kind of cold skin, too gentle for the low fires in his guts.
"Angry with me, too?"
Sam makes an unwilling sound and writhes in the hug, but Dean has him locked.
That purr in his brother's voice makes him want to equally to both run and
stay.
Between couch and brother, he is turned around. His arms find support on the
back cushions but his eyes slip closed. He can't take the view of that
"everything is good" mask right now.
There's a kiss and the warm tongue in between his teeth reminds Sam that he
hasn't eaten today. Hands roam up his belly but they're too warm, way too warm-
Wait, did Dean slip under his t-shirt? He reaches for Dean's hand and finds the
answer of "yes", huffs when Dean slots their hips together. Dean's hard-on
surprises him.
Sam peeks through his lashes and finds Dean lit up, eyes all wild and
impatient.
"Seems like we've got the flat for us."
"I- I can't."
Dean's expression goes from confused to disappointed to politely unreadable
faster than Sam can comprehend himself what he just said.
"I just, I uh- Today was really, uhm-" A nightmare? More of it than usual? All
of the above.
"Okay," Dean interrupts and pulls him in closer, "It's okay, don't apologize."
Of course he's angry with Dean, but that's not the point. It's also not Dean's
fault, really. He simply tries to old it all together, and Sam adores him for
that. Without his big brother, this so-called "family" wouldn't stand a chance.
John and him would have bashed each other's heads in years ago. More often than
it's probably healthy, Sam wonders who'd be the one doing the smashing.
"So… what do you wanna do?"
The hunger in Dean's voice is astonishing and flattering, it really is, but…
"Can we just- Can we just watch TV?"
Again, Dean looks him in the eye, seems to wait for something, maybe a
different answer, the right turn into that road he wants this here to go. And
Sam gets it, yeah, he does, too, but not now, not like this.
"Yeah," he smiles, drops his head in a hollow chuckle, "Yeah, sure."
Guilt is sour, stomach acids even more. "Can we order something? Pizza, maybe?"
Dean puts a sigh in front of his words. "Gave him my last twenty to persuade
him to leave."
Some cans of something unspecified but filling later, the couch is their
refuge, E.T. their focus. Even though he tried to hide how starved he was, Dean
looked right through him and gave him more than the fair share. Where Sam's
belly is bulging, Dean's moves flat and tight with his breathing. Some days, he
has enough courage to refuse to eat until Dean agrees to split evenly. Today
wasn't one of those days. It's easier when he reminds himself that Dean wasn't
with him all day, maybe went home at some point and had lunch with John or
snuck some fries from that diner he had eyed since they came here. It's a thin
straw but he'll take it.
The couch is too narrow for two people to lie down without lying on top of each
other, so the silent agreement of sitting is found quickly. Sam is grateful for
it, yes, he is, but a silent Dean usually isn't a good sign. Sam's stomach
weighs tons.
Both have their legs extended and spread, comfortable and tired. The idea of
putting his hand on Dean's knee crosses Sam's mind… but it's gone again
quickly.
"This really okay?"
Dean almost rolls his eyes, almost. "Yeah," he grunts.
Sam's knee wants to bump against his brother's. Instead he watches him watching
the TV. "Really?"
"Well, now that you mention it… I do have that sudden urge to punch you cross
your face."
That smile is enough for his knee to give up. Dean's is warm, even through two
layers of denim. It always is.
"Jerk," Sam starts.
The softness to Dean's face is like a trophy, something Sam earned. Something
he can earn by a gesture as simple as connecting their bodies in such a
bypassing way. "Honestly, what do you expect?" Dean's hand does what Sam's
wasn't allowed to. It's even warmer than his knee. "I'm not mad. Not at all.
Don't even think I could, okay?"
"Okay," Sam breathes. He leans in just a little closer, just close enough to
let their shoulders touch. It's not inappropriate, not meant in a seductive
way; more like a necessity. And Dean knows. He understands. He always does.
When Dean turns to look at him, it's still him, his big brother, best and only
friend and anchor and everything. Nothing's changed. Nothing probably ever
will. It's that way Dean's eyes are for him, only him, open and vulnerable and
full of "you understand, don't you". A promise of "we'd do anything for each
other", literally anything, and "nothing could stop us". It should be crazy
that it's such a natural thing. Somehow, it isn't.
"I'd never, ever, ask something of you. Something you wouldn't want to do.
Ever."
"I know."
Lower now: "We don't have to do anything ever again if you don't want to."
Sam blinks.
"I wouldn't be mad," Dean adds.
"That's not it." No, it isn't, it isn't.
"I know." That relieved sigh tells Sam Dean didn't know. "I know, Sammy. Just.
I. Uhm." Dean's eyes are gone and maybe his brother thinks that if only he
wipes his face with his free hand hard enough, he can rub all that little boy
insecurity off with it. In fact, he can't. "I can't lose you. I can't."
"You won't," Sam blurts out without hesitation. It feels like a promise a child
makes to its mother, desperate to make everything bad go away. Something said
child couldn't ever control or decide over. Still, it needs to say it.
"Today, when you 'n Dad… I…"
Dean rubs down his own cheek. Sam watches him hesitating to continue.
"You're all I have. Dad 'n you. I can't lose you. Not you."
Throughout the rest of the movie, Dean doesn't take his eyes off the screen,
doesn't say another word. It's alright since the weight of those out here is
enough by itself.
Sam's hand doesn't leave his own lap.
There's a struggle who gets to use the bathroom first; a shove too hard and a
boxed-out laugh, a kick, a squeal, insults, nicknames, shared laughter over the
newly shattered tension. Dean wins.
When Sam enters the bedroom at last, he catches his brother posing in front of
the mirror. At least they'll agree on this version, minus the fact of the
fragment of a second where Dean scrambled into pose from examining the scarred
skin on the back of his shoulder.
Sam crosses his skinny arms in front of his chicken chest. It makes him feel a
little more bulkier. Or something like that. "Next Schwarzenegger, huh?"
Dean flexes his biceps. He's topless and so beautiful it physically hurts.
Genetics are unfair. "You're just jealous, bean pole boy."
Yeah. Okay. He earned this one. "Screw you."
"Wanna watch?"
Maybe if he laughs it off, Sam can ignore that certain undertone. His feet are
drawn to the bed and not really Dean, but they take him closer anyway. "You're
getting a burger belly," he announces with a nod down to the slightest hint of
a pouch that most likely is the canned beans and two glasses of water. But this
is their game.
There's a slight chance Dean hasn't stopped smiling since their struggle for
the bathroom. It just gets wider and wider with every lost inch in between
them. "Wife-bait." Dean takes half a step as well.
"Wife-bait?" he repeats, smiles back.
"Uh-hu. Need a good girl. One who'll feed me till I can't see my toes anymore."
"You do, huh?" Another step. Their hip bones touch and Dean grinds them
together some more.
"Yeah." Peppermint brushes Sam's cheek. Through lidded eyes, he watches the
pendant on Dean's chest nod with the movements. "Yeah. Some good girl who'll
take care of me."
There's hands on his hips, warm and big and measured to fit exactly there. Sam
hums and Dean chuckles, all soft and low, all due to too-bony fingers on the
hem of his still-on jeans.
"Some good little girl who'll cook me dinner and wash my socks," Dean tells to
Sam's ear, maybe a bit breathless, but maybe that's just Sam's dizzy brain
speaking here, "Who'll put on an apron and cute underwear and let me eat her
before I eat her food."
Dean's heat seeps through Sam's shirt, his boxers, his skin. "You'd like that?"
he whispers. His thumb tries the button.
"Mh-hm," Dean answers. The troubled inhale in the nape of his neck sends
shivers down Sam's back. It's his fault maybe for unzipping those jeans with
too-cautious, too-aware fingers.
"God, Sam." There's teeth following his name, like an emphasis. It breaks the
spell of that whispered little fantasy both know is the last thing Dean'd want
right about now. He's gripped harder. And he knows, God, he knows. "The things
you do to me."
"Tell me," his mouth asks.
Dean laughs into his neck, dry and drowning all at once, stutters along with
the friction of too-bony palm against too-rough denim and cotton on too-hard
cock. "You better have changed your mind if you wanna play this game, kiddo."
"Try me," he dares. He wants to hear, needs to.
"You make me like this." There's no hesitation to it, like it's all bottled up
and overflowing. Sam thinks he knows, dares to give it a second thought, thinks
of Baby's hood underneath the stars, Dean's arm around him and his face so full
of so many things he just starts to encrypt. From underneath his palm, there's
a push, a grind, hot enough to burn. "And I can't do a damn thing about it.
Even if I wanted to." Dean hums with every kiss he presses into Sam's neck, his
jaw. Sam might lose blood circulation in his fingers slowly but surely if Dean
keeps grinding their groins into each other - but who is he to complain?
"That's how bad it is."
Sam's eyes slide closed at the danger of looking into his brother's eyes.
Instead, they kiss. John doesn't exist anymore in his head. Nothing really
does.
"Want you on top of me."
Sam barely has time to make a sound at that sentence even though his knees
buckle. Dean eats at his mouth like it's candy and Sam wonders if Dean has the
slightest idea what the hell he's even saying. Maybe it doesn't have a meaning,
maybe Dean's head is just as spinning as his own. Which isn't possible. Dean
isn't as awkward and crazy as Sam is. He just isn't.
"Need you to climb on top of me and hold me down, or so help me God, I'll do
something stupid." He laughs the last words as if it's funny, which it isn't.
Doesn't feel like it, at least.
"Yeah," Sam nods nonetheless. With a command, he doesn't have to think twice.
Dean almost stumbles over his feet and drags Sam along. The bed creaks loud and
proud when they drop onto it with embarrassed laughter before Sam remembers
that it doesn't matter who hears it as long as it's not John. Nobody in this
building knows them, maybe not even that they're brothers. The thought pulls at
his stomach and balls in tandem.
Thighs and knees capture that stupid jeans on their way down but Sam climbs
already anyway and Dean pulls him in anyway, too. The bucking to get them off
while laying down makes the next kiss even better; it takes more effort, feels
like another game, struggle, fight. Sam wonders if Dean would let him pin his
wrists down above his head.
A fist shoves into his hair along with a palm down the back of his boxers. Sam
forgets how to exhale and gasps into Dean's mouth, presses their chests tighter
together, digs his elbows and spread knees deeper into the mattress. That hand
gropes at the right globe of his ass, hard, and forces his hips lower. Sam
thinks he might cream his boxers the second their erections align.
Dean creates a rough rhythm, slow but oh-so rough, and Sam plays along, rolls
his hips, earns tugs to his hair which he soon mirrors with both hands in
Dean's longer strands. The bed screams and Sam has to laugh in between sweat
and kisses, just because it feels so damn good. Forbidden.
"Come on." It's a grit of teeth, hiss, dangerous, desperate. All Dean. "Harder.
Come on."
"We're gonna get rug burns," he pants - and gets growled at in return.
"Don't care. Need you, Sammy, come on. Please."
It's not clear which part makes him comply and it probably doesn't matter that
much, anyway. Usually, he doesn't dry hump. It seems stupid, a waste of time.
Sam could have the real thing instead, after all. But Dean sets the rules,
because he always does, because he knows what's good for them. And Dean says
"harder". So Sam'll do that.
It downright hurts - the sharp drag of clothes, the weight and force of his own
body and the additional ones Dean puts on them; even more with the second hand.
Sam'd complain about the loss of friction on his scalp but Dean slams his hand
down before he grabs, the smack as sharp as a whip in the chaos of sounds that
is taking place in the little space around them. Sam decides this is okay. More
than okay. Fuck. He's hopeless.
He could come from this, despite the pain. He definitely could. God. He can. He
can.
He whines Dean's name before his teeth collide in his mouth with the knock of a
forehead against his. He can't last, not like this, not with him. Dean holds
him down harder, moves perfectly into the gaps Sam is forced to leave at some
point; no inch of air left in between them. There's a handful of tears, not too
sure if from exhaustion or pain or whatever, and no option seems less possible
than another. If Dean will ask later, Sam'll pass them off as sweat.
When it hits him, the urgency to relieve the pressure on his cock is so intense
Sam kicks out his legs, but Dean holds him in place, makes him sob and whine
through his orgasm that lasts way longer than it should. There's no give to the
humps from beneath him, no sounds from Dean's mouth, only sharp stabs of
exhales from his nose. Sam is conscious enough to know Dean's coming as well,
all silent and tensed, throbbing right against his own cock, together with him.
He can't keep his eyes open but knows he's being watched. None of those things
allow him to get away. And he stops wanting to at some point.
By the time the movements subside and then die down, there's no way in hell
Sam'll be able to make any excuses for any sort for any bodily fluid at all.
With his face securely nestled between brother-shoulder and -neck, his
strangely blank brain suggests the option that if Dean didn't mock him after
any of his last outbursts - due to him, John, Jamie, the punch; everything - he
probably won't start with it now, either. It's a calming thought, as vague as
it is in this moment. Maybe it will have time to grow.
Their underwear gets peeled off and thrown into a random corner of the room
after Sam rolls down and next to Dean. There's only calm breathing, no shuffle
to get up for a new pair of boxers right away, so Sam doesn't move either. The
ceiling isn't spinning when Sam stares up at it. It's solid and real. Real.
His fingers search for Dean's palm and find it curled in next to his hips. They
sneak around and inside until it reacts and tugs them in place.
It feels damn right this way.
"What changed your mind?" Dean asks the ceiling.
"Hm?"
"About. You know. You said you couldn't."
"Oh." The ceiling continues standing still for him. "I don't know." Dean's skin
is a bit sweaty. Sam could swear he can feel his heartbeat drum through his
thumb. It's surreal. But the ceiling remains calm. "I don't know a lot of
things lately. I don't know."
Dean half-hums, half-sighs, something in between amused and terribly sad. Sam
only blinks and breathes and flexes his fingers in Dean's hand.
"That's alright sometimes. You know that, right?"
Of course. Dean's right. Dean's always right.
This room is the most secure and lasting and real one he's been in for years,
Sam realizes. Without a reason, really - it scares him.
"Told you. You're thinking too much."
He is. Yes, indeed, he is.
REM sleep should last longer than five minutes. Sam knows but neither his mind
nor heavy boots on wooden floor seem to care.
Dean makes a sound from deep down his chest where Sam's ear is pressed against.
He shushes with a hand on his sternum.
The door cracks open. John looks ten years too old, Sam can tell even in the
pitch blackness of the shadow of four a.m., can tell that those eyes are
meeting his ones all across the room.
Sometimes, Sam is still worried about his father's drinking habits, wonders
what John flees from into those bottles, what haunts him in his nightmares.
They've seen a lot. John's seen more. Sam wonders what is the worst thing John
can imagine. 
"We're leaving," John announces. He sounds like hate and regret and sorrow. He
sounds like father-less childhood, Vietnam, murdered wife, headless eldest and
useless youngest. Wasted life. Cruel, bloody, hopeless fury.
 
"Do other dads let their kids shoot guns, too?" he once had asked, summer fresh
in the green corn fields, lining up cans for his big brother on a wooden fence.

"Dad wants us safe," Dean had answered. Even at age five with bare
understanding of what a shotgun was and could do, it had baffled Sam how
skilled his big brother was with one. It looked scary and big and complicated.
Dean made it less scary and complicated. It still looked big in his hands,
though. "It's precaution. And it's cool. Dad's a good dad. You hear me? Step
aside."
Sam had hummed while he had done as he had been told.
Dean had aligned gun and aim with such patience and finesse that even his
muscles hadn't shaken under the weapon's weight. Sam wouldn't be able to master
this until he would enter high school. "He's a good dad, Sammy." Blam. "He
loves us." Blam. "He loves us a lot." Blam. Blam. Blam.
Bull's eye on all five cans later, Sam decided that he would believe.
Because how could somebody as amazing as Dean lie to him?
 
He should say "Thank you" and John should reply with "Don't mention it" and
smile at him and they should hug it out and be happy and move on.
Instead, they stare at each other until John can't take the look in Sam's eyes
anymore.
"Twenty minutes," John rasps before he vanishes.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Two days on the road and he's already had enough. Fortunately, John leaves
their table before Sam explodes both in- and external. The faint "everything's
unicorns and butterflies" music lulling from the diner's speakers only adds to
his desperation. Yeah, no, nothing's right, nothing; nothing, for fuck's sake.
He buries his face in his hands despite the shuffle of leather and denim next
to him.
And yeah, there it is, that comforting pat on his back, sliding down over his
shoulder, holding contact as long as possible. Sam groans in response.
"Take it easy," he's told.
"I can't," he presses, rubs his face harder than anyone would ever need to, "I
can't. One more word from him and I'll rip his tongue out o' somethin'."
Dean laughs as if he doesn't know that Sam is dead-serious, wraps his hand
around Sam's thigh underneath the table as if he deserves a treat for what he
just said. Jerk.
"I just want him gone." It's out easy and fast but the aftertaste is battery
acid. Sam grits his teeth behind a curtain of hair and hands. "Can't he drop us
somewhere again? He always does. Why not now? I can't stand 'nother minute with
him."
Dean moves into his space until their knees connect under the table, until they
can share a whisper. "Hey, hey, Rambo. Don't talk like that."
Sam grunts and Dean chuckles. The inside of his right leg melts a bit under the
heat of Dean's palm.
"And what would that change anyway? What'd that buy you, huh? Two weeks, maybe
six max?"
His brother has this annoying talent to push everything bitter away. This hand
in his lap only adds up to said effect. Sam tries really hard to remain angry,
wants to throw John that deadly glare he know he is feared for, but... That
damn hand. "Hmpf," he makes.
"Just a little while longer, okay? I'm sure it'll be time soon. Just a little,
alright, buddy?"
"You say that like it's so easy!" Sam groans. He knows his face is flushed by
now, caused both by the pressure of his hands as well as that certain
excitement about sitting this close to his brother with his hand practically on
his dick. In a diner. In front of people.
Dean laughs again. Seriously, Sam isn't being funny and he'd appreciate it if
he was taken seriously for a change. On the other hand, one can excuse a lot
with a hand between one's legs. "Oh really? Do I?"
"Yes," Sam pouts. He dares to squint sideways through his fingers and meets
that terribly pretty face he has seen enough times to make it boring… except
that it still isn't, no matter how often he checks.
Those lashes fall closed, the mouth opens for another laugh, low and
breathless. A dance of eyebrows, shake of head. God. This isn't fair. "Well, it
ain't. Ain't easy for me either, Sammy." That smile, oh, that smile. All Sammy-
smile, all for him. Sheepish and like a little boy, twinkle to those gems of
green and- uh, well, maybe he gets why he gets beaten up sometimes. … Why again
was he being angry? "To be honest with you: my balls are so blue I want to
cry."
"Dean!"
"What?" Dean laughs again.
They're in public, for fuck's sake. John could come back every second and
nothing, freaking nothing could explain the redness of Sam's face right now.
Nothing but a conversation about his brother's balls. "Can we- NOT. Talk about
this?"
"Why? You shy all of a sudden, Mr. Texas?"
The urge to strangle John very suddenly finds another victim. "No!" Sam whines,
covers his face again and lets his head hang low. "I'm not. N-not usually, at
least." That hand. Stop it with that hand, jerk.
"Only with me then?"
Sam makes a face, unseen. It takes a lot of courage (or stupidity) to finally
mumble a "yeah". He can feel the beam of that smile through layers of skin and
bones-
"Can I get you anything else, boys?"
-before he almost suffers from a heart attack.
"No, thank you, sweetheart, we're good," he hears Dean coo around him. If
there's a spell to disappear into the ground, he'd be very happy to master it.
"Alright," a sweet waitress-voice purrs, "Just call out and I'll be happy to
help you."
Since they didn't order anything, the rustling in front of him surprises Sam.
As her steps are guiding away from them, he comes out from his covers soon
enough to watch Dean scrunch up a piece of paper and shove it deep into his
jacket's pocket. It looks like it's been ripped from a paper block, maybe the
one the waitress-
Oh.
He opens his mouth to say something but an oh-so familiar figure settles down
in front of them with a heavy thump.
Dean casually backs off and starts asking about that new potential job John has
been talking about since Bobby's last call a few hours ago. His hand leaves
Sam's lap and goes for extra-onioned burger.
Sam's burrito hasn't been very good before. Now, it's simply inedible.
With going north come colder nights. Quite early in late August, but they're
used to being out of luck. Sam simply pulls his jacket closer and sniffles into
the fresh air on the parking lot.
John cusses and excuses himself for a short sprint to the shop. They're out of
water and thankfully he remembered himself since it's not like Sam could have
been able to remind him right now.
Dean attempts to climb into the passenger seat but Sam closes in quick enough
to make him freeze in his movements. He frowns in confusion. Of course. Yeah,
maybe Sam should have known that Dean wouldn't see any problem. Maybe there is
no problem. Maybe Sam can blame it on hunger and pent-up anger and balls not
blue but - at this point - black.
But it makes him angry. It makes him hurt. And he won't let that bottle up, not
now. "She gave you her number?"
Dean listens, frowns harder, rolls his gorgeous eyes.
"What?" Sam snaps.
"They tend to do that, yeah."
They. All girls. Every goddamn girl in every goddamn state. "Wow. Good for
you."
Dean's eyes roll again and he slips into the car.
Sam couldn't sit down if he was threatened with a sharp object right now. "So,
what now, huh? You gonna call her? Ask Dad to stay the night to ask her when
her shift's over?"
"Dude-"
"'Cause you 'tend to do that', Dean; you-"
"SAM."
He startles and shuts up. Dean does that sometimes, uses that tone of voice he
obviously inherited from John. It makes Sam's blood freeze which is a little
difficult as it is boiling at the exact same time as well.
"You mean this? This little thing here?" Dean produces the object in question
from his pocket and holds it out in front of him. Sam doesn't move an inch.
(It's the night that makes him shake, that's all.) "There's a reason it's
turned into a ball, asshat. We're leaving this place in two minutes - what
exactly do you expect me to do, huh?"
To do what you do with a passion, what I know about since I understood why you
laugh at girls with that twinkle in your eyes and that twitch in your mouth.
It's been happening for years and years without a question (because why would
he question this kind of thing?). To get all fussy about it now seems pretty
stupid and maybe (probably) he's too tired and worn out to make rational
assumptions - but fuck, if it doesn't hurt like shit. Sam doesn't dare to
answer with that lump in his throat. Dean might laugh at him again. He's twelve
and jealous for all the wrong reasons all over.
"I get that you're angry, alright? I do. But don't you let it out on me. I
ain't done nothing to you, Sam."
Yeah, he knows, he knows. But still, you jerk, you giant stupid beautiful jerk-
Sam's eyes follow the little piece of paper as it flies into the darkness a few
feet away from the Impala.
"Now get your ass in the car or I'll dare Dad to drag you along."
It's two or maybe three in the morning when Sam's body is exhausted enough to
fall asleep despite the shaking of the car and the hard rock keeping John and
Dean awake in the front.
Two or maybe three in the morning, and Sam's brain out of nowhere decides to
remind him with a chronological list of events Dean had snuck out on his own
lately - which sums up to a total amount of zero - that he knows for certain
that Dean hasn't been out with anyone since the Chimera.
John's hands got too shaky after three days on the road, Dean's eyes too tired
after another two. They could ask Sam, they know he could get them through at
least another two - but they don't. They never do. Suddenly, legal driving age
is the most important rule in the history of their lives.
Sam could care less with John in a bar and with his brother on the scratchy
blanket next to him.
"I'm sorry," he mutters. Dean's fingertips over the back of his hand make his
stomach flutter.
"For what?" His brother should sleep. He needs it badly. Unfortunately, there's
that other certain need that keeps him awake. More unfortunately, Sam's too
egoistic to tell him better.
"That number-thing."
"The girl down the fifty-five?"
"Yeah." He cringes at the memory, makes a face. Stupid teenage hormones, stupid
stupid stupid. "I was being a complete douche about it. Sorry."
Dean smiles with the patience of a mother. A dead-tired mother. "I know. 'S
okay, Sammy. Don't worry."
"It was stupid. I mean, I-" Resignation, followed by a sigh. His voice is like
him, a small something trying to sound mature and reasonable. "I cannot tell
you what to do. … And I don't want to, either." Because this is the right thing
to say- no, wait, the reasonable thing. Right. The grown-up way of lying to
somebody's face in order to sound nice and make them feel better about
themselves.
"Nah, it's okay. I just didn't… I don't know." Sam can smell the day-old sweat
from Dean's pits when he shrugs while lying on his back. "Don't feel like
hooking up lately."
Sam raises not one but two eyebrows at that. Woah. What? "Why? You being sick?"
"You could put it like that, I guess." The dryness of Dean's laugh reminds Sam
to put a water bottle down his brother's throat as soon as he finds the energy
to get up from this bed.
But he has other worries now. Of course, he has a faint idea, but no, no,
that's just ridiculous. "No, really. Why?"
"Dude." Sam didn't notice before, but this laughter now really sounds… what?
Uncomfortable? Does Dean even know how to pull that one off? Has it ever left
his throat before? Sam stares his brother down until there are eyes darting up
into his. They're laughing, but at the same time, they aren't. "Don't make me
say it," that pretty mouth says.
He frowns. Nah. Impossible. "Say what?"
There's the faintest hint of wrinkles around Dean's eyes when he makes this
certain face. He looks so happy that it could be sad again. "Sammy… You're
gold, seriously."
Sam stares, doesn't get this, (doesn't want to) so he lays back down, props his
head on Dean's shoulder and paints invisible patterns on that slowly rising and
lowering chest. "Tell me," he breathes after a while.
"Hm? Tell you what?" Judging by the crack in Dean's voice, he almost fell
asleep just now. Sam decides it's okay to let this conversation end right here,
so he doesn't respond. Some minutes later he's sure Dean used to go to Lala-
land, his brother mutters: "I'm not good with words, you know that."
Sam looks up at that, finds lazily lidded green on himself. When his face tells
nothing but cluelessness, Dean's lips manage a smile. And that smile. Oh. That
smile.
"What do you think I'd like to do?"
"To do?" he repeats.
"Yeah."
"Right now?"
"Yeah." Fingers brush into his hair, down his temple. Sam swallows. "To you."
Okay. Okay okay okay. No sleep. Never again. "I. I dunno," he chokes. He's
never this tongue-tied; it's not fucking fair. This is a joke, and not a very
good one.
"Oh, I think you do."
There's a few things Sam can imagine Dean could mean by that. Even if his
brother has only been with girls, he can't possibly be completely oblivious to
what two guys can do together. Sam's brain plays through a handful of
possibilities. Again, he has to swallow. "… Yeah?"
"Yeah." Dean's grin widens. It's his "the hot girl at the bar winked at me"
grin. One of the many he decided to save up for Sam. "And then some."
Does he really… Is there a chance that… Really? Holy fuck. "You're gonna kill
me," he grinds through his teeth and fuck, it's true; is there such a thing as
dying from being aroused?
"Pleasant way to go, I'd say." Dean pulls him in while Sam presses closer,
thank God. Even if Dean will fall asleep any second now, Sam could still hump
his leg or arm or anything. A man has to make plans once in a while. "Gosh,
stop being such a virgin. 'S messin' with my poor head, seeing you like that."
Dean hisses the words like his insides are burning up as well, groans like he
has a headache from it. Sam simply hums into his chest, listens to that soft,
rhythmical bump. It's not usually this fast, shouldn't be when you're about to
fall asleep.
"… You'd let me, right?"
There is a good answer to that, isn't there? Because he cannot find one. He's
too busy not swallowing his tongue. "… What do you expect me to say?" he
croaks.
"I know you'd say 'yes'," Dean breathes. He seems fragile, like this is his
death bed and Sam is keeping him company until the curtain falls. The honesty
surprises Sam, because yeah, of course, yes, everything; but Dean knows, and
knows that he knows, and usually that equals that it isn't spoken about. It's
not what they do. They work in different, silent, knowing ways.
Sam gets up on his elbow to have a good look at his brother. Maybe he banged
his head when Sam didn't look?
But all there is is that calm, confident smile. Home, brother, safety.
God, he loves that smile.
"Know you'd do. 'Cause you always say 'yes' to me."
Yes, Sam thinks.
There's something between them, sprouting in Dean's eyes, somehow stuck in his
lungs; Sam can taste it on his tongue. He can't put his finger on what it is,
even though it seems so familiar. Maybe it's just been there for too long to
tell it apart? It makes him giddy somehow, pushes he urge to pinch Dean very
hard so that he squeals and make that whole awkward tension is just go away.
Dean purses his lips to say something - but stops midway through forming the
first letter. After studying Sam's eyes for another second, his smile explodes
further to the point where it makes Sam laugh.
"'Cause you love me," Dean purrs, as exaggerated and adorable as he can.
Blushing from head to toe, Sam laughs so exaggerated in return that it hurts
his chest, punches Dean's collar bone without paying attention to the pendant
there and probably leaves a bruise on both Dean's neck and his own knuckles.
Wowowowowow, easy, easy; don't flip out, this is just another joke, another
game; he's being a complete dork, he always is.
"Well, first of all, it's called 'hate', not 'love', jerk; second-"
"Bitch," Dean contributes.
"Screw you!" Sam laughs. Dean coughs along.
It takes a few moments to calm down, catch their breath and put this moment
deep, deep away. (It's too much, and that's how you healthily deal with these
kinds of things. Obviously.) Sam is still on his elbow, eyes softening the
longer he counts those freckles. It always helps. Of course it does.
After a while, Dean brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and lets his
hand rest on Sam's biceps. He's so exhausted it's pitiful and still so handsome
it shouldn't be possible. "It's crazy," he smiles, "I still can't believe it."
Sam smiles because Dean smiles. Because this is how they work. "What?", he
asks.
"That this is happening. That I can have this." It's there again, and it's
dangerous. But Dean's more careful now, doesn't put blunt words out that cut
their fragile edges. So Sam can go along with it.
"This?" he repeats.
"You. All of you. Yeah." The corners of Dean's mouth hold so much more, Sam can
see it (he's not blind, not to this kind of thing) - but it's all bitten back.
He always knows how far he can push Sam, and this is the limit. Push by push,
he makes Sam grow. It's how it works.
So he pushes. "It scares the hell outta me," Dean admits in a whisper.
Sam almost suffocates on the taste of that order of words from that mouth -
it's an unheard taboo. Dean Winchester doesn't fear anything but maybe genital
herpes. And against that, there's easy steps to avoid. This? This is a whole
new level.
"Me too," Sam blurts, because he knows, because it's true. It's the same for
him, has been since that awkward talk by that river, that dare and that stupid
decision to go after it. Yeah, ever since then, that must be it; he just didn't
allow himself to go there. As soon as Dean goes first though, he can follow. So
he nods. Because it's true.
Dean doesn't say anymore, lost his smile somewhere between "you" and "me" and
just watches Sam stumble from emotion to emotion. He'd get mad about that if he
wasn't so busy making sense out of it all.
That fear is there. He can feel it throb in his chest. … Or can he? Wasn't it
there just a second ago, like a hidden wound, sticky and painful? But it's
gone. How can it be gone this fast? It had been nurtured all those weeks,
months, hasn't it?, and now - just because Dean said he feels the same? Is that
it? Could that be it?
"I see you thinking again," Dean teases with his fingers along Sam's jaw,
almost startling him.
It's gone, he thinks, stares into familiar green. Gone gone gone and now
everything seems so much easier than before. (Has it ever been difficult?)
"Can I- Is it okay if I blow you?" It's almost sexy since he almost doesn't
stutter.
Dean still laughs, that bastard. "Woah. That's more like it."
The laughter comes to a stop though when Sam pulls all buttons on Dean's fly
loose - much to his surprise, obviously.
"… Oh," Dean chokes.
It's not romantic, doesn't exactly make sense at this point of conversation;
Sam's very aware of that. Still, it's urgent somehow, that need to feel and be
sure and give - now.
Dean groans when Sam pulls his half-hard dick from his underwear. He hasn't
seen his brother blush this fast in months. He's even stuttering, for God's
sake. "S-Sam, I-I haven't showered in forever-"
"I don't mind," Sam huffs while he already pushes himself lower; he really
doesn't. (Dean's the one who taught him to wash himself in sinks during long
drives in the first place. And Dean's a clean guy, in every word of the
meaning.) That hand in his hair surely wanted to push him off first, but the
first flat-tongued lick from base to tip earns him a pull rather than a shove,
a jerk of hips and a painful little sound where he cannot see anymore from this
angle.
A bit of everything on his tongue, all Sam can think of is who this belongs to.
He mouths along that vein he's rubbed his thumb over when they jacked each
other off last time and decides he hasn't ever touched something this
beautiful. It's so, so warm and silky in his fist, against his lips- He rolls
his tongue over the head and finds it sticky-wet.
"Fuck," Dean cusses from above and yeah, damn straight, fuck.
Another lick, just because he can, just because he didn't get a hold of all the
precome with only one. Dean writhes underneath him, obviously challenged by his
exhaustion. He can barely hold on to Sam's hair; but it's okay, it's alright,
this is them - impatient and a terrible tease and so damn good.
Sam dares to peek up at his brother while he tongues the sensitive slit yet
again. Dean looks like he's about to cry and that shouldn't amuse Sam as much
as it does. He wraps his lips around the head and lets is slip into his mouth
with a smooth nod of his head. Dean's stuttered inhale makes him push his own
clothed cock deeper into the mattress.
"Man, your mouth... your goddamn mouth.This isn't fair... What are you doing to
me?"
Sam's eyes slide closed again; it takes a lot out of him not to start laughing.
Yeah, he could get used to this honest praise, even though the headless flow of
it is caused by a sleep-deprived brain more than anything else. But that's
okay. He'll cherish it anyway.
The braver he gets with his mouth, the less controlled Dean's vocal cords get,
the less cock seems to fit in his mouth. He could tease Dean about being this
sensitive this fast but it's not really fair under the current circumstances of
road- and John-inflicted chastity. He knows too well and grinds his own cock
against denim and mattress some more.
Dean mutters something incoherent and Sam wonders if that movement right now
was a shove again, but it only dares him to swallow down some more inches. It
doesn't exactly surprise him when Dean comes right then and there.
It takes some time before he sucked and licked every drop of come and spit from
the trembling length, then lets go, savors the relieved sigh from above. Still,
he grinds his hips, desperate to get off as well. It's pathetic that they never
really undress and on top of that come inside their pants most of the time, but
maybe there'll be other times as well. The thought tickles a huff from Sam.
"C'mere," Dean suggests with a soft pull on his t-shirt.
But he's close, it's alright; he leaves his eyes closed in concentration. "N-
nah, it's okay, I-I just need to-"
"No," Dean breathes, eyes nothing but pleading, "come here. Come in my mouth."
Holy mother fucking- "S-seriously?!"
"Serious," Dean smiles, and Sam watches him smile, squint through glazed, tired
eyes while he scrambles to his knees right next to that pretty face.
Dean's never done this, he's never had a dick this close to his face before;
Sam's the first, the first, the first.
His fly is undone in a second. The sight of it alone, the wonder washing over
Dean's face the second it's out, is pushing Sam right to the edge. Fortunately,
Dean doesn't need to be told anything, just parts his lips while Sam furiously
strips his cock with his shaking hand. God, those lips, his brother's lips;
he's never thought about them like this, never thought he'd ever-
He almost doubles over but manages to aim perfectly, moans over the tiny
surprised gasps from between his legs. When Dean purses his lips to wrap them
around the very tip, Sam fears he might black out from the pleasure.
His brother. His straight-as-an-arrow brother, womanizer and proudest
heterosexual man he knows, just let him fill his mouth with his come.
If this is a dream, he'll have to praise his brain for its boundary-less
creativity as soon as he wakes up.
Dean takes everything he gives, up to the last drop Sam wrings out. Sam watches
that pretty mouth close as soon as he withdraws, almost gets hard again at the
lazy bob of that Adam's apple on that stretched neck, that little hum. Oh, holy
fuck.
"Tha' was awesome," Dean chuckles.
"Uh-hum," Sam groans in an understatement but he can't get out all those "fuck
yeah"'s right now with the post-coital hormones kicking in (he'd explain that
but Dean surely would make fun of him for that). With his jeans zipped back up,
he drops down halfway on top of his brother. "This okay?" he remembers to ask.
"Yeah." He's wrapped into that arm, feels that warmth, wants to drown in it. He
smiles into Dean's shoulder. "I'll fall asleep any second, Sam… 'm sorry…"
"Me too. 'S okay, sleep. Don't worry." His arm reaches all the way across that
chest, rests there, drums along with that everlasting rhythm. "I'm good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"'s good," Dean mutters, mouth so lax it barely doesn't get pronounced at all.
But Sam understands. He always understands.
Dean is out two seconds later and Sam will follow in five minutes. Only five
more minutes listen to Dean's heartbeat return to normal with his hand right on
top of it.
"It's too dangerous."
Salvation. Sam thinks he can hear the angels sing. Is that a halo around John's
head?
"You can't come this time, Sam."
A smile creeps up his face. Did his brother hear that just now? Did he-
"It'll be just Dean 'n me."
The smile's forgotten. In case "forgotten" equals "getting it bashed out of his
face with a brick", at least.
"Two weeks, maybe three. Bobby will be there as well, so in case you get into
trouble, there's a few other hunters in the area, Winston for example. You
remember him?"
"Only a few miles over, yeah," Sam mumbles. He's on auto-pilot - the only way
not to crash right away.
"Good. I think his number's still in that phone. You're old enough to handle
this, aren't you?"
He nods, shrugs. "Yeah. Sure."
Dean is sitting next to them at the table and doesn't make a single sound or
move. Sam does neither dare nor want to look him in the eye right now. The
perspective of adding some devastation to even more devastation is nothing he
looks forward to.
"I know you are. I said… You know I said I'd take you more often. And please
know that I meant it when I said it. But this here- this is just too big." Wow,
John even looks genuinely worried, sad eyes and hanging shoulders and all that
bullshit. Maybe he got that gene for acting Dean missed so closely. "I can't
put you to risk."
"But him, you can?"
His voice feels raw in his throat, all that acid coming up again. When he
remembers that he once swallowed it down, he doesn't feel guilty for spitting
it up now.
"I don't get you." Sam is losing control over his voice, over his limbs. Maybe
he pants, maybe he pushes himself up to his feet. It doesn't matter what he
breaks. There is nothing there. "I don't get you anymore at all. You're
supposed to- You're our father!"
Those eyes; why does he look at him with those eyes now? This is too late, too
easy, ha, no, not this time; you're not getting my pity this time. (Maybe he's
crying again.)
"We're your CHILDREN, not your BAIT!!"
The door slams shut loud enough to let his ears ring. "Let him," he hears Dean
rush along the clattering of wood on wood, probably the chair.
It's all just a faint background music to the sobs in his chest and the dash of
his feet on asphalt.
It's past midnight when Dean picks him up along the highway. Baby's lights seem
to be swallowed up by the darkness. Sam lost count of the miles, ignores the
blisters on his toes, his salt-crusted eyes stinging in the sharp wind of a
starless night. Powerless, he slips into the passenger seat, faces the window.
Dean doesn't try to talk, knows it's useless. It's new moon.
They pull in in front of that crappy rental along the road, a shelter for
hunters - two stories, chipping wooden floor, leaking pipes and a few busted
windows. Sam finds their room, pulls the blanket and a pillow from it and lays
it out on the sofa downstairs.
This is cruel, he knows it is, knows without the sad eyes following him, the
warm fingers only barely grazing his forearm when he pushes past his brother.
Being apart has never been easy for them. Now, with the situation being what it
somehow has become, it seems impossible. Is. So Sam can't. He can't.
Maybe Dean wants to pretend everything's fine, everything will be fine, because
it "always is"; whatever he'd like to tell himself. But Sam can't. He can't lie
to himself like that shaggy-haired kid he once was. He's grown out of it when
he didn't notice; like it or not.
Nightmares alternate between Dean making out with that diner waitress, both of
them laughing at him, and Dean getting torn apart by some evil mutant that has
that certain shade of grey-brown in his fur Sam has learned to hate.
When Sam wakes, he's covered in cold sweat, breathless, and the front door is
open. His heart stumbles in his race.
John looks down on him with something between pity and disgust. "I'm sorry,
Sam."
"Stick it where the sun doesn't shine," he snarls.
John's mouth twitches along with his fist, but he swallows whatever there was.
"Money's in my pillow upstairs, bullets too. Remember to salt all windows.
Maybe get the three busted ones repaired, or the wind might-"
"Dad, come on."
Dean's in the doorframe, wider and older than Sam remembers him. And John does,
does of course, because everybody would listen to Dean, everybody does.
When John's out of the door, Dean takes a few steps inside, the last ones for
the next few weeks. Sam's stomach cramps but he refuses to raise his eyes.
"Hey, big boy. 'M sorry, I really am, okay? It's just a few weeks. Just a few
weeks and we're back. Check out the school for me, will ya? And the cute girls,
obviously."
Sam feels sick. Not because of the girls, not because he'll be all alone in a
place he doesn't know, without Dean and John and the car and not even Bobby to
call, not because he hasn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours - no.
Because this is it. This is how it's always been. How it's always gonna be.
Unable to do as he's told, to meet the goals set for him. He's out. Dismissed.
Freak.
"Hey."
Dean's knees appear in front of his eyes. At least Sam guesses they're knees.
It's a bit hard to tell through all this water. Fuck.
"Hey, Sammy. Baby boy. It's gonna be alright. I promise."
Arms close in on him, pull him close to that heartbeat he maybe will hear for
the last time now. How odd are the odds, really? It's impossible to hug Dean
back; it's too much and he's too weak. Again, he sobs.
"I promise, okay? Don't be mad. I'll be back before you realize I was even
gone. Okay? You can do this. I know you can."
Leather smell fills his system, reminds him of onion-less burgers, whiskey and
orange bottles, girly perfume and coke-n-jager, sun-soaked asphalt, antiseptics
and lemon candles, sour breath and peppermint and coffee and Texan air and
midnight forest dusk and stars and fire and jukeboxes.
"I hate you so much," he sobs.
Dean huffs his chuckle into Sam's hair, hopefully imprints it there; God, Sam's
so stupid, so useless, so terrible.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know," his brother hums, a smile in his voice because he
understands, "Me too."
He lets go, gets up again, crosses the room, doesn't look back - shuts the
door.
Sam thinks the world stops spinning the second Baby's engine is too far down
the road for his ears to follow.
Chapter End Notes
     I accept donations for the next chapter in tears (by the gallon) as
     well as in firstborns and shattered dreams.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Until late afternoon, Sam refuses to accept, so he doesn't move. His body plays
along - until said late afternoon, when his stomach and bladder scream too loud
to ignore.
On his legs in boxer shorts and t-shirt, the house feels even colder. Too much
empty space, too many cracks and holes the wind can crawl into. But this is
good. Cold is good. It numbs.
They left him a few canned things, bread, peanut butter; some apples. Sam's
stomach turns when he sees them and he goes for the whole pack of dry bread
instead. Only Dean could have thought of them. They're a peace offering. Rather
than eat them, Sam will let them rot on that kitchen counter.
Cable is a joke here but still good enough to entertain for a few short hours
before it's degraded to sheer background noise. Sam pulls the blanket closer.
He can't bring himself to go to sleep where Dean has been so recently, so he
chooses too-small couch over too-spacy bed.
The only reason he doesn't dream that night is that his brain doesn't come far
enough. With ears trained to the suspense of silence, he startles awake,
searches the room from his safe spot on the couch with as little movement as
possible. There never is anything with the salt as thick as John left it, so he
always falls back asleep right away - before it starts all over.
When the sun comes up again, Sam knows that he has to accept.
He gets the coffee machine working somehow, has a cup on empty stomach and
concentrates on how it fills his belly, spreads its warmth into every cell it
can reach. He has another, goes for the next package of bread. Eating while
standing, he has his back turned to the apples.
Two weeks, maybe three, he remembers, swallows the nausea that comes with it
with another bite of bread. Maybe school would be a good idea. Is there a bus
this far from the city? He couldn't afford the gas if he borrowed a car. Maybe
walking is an option? A search for a map ends in nothing but frustration.
It takes an hour by foot, he finds out. The shopkeeper doesn't look twice at
his fake ID, so he dares to get a six-pack of beer along with some more
groceries (apples of his own). It's calculated luxury he'll pay with a few days
on oatmeal.
The school seems high class - not his class. He's painfully aware of how he
looks with his worn-out clothes, the haircut that isn't one (yet again), dark
circles under his hair said hair hopefully covers at least a little. Maybe
tomorrow, he decides after a last longing look across the school yard.
The house looks more terrible as it actually is. It reminds Sam a little of
Uncle Bobby, actually, which could be an offense but really isn't one. Maybe he
can work with this. Maybe it's not that bad. It has power, at least, and the
water is absolutely drinkable.
With his backpack still on the kitchen table, Sam opens the first of the six
cans. It bubbles in his mouth and tastes like more. He sighs, deflates, doesn't
think of his brother or father (no), sighs again.
Barefoot, Sam examines the rooms, doesn't dare to open that one door just yet.
He's got time. Maybe he'll grow that courage like he'll grow the other one for
applying for school. Yeah.
The bathtub seems a little out of place, like from a fancy photoshoot, the ones
where they put girls in elegant dresses in abandoned places to make them shine
even more. It's cleaner than most of the motel ones he's seen recently and the
window in here isn't broken. He tries the tap and water comes out clear - and
warm.
"Oh," he sighs, sips on his beer while he puts the pipes to a test. And yes, it
doesn't die off, feeding steaming hot liter after liter into the tub.
Well, why not.
Beer placed on the edge of the tub, Sam pulls off his clothes. The door is wide
open behind him - but he reminds himself that he is alone in here. Nobody will
interrupt. With one foot already in the tub, he has another bright idea and
strolls downstairs, naked, fucking naked in broad daylight, Jesus Christ. It
feels really weird, that tingling of forbidden and getting caught, but it's
okay, he reminds, it's okay, I'm all alone. Nobody will see. I'm alone.
"Nevermind" is still in his discman, so he picks it up as it is. Back in the
bathroom, he turns off the water and pulls the headphones on before stepping
in. When he's in up to the neck, dry face and hair bathing in steam, he presses
"play" and closes his eyes.
The warmth should be soothing, it kind of is, yeah, but nowhere near he'd hoped
it would reach, just like the coffee. It can't get to that deepest spot Kurt's
voice seems to call out to. Dean got him this CD during this very bitter phase
he had a few years ago, after one of his first big rage fits with many tears
and words he hadn't even been aware had crept into his vocabulary. "If you
wanna listen to some really messed up dude, listen to this," he had said, and
Sam had been grateful and proud about the thoughtful gift. Most of all, happy.
Happy that there was someone who seemed to understand, who took him seriously.
Nowadays, Sam knows that it just had been a sad try to smother a flame while it
was still small. Maybe Dean had filed down his behavior back then as "temporary
mood", something he'd grow out of. But Kurt is dead now - and Sam is still
angry.
The cool beer is a nice contrast to the hot surroundings. Underwater, Sam rubs
his toes against each other. He can't exactly stretch his legs, the tub's too
small for that; but he filled it enough for the water to cover most of his
pulled-in knees.
You'll do it somehow. You can. You must. It's not like you have a choice, so
you can at least make the best out of this. This is what you've dreamed of all
the time, haven't you? Some time for yourself with nobody to tell you what to
do - a bit like when you ran off that one time, but without anybody looking for
you. They know where you are and eventually, they'll come pick you back up.
They won't possibly leave you here to rot, will they. Well. Except if they
can't- No. Don't even think that. They will come back. Dean will come back.
Everything will be fine once they're back. John's right. You're old enough to
handle this. You're not a kid anymore. You don't need someone looking after you
all the time. You can do this. You can. You must.
He thinks of apples and shotguns and laughter and blue blue jeans and a warm
hand in his own.
And he misses.
Oh, he misses.
"Lithium"'s chorus comes on and he turns up the volume.
He expects tears but none seem to come. It's ironical, given the fact how he's
literally surrounded by nothing but water. Another sip of beer and it still
tastes way too good. Maybe he'll have another one later. There had been an
initial plan of rationing it by one can a day, but fuck, who is he trying to
impress?
Maybe there simply are no tears left. Maybe his body got this under control
better than he thinks. Maybe he's ready. Maybe he can do it.
Onion-breath and Baby's hood, desert sand in his sneakers and hair, roughened-
up elbows and way too sweaty skin.
Nothing. There is nothing.
It's all he has, and that's it.
Pathetic.
Yeah.
Yeah... He can do this.
He will do thi-
Something brushes his hair - Sam thrashes all his limbs, water flies; in his
panic, he remembers the discman, the batteries, the headphones, and rips them
off his head.
His eyes focus, waves of water loud around his body.
Ripped denim and leather jacket and-
"Dean!"
 
Hands in his hair, he eats that breathless smile right off where he's offered
it, grips that worn-out shirt with white knuckles. He tastes blood because
their teeth were forgotten in the wrong moment, but it's okay, it's alright, he
doesn't really feel that. What he feels is Dean underneath his fists, in his
mouth, his chest against his own. He wraps his arms around that back, hugs him
closer, impossible closer. If he doesn't hold on, he'll drown.
Both can barely breathe in this foggy room, but it's okay, it's alright, just
as long as he has this, him. Dean pulls back a bit and Sam hangs on, slips a
bit further out of the water, but it's okay, it's not cold; Dean's here and
warm and holding him and kissing him.
A hand slips from his hair down his neck, into the water and lower. He mutters
something against those moving lips, eyes closed because this is all too much,
the pressure on his skull too heavy.
One digit takes hot water inside and Sam shudders, presses back into it, lets
Dean pull back and shoulder off his jacket somehow without letting go of him.
The finger is back before leather hits tiles, shoves deeper, and the burn is
excellent; a sign that Dean's there, has him. It seems natural for him to roll
his hips to get it deeper but Dean cusses into his mouth as if he didn't expect
it, as if he doesn't know how much Sam needs him. Stupid, stupid jerk, as
always.
There's two and Dean manipulates him to his feet, facing the wall, before some
forgotten conditioner and three. It's easier like that but Dean's chest is gone
and Sam's legs are shaking, knees turned to jelly due to all the heat. One hand
holds him by his hip, the other one pumps in and out with sounds that make Sam
sigh and clench and squirm.
It's a bit like Texas, hot and bent-over and his head hung low between his
extended arms, but this isn't some random stranger behind him. If he had
thought that back then he couldn't form a single thought, then what should he
call this here; an outer body experience?
Dean's knuckles snug against his ass, jeans-clad thighs against his own,
struggling breath as if Dean was the one being bent in half - the sound of a
zipper being undone.
Sam's breath gets caught in his throat when the tip pushes in.
It's one slow but steady slide guided by shaking fingers and Sam's palms slip
on the tiles when Dean sucks in a first inhale. He catches himself but Dean
does before he does, resulting in a jump of muscle both inside and outside and
both gasp at the unspeakable sensation of it.
A brush of pubes against his tailbone and the low whisper of his name make Sam
deflate completely in those hands, against those legs. He whimpers a response,
inhales sharp at the first drag back, hums at the one back in. Dean holds him
tight, both hands pressed into his hips like vices, breath ghosting over the
soaked skin on his back.
It's been long, too long for this to happen, Sam knows, knows too well how
impatient his brother is with certain things (and all seem to be about Sam),
knew; but still Dean has managed to hold out until now. Sam wonders if it's
because Sam's still so young, if Dean thinks he'll break or disappoint him,
drive him away. It all sounds like Dean and all of it is complete and utter
nonsense, of course.
A rhythm comes on quickly, maybe a bit too quickly judged by Sam's experience -
but this is Dean, and Sam's body is made for him, so it opens up without
complaint. Glans automatically finds prostate and Sam isn't even surprised.
That's how it has to be, really, how he knew it would be. Perfect and too much
and so good he might go crazy without it.
Control bleeds from Dean with every moan his cock punches out of Sam, and Sam
knows, pushes back, arches into touch of fingers and skin and denim and the
sound of that voice right behind him. It doesn't take more than a handful of
thrusts before a slow roll becomes pistoning, soft squelches sharp slaps, and
Sam runs out of noises to make but for breathless gasps, dry despite the
humidity around them.
When Dean hardens and expands further inside of him, Sam realizes there is no
condom. It shouldn't make it even better - but does. His brother wouldn't put
him to risk and he himself has always been insistent but for that very first
time. Heat blooms where nothing could reach before, no water no food no Cobain,
spreads from stomach to limbs and face and roots of hair. It's special. This is
special, for both of them; so many first times, all ruled by impatience and
blunt need. No ceremony. They don't need one. The fact that it's happening is
enough.
Sam tries to listen for the signs and gets them on a silver plate, the whole
program. It's almost cheesy, somehow, with Dean's breathing going even more
ragged, struggling tone to his voice, stutter to his hips, spasms in his hands.
He wonders if he can come from this, on Dean's dick and orgasm and nothing
else, relishes the unsteady swing of his untouched but drooling cock in between
his legs; their legs.
It cannot have lasted longer than two minutes, maybe three, and Sam can feel
Dean's knees buckle into the back of his own, braces his hands against the wall
harder and listens to his brother come undone behind him. With his eyes closed,
he doesn't need too much concentration to be aware of every twitch, that
shudder reverberating in his guts, the silent prayer from Dean's lips. Sam
presses his ass back and almost causes Dean to fall backwards, but he's got his
hands anchored, doesn't let go.
There's no pulling out for a long while, no movement but the waves of their
breaths finding their way through their bodies. Sam realizes he hasn't come but
doesn't mourn it. This is it, perfect and everything.
There never has been an alternative, really.
 
 
The door is wide open, now that it isn't a threat anymore, a gate to a sad
memory. Sam lies on his back, clothed in dry, fresh shirt and shorts, and
listens to his brother shower next door. The covers still smell like him; the
pillow like something he rubbed himself around in all night. Sam presses his
nose deep into it.
Water stops, a short silence, then steps. By the time he appears in the
doorframe, Dean is only now toweling his hair. Sam can't help but drop his jaw.
Dean is wearing as much and as little as his necklace around his neck and a
dark-red shade on his rock-hard cock.
In return, he is eyed with confusion. "Why are you dressed?"
Because this is what people do after a bath, Sam wants to say, but Dean is
crawling up the bed on all fours by the time he remembers how to move his
tongue.
God, this is how it will be from now on, won't it? If he could cry, he would.
"C'mon, get this off," his brother suggests while already pulling on Sam's
shorts.
Sam's reply is a lift of his hips, barely high enough for the fabric to slide
down, but Dean doesn't seem to care to wait for any more.
Instead, he smiles. It's his Christmas morning smile, his Hey baby boy smile.
Sweet as candy and so rare that Sam can't believe that the sight of his naked,
teenage body can trigger it. Before his cock gets any, Sam's face flushes red
with blood.
"Geez, look at you," Dean rasps through that smile and settles in between those
too-long legs, runs his hands up Sam's chest and neck and cups his face before
he kisses like he's starved for Sam's mouth, his mouth, oh God. "My boy, my
Sammy." Sam swallows the praise like he does with the nudges of pulsing hot
cock against his come-slick ass. He has to grab and hold on to Dean's back or
he'll somehow manage to fall of the bed despite lying on his back in the middle
of it. "You're wet," Dean smiles in between kisses into Sam's trembling mouth.
He seems oblivious to what those playful pushes do to Sam, how good it makes
him feel; oh.
The backs of his knees are grabbed and pushed into his chest, Dean's mouth and
tongue relentless while Sam moans around them. It doesn't go in on the first
try, only slips and makes him leak more from what had been too deep for the
bath water to reach. The second is more powerful but again doesn't catch. Sam's
this close to push a hand down to line them up properly, but as usual, three's
a charm and Dean sinks into him without much resistance.
Sam thinks he's gonna have a problem while Dean's tongue fucks his mouth and
stuffs his ass all neatly with his cock because damn, how is he supposed to
ever look at Dean and not want to jump him on the spot from now on? This isn't
fair. Maybe this is what held them off for so long, because they'll fuck each
other stupid now that they got started with it.
Dean's shoulders fit perfectly under the backs of his knees, of course they do,
so calloused palms can roam down his thighs, under his shirt, cup his
nonexistent breasts. "You're perfect," Sam is told, voice strangled like he
knows Dean's dick is right now, and he hums at a gentle roll of hips, that slow
grind so deep inside of him that it feels like it's gonna pop out of his belly
button any second now.
His body all narrow, Sam lowers his arms, cups the back of Dean's neck with
both hands and keeps his elbows between their chests. Not without shoving Sam's
shirt up under his armpits, Dean's hands slip back down, spread his ass some
more. Sam blinks through his lashes and feels them brush Dean's cheeks because
this is how close they are, as close and compact as it can get and still
grabbing at each other like it still isn't enough. Even connected as deep as
possible can never be enough. But this is close. Very, very close.
Sam's mouth opens and closes with the words his throat doesn't want to let out.
He might die like this and not regret a single thing.
"Mine," Dean breathes, both thumbs pulling him apart a little further down
there, eyes so clouded they aren't even green anymore in Sam's crossed-eyed
view, nothing but blown pupil surrounded by dirty white, "All mine. My Sammy."
"Yes," he croaks.
Dean's cock withdraws, slides back in. "Does it hurt? Did I hurt you?"
"N-no."
"You okay?"
Another thrust, maddening slow. "Yeah. Yeah."
"Feels good?"
Another. Sam grits his teeth. "Fuck yes."
Dean laughs in his mouth, pumps his hips. Sam shivers, mewls. Dean licks his
tongue while going to town with all patience in the world.
The sounds are amazing, all dirty-wet and colliding with the soft groans of the
mattress, the metallic bedframe and wooden floor. It crosses Sam's mind that
they could record this - which is a fruitless thing since either of them would
voluntarily leave this bed to grab a walkman.
"So good," Dean moans, husky and low like he's talking to himself with his
eyebrows all furrowed and eyes pressed shut in bliss, "It's so good. You're so…
God, Sam."
Not quicker, but more powerful, deeper. It shouldn't be able to get deeper
anymore, but Dean manages. Sam barely breathes at this point, too high on that
full- and completeness only sharpened by lack of oxygen. "More," he strangles
from his throat, "Please, more, n-need-"
Dean shakes his head - and Sam sobs. "Nuh-uh," Dean huffs into his mouth,
"Can't do. All nice 'n slow. Wanna feel you."
"C'mon, c'mon, please-"
"Sssh, I've got you. I've got you. Lemme take care of you."
The hands leave his ass, wrap around his shoulders, pull him in tight with this
newfound leverage on that next push inside. Even if he wanted to, Sam couldn't
breathe.
"See? Like that."
This is torture, this is all it is, that thick and rich pressure on his
prostate, the stretch and pull and it's all Dean, Dean's skin and Dean's sweat
and Dean's come easing the way. Sam can feel his brother's pulse throb through
his cock, almost as if it's pumping in his own body as well.
Dean fucks him all steady and slow, persistent in a way that is just right,
hits all the good spots, of course. Sam's dick is sandwiched in between their
bellies, rubbed and pressed to the point where it's sliding through a puddle of
his own precome and Sam's aware of it.
Dean's never fucked a guy before. He shouldn't be this talented, such an expert
at it. It's as if he can read Sam, put the pressure where it hits hardest. As
if he had a map to Sam's body - to Sam's and only Sam's.
Between himself sensing that he's coming closer to the edge and Dean gradually
picking up the pace barely lie a few seconds. Maybe it's his breathing that
gives it away, maybe the twitch to his insides and his fingers in Dean's neck,
the crack to his voice.
With Daniel, it had been a little like this, raw and all new and so intense he
knew he'd never forget about it ever again, crave it, chase it.
But this, this is more. Sam's never felt as if his heart'd explode for entire
minutes straight just because he's so happy, so complete in those arms, against
this mouth.
No, this is more.
Sam's flexible but even his thighs start complaining when Dean presses them
down harder. It's not like Sam would notice much of it with the pressure
building in his guts, his balls drawing in so tight that his legs try to kick
out despite the powerful hold.
He wants to say something, warn Dean, because this is too much, he's gonna die,
he's never gonna feel the same ever again, his body all marked up and
catapulted way too high - but Dean's mouth seals his own.
Words pressed back into his throat by a tongue, his entire body contracts,
arches off to the point where all his weight is on the tips of his shoulder
blades. His fingers dig in freckled flesh, toes curl; his entire being clamped
down to where all energy is simmering to a peak.
Dean withdraws his mouth just in time to let Sam take a rippling inhale with
the first snap of release.
The decadence is forgotten in punishing, short stabs, all aiming deep and
deeper, right where every hit makes his cock spill and spill and spill between
their stomachs. Shudders as in a fever ripple through Sam, have him bounce back
and forth between thrashing all limbs and going completely limp in the
pleasure. His own ears ring too hard to hear himself moan and beg and break,
somehow only hear Dean's feral grunts, all exhaustion and concentration. As if
it's hungry for even more, his ass contracts hard every few seconds, completely
irregular and catching him off-guard, squeezing that hot, hard length even
tighter.
It lasts moments, minutes. Sam isn't too sure, it doesn't exactly matter. All
he knows is when it's slowly subsiding, he has to beg Dean to slow down.
He does, but not without a grin and a lick to Sam's teeth. "Told you," he
pants.
Sam makes a face and kisses that stupid mouth shut. Yeah.
Yeah, he knows.
 
 
"Oh."
"Hm?"
"You didn't, uhm…"
"Oh. 'S alright. Can't come again this quick." Dean gives the red-purple head
of his cock a flick. "He's just an attention whore."
"Like master, like man."
"You watch your mouth."
In Dean's armpit, Sam has Dean's arm behind and around his neck, their fingers
entwined on his chest. And he's laughing as if nothing's ever been different.
Still naked, fucked out, and it's barely two in the afternoon. Not bad,
Winchester. Not bad.
He scratches his stomach where his dried come is starting to itch. "What
brought you back?"
"When Bobby saw me getting out of the car... Man. You shoulda seen him." Dean
chuckles to himself, eyes distant, as if he is back at Bobby's. "Everyone two
towns over as well as their dogs heard him shout Dad down."
"That bad?"
"Oh yeah." Dean casually rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "Like 'how
dare you bring the kid along' and 'you know what we're getting ourselves into';
that kind of bad." He pauses before he adds, lower: "Like they were planning a
suicide commando o' somethin'."
Sam's smile vanishes at the sight of Dean's unreadable expression. "What'd Dad
say?"
Dean's eyebrows jump, his lips curl into something resembling a smile.
"Nothin'," he says. "Just stood there with his mouth open. I've never seen him
like that before; gapin' like a goddamn fish. Speechless. Can you imagine that
on him, huh?"
"Bobby's gotta teach me that one," he tries with a smirk.
And yeah, there's a real smile, a tiny one only though, and it's gone again
quickly. "Hah. Yeah." Dean rubs his nose. "I told Bobby 'no', of course. Could
handle it, I said. Not a kid anymore. I wanna help."
When Dean says things like that, Sam feels guilty - for not being as mature and
selfless as his brother is, for being a burden to him. Dean would never agree
with him on that, but Sam knows anyway.
"But he insisted. Pushed the keys to some truck into my hand and sent me off
with it. And Dad… Dad just... He nodded." They share a confused look, Dean a
bit pale around his mouth. "He accepted it. Can you believe that?" He rubs
circulation back into the tissue and sighs as he drops his arm next to himself.
"I wonder if they're alright," he mutters.
"Yeah," is all Sam can think of to say. He could lie and say "me too" or "I'm
sure they are" but he doesn't feel like it. Dean would scold him for doing it,
too.
"I'll try to call them tomorrow. They said they'd leave to pick up the others
tomorrow."
"Others?"
"Yup, an honest to God hunt. Wouldn't be surprised if they brought their
fucking hounds."
"What are they looking for?"
Dean shrugs. "Dunno."
Sam frowns. "You don't know?"
"They didn't tell me, okay? Whatever." Dean withdraws his hand and arm and Sam
regrets that he poked into the wrong place. As solid as his brother is, his ego
is as vulnerable as it can get. "I hope they're alright," his brother repeats,
right hand now resting on his stomach.
Sam rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. This is bad. Dean shouldn't be
worried, not now, not when everything is good between them. He gets up on his
elbow and fidgets with the amulet. "I'm glad you're here," he murmurs.
"Yeah. Yeah, me too." It works because Sam knew it would. A glowing smile about
that praise and fingers grabbing for his own are his trophy. He sighs a smile
in return. "Glad I have you back, snotty little brat."
It's them, their nicknames, still. Nothing has really changed, and how could
it? "You gonna stay?"
"Huh? Of course." Dean's expression falters a bit in his confusion about the
question. Stupid, stupid thing. "Why wouldn't I?"
Because you're a hen and your chicks are in danger - and I know you want to be
with them right now. "'Cause Dad 'n Bobby-"
"Jesus, Sam. Seriously? 'For the next few days, please let me risk my health
and life instead of fucking my brains out'? Yeah, not this motherfucker right
here." A ruffle to his hair and Sam is relieved, at least for now. It's rather
easy to get lost in Dean's skin, fortunately. "I know I'm a pure joy to be
around, but they're gonna be okay without me every once in a while. Those wild,
wild kids." The hand becomes a fist that tugs him closer until he tastes his
own spit in his brother's mouth. Dean licks his lips and hopefully doesn't see
how red the tips of his ears become from only this. "You better not intend to
bail on me, or I fear I'll have to restrain your sorry ass."
There's a throb in between his legs. Oh, those games. They never get boring. A
smirk pulls dimples into his cheeks. "Bondage? Nice."
A groan before he's kissed. "Don't give me funny ideas." Another latch of
mouth, a lazy tongue along his teeth. God, he should have glued Dean to his
face from that very first kiss on and never let go. Their noses rub against
each other and Sam can feel Dean smile against his own lips. His voice is like
cotton to the inside of his ears. "Seriously. There's no other place I'd rather
be."
If this is a dream, never wake up, never wake up. He laughs it off a bit
because otherwise it'd be too painful to lose it. "I didn't know you could talk
this much," he teases.
"Yeah, well, what can I say. Fucking seems to shake my tongue loose."
Sam snorts. "True poetry."
"Don't I know it." He's pulled back in with one, tugged further on top of his
naked brother with the other hand. Sam's thigh brushes something he is very
sure won't leave the grasp of his hand or mouth for too long for the following
days. (And if not, he'll find a way to make it so.) "All hot and bothered by
all those sweet sweet words yet?" Dean mouths, caresses the little bumps of
Sam's spine all the way to his tailbone and up again.
Yeah, yeah, sure; God, you tease. "Not losing any time, I see."
Dean laughs against his cheek, bright and easy as if there are no monsters, no
sorrows and no tomorrows that could change anything. Sam has to make it his job
to make it appear more often. "Dude, do you know how long I've waited for this?
I deserve some."
He kisses that mouth, rubs his thumb over generously stubbled jaw. "How long?"
he breathes.
Dean smirks. "Long enough, that's for sure."
That hand dips lower. Maybe he rolls his hips to feel it deeper. "Way too
long?"
"Way too long," Dean confirms and tugs his leg across his hips.
Sam closes his eyes into the next kiss and that faint brush of a cockhead over
his hole. The last thing he sees before that are Dean's hooded eyes, all
trained on him, full and hungry and happy.
"You have no idea."
Chapter End Notes
     Another part that I wanted to write exactly like this, right from the
     very start. Finally getting it out felt really really good.
     And no - this is NOT the end yet! Calm your horses and stay tuned.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Waking up due to your bowels' protests isn't exactly romantic, but hell, Sam
lost his illusions about this topic before he lost his last baby tooth anyway.
On the toilet with his upper body bent over his knees, he gets introduced to a
whole new kind of pain. Okay. This is new. On the other hand, close to a
handful of fucks in more or less a single row is just as new. And if the price
of having somebody come inside you each and every single time of those times is
having the runs - then it is a reasonable (and maybe fair) one.
Dean is buried deep in his exhaustion-heavy sleep, so Sam figures that letting
him be for a while is the only responsible option. That first cup of coffee, he
will have on his own. After slipping into shorts and shirt, he fixes himself a
tough brew and sips it on the sofa, buried deep into Yefremov's "Andromeda".
Utopia is the perfect topic for today, because Sam damn fucking feels like he's
part of one of those. It seems like an entire lifetime since he last sat on
this couch, lonely and lost. Now he's back, aching all over and at the same
time relaxed like he hasn't been in ages. Sated, he defines, with a soft rush
of blood into his cheeks.
So this is it, huh. It happened. No going back now.
And he should be scared, he really should. Because, yeah, he is happy, somehow;
and he should be scared of losing that, because that always seems to happen.
But this time, he isn't. Because this time, it's about Dean. And Dean - he's
the one thing Sam cannot lose.
When Sam finally hears rummaging from upstairs, it's almost noon. Because he
knows his brother (and because he ran out of his own) he gets up to make
another round of coffee for the two of them. Sam grew up to enjoy his coffee
strong and black, like Dean (and John) does, just so it's a smaller hassle to
everyone involved. He hears the shower run and searches the cupboards for
another cup.
All it takes is a shy glance over his shoulder once Dean descended the stairs,
and Sam is sold to awkwardness again. His dick didn't get the memo that, no, we
are not capable of any more and Sam tries real hard not to spill any coffee
over the counter while he feels his brother's eyes glued onto his back. He
swears he can smell it by now, can fucking smell it when Dean gets aroused -
and it doesn't take much to trigger the man. Sam knew his brother has enough
libido to make three teenagers look harmless, but even without but especially
with the context of last night, this is just ridiculous.
Nothing but a pair of way-too-worn boxer shorts hangs off Dean's body, loose
enough around the hips that they'd slip off the way he grinds against Sam's ass
if there wasn't a certain something holding it up. Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
"That for me?" The words tickle in the back of Sam's neck and he can hear that
grin. Since Dean's hands roam over his flanks and lower back, the dip just
above his ass, Sam is not too sure he actually means the coffee.
He hums his "uh-hum" anyway, hands loosely curled around both cups, eyes
fluttering shut at the warmth of freshly showered skin draping all over him,
surrounding him, swallowing him right up. It should scare him how much it
affects him, how it has him push his ass out despite all common sense. The
shower gel they used is the same but smells so so different on their individual
skins; it's fascinating, really. Fascinating enough to let Dean smell and kiss
all over his neck, his ear, his hair, because he understands, yes.
"Come back upstairs," Dean mutters, tasting like mint and sex and skin, that
mix that has Sam's knees week and his dick twitching in his shorts.
"Y-you… I-I m-made coffee," Sam stammers, lost even before Dean's hands roam up
under his shirt, over his belly, his nipples, "You di'n't eat anything since
you came here… O-or drink…"
"Neither did you."
"Th-that's different…"
Sam's efforts die off when Dean softly pulls his shorts down over his ass.
"Alright," his brother mouths, "I'll let you feed me all the coffee in the
world… after this here."
There are far less pleasant ways to die, Sam decides.
After polishing off all remaining bread and two cups of coffee each, they
agreed that sitting in the house all day is no option. "We should get you into
school," Dean announces on their stroll back through town.
It takes him by surprise. So much by surprise actually, that his mouth actually
opens before he has a chance to become aware of how he was just about to answer
"no". His jaw snaps closed again sudden enough to make his teeth clatter.
Ditching education for sex now? Really, Winchester? How low you have come.
"Why?" he asks nevertheless. Maybe it sounds innocent enough.
Dean's suspicious side-eyeing tells him that it indeed isn't. "'Cause I know
you, kiddo, and if we don't get you into your natural habitant aka 'nerd land'
very soon, you'll start sheddin' your hair or skin or some shit like that."
He makes a face. Yeah, okay. Deep inside his heart he knows Dean is right. Not
that that means that he will ever admit that, though. "Your worries are truly
heartwarming."
"Is that sarcasm in your voice, young lady?"
"Oh, never, Mr Go-Fuck-Yourself."
He gets a rough slap on his shoulder for that and snorts his laughter along
with his brother.
"No, but seriously, we should make that happen. Like, yesterday. Come on."
It's hard denying a generous offer like that, especially under the
circumstances of how long ago Sam's last steps into a school building have
been. Another plus could be how the low September sun puts that beaming red
complexion into Dean's hair, makes his skin even paler against the dark brown
of his leather jacket.
Dean, his handsome beautifulstunningunbelievable brother came back, ditched
Bobby and John for him, a hunt, because he'd rather be with him, his Sammy. And
now that Dean has got this, with Sam's promise to give everything at any time
silent but prominent between them - he still puts Sam first, knows him like
nobody does, can tell what Sam knows before Sam himself. Just to see Sam happy,
Dean would rather give Sam freedom, a slice of "normal", instead of just enjoy
his own little bite of "peace and happiness" for one single time.
His fingers twitch with the sudden urge to get a hold of Dean's hand.
"I'm not sure they'll let me in," he mutters, cheeks and stomach burning, and
that's neither the coffee overdose's nor the sun's fault, "Looks really high
class." Sam shoves his fists deeper into his pockets.
Over a broad shoulder, he's raised a pair of eyebrows at. "So? You're high
class."
There's something incredible sweet about that innocent honesty in Dean's face.
Sam's fingernails dig deeper into his palms.
"Don't worry, Sammy. Let me handle this. Ten minutes, and you're in."
Ten minutes later, he is in.
"I think you made her ovulate early," Sam mutters over the semester's booklist.
He doesn't look up when he hears Dean's proud bellow of a laughter, but he
cannot ignore the fingers that flip his papers back to the front page. That
index points to a handwritten note with a private phone number and a handful of
"xo"'s next to a nervously curled "Betsy". Sam rolls his eyes.
"Congratulations," he sighs.
"She was so cute. Did you see her face? We made her damn entire month!"
"She was, like, forty, dude."
"'Wine and women age beautifully,'Sammy."
Now, he has to raise his eyes. The eyebrows follow along. "Please excuse me
while I throw up."
"Oh come on, as if you've never been with someone older."
Sam's eyes drop back down. The first time in months that they are sitting in an
actual café; those things that sell beverages and, on top of that, non-
alcoholic beverages - and this is the only type of conversation they can
maintain. Classic.
"I mean, that guy back in Texas," Dean continues, voice lowered at Sam's
reaction, but not any less cocky, "he was like, what? Twice your age?"
His answer consists of a glare across the table.
"That what you usually go for? You can tell me, you know."
"I really don't wanna talk about that right now."
"Buzzkill."
"Bite me."
"Don't mind if I do." And Sam can hear that wink.
Swift, Ellison, Faulkner, Camus. Not too bad, actually. Math and history seem
doable as well. Some stuff looked painfully new and there'll have to be some
sleepless nights to catch up… but still. Doable. Something like excitement
fills him with the next deep inhale.
A blind hand goes for his cup of finest Arabian roast (it was Dean's treat, so
why not). Instead, it finds Dean's upturned palm.
While his first instinct is to pull away, he is quickly held in place by those
knowing digits.
His brother's eyes burn holes into his face while Sam's remain trained on the
paper in front of him. The only thing that keeps him from completely going
rigid is the security of how his hair is long enough to cover the crimson tips
of his ears and most of his face.
They stay like that for a long, torturous time without as much as a word or
movement. To overshadow the disgust over two sweaty palms resting against each
other, Sam keeps pretending the letters in front of him are making sense.
After a while, Dean eventually mutters that "they don't know".
All low and raw like he always soothes Sam, avoiding the second part, the "that
we're brothers" which is - even at the point they're at now - too much, too
horrifying to be spoken out loud.
Sam hums in return, a bit broken because his throat is drier than he planned.
After a failed attempt to clear his throat, he dares to look up through the
curtain of his bangs.
He's watched, always watched with those soft, worried eyes. A thumb rubs over
the knuckle of his own. "Knew you'd like the school," Dean starts, maybe
imagining that this dazzling smile will cover that gentle shake of his voice,
"Been thinkin' about that the second we drove past it the first time. Thought
to myself 'Nerdy McNerd will love this; looks like a damn lab facility', ha."
He coughs that laugh.
Sam knows that scratch that worries his brother. By now, Dean should know that
it cannot get unstuck. "Thank you," he breathes.
Something in Dean's eyes changes, and Sam knows. Nevertheless, he squeezes that
hand inside of his own, these four rough fingers, squishes the lines of head
and heart closer together.
Dean's eyelids slip shut along with that smile pulling on his mouth; that wide,
teeth-baring one that could fool people into believing that he's just an
innocent little boy.
But this is Sam. And Sam knows his brother.
The thoughts are pushed away until all that surrounds them is trees, that
chalk-white of birches. Until Dean leans into his space and eats at his mouth,
eases their fingers back together in Sam's lap. If it wasn't for that searing
hot ache on and in his backside, he'd be hard from this, only this, exactly
now. With it, he's still at least halfway there. Traitorous body.
"You're gonna kill me," he groans.
"'S your fault," Dean retorts, lips curling into a smile that makes it only
easier for him to suck Sam's bottom lip in between them. He's a devil like
that.
Sam's head is easy, light. The town, the café, even the confused stare of the
elderly couple from the table next to theirs is long forgotten, not existent.
Dean's finesse allows him to drop the passenger seat's back rest down into the
back without startling Sam. Sam cannot recall when Dean did slip off his
security belt or even when he did climb over to straddle him, but it's not
really of importance once he's embraced, covered. It's easy, so so easy. Dean
lowers himself slowly until they rest on each other, not all of his weight
baring down on Sam but enough to make him lose a little of his breath. Like
this, he can feel the steady drum of blood in Dean's cock that presses down on
his own. (As if he still has to be shown what all of this does to Dean.)
Even though they've kissed enough for Sam's lips to chap (and he imagines he's
seen Dean's pretty wound up as well), he can't help but to give in or reach out
for it on his own, hands always somewhere around Dean's head or neck to pull
him closer. It's intoxicating, really, because this tastes so much better than
it should, feels so much better than what his experiences up to now have made
him believe was possible.
Everything is different and so much worse than before; as if this was a secret,
very hot and very fucked-up fantasy. Where Dean's eyes would eat him up in
dark, secret bats of eyelashes only, they don't seem to leave him at all by
now. Could it be because they're alone now, without the ever-glooming presence
of John? Is it that which makes Dean's reserve fall apart? Or could it be
because they went all the way now? Is there nothing for Dean to lose, to be
scared about now? Is this how he is with his girls, the people he is sure he
has securely wrapped around his finger?
Sam gasps at a rough grind that chafes more than it delights.
"I see you thinkin'," Dean states, watches him under half-lidded eyes before
Sam feels them flutter shut against his jaw. It's pathetic how he's sweating
again already but Dean doesn't seem to mind and licks it right from his neck.
The throbbing has been consistent throughout the day, uncomfortable to say the
least during the walks. Now, the pain between Sam's legs turn into pure agony.
The physical attention makes him wriggle and tense uncontrollably, even inside,
and every move just makes it worse and worse. By the time Dean's hands roam
over the buckle of his belt, it's hard to breathe away the troubled moans.
This is stupid and he is stupid and he doesn't want to stop, not now, not ever,
because stopping means thinking and waiting means losing. But he has to, fuck,
he has to. "Wait," he finally grits.
"What?" Of course, Dean's immediately alert to that certain tone, his voice
almost distant in how loud and tense it suddenly is.
He'd do anything not to do this because obviously, he loves doing this, and now
that he can get it, his body decides that nah, in that case I'll go and bail on
you. Serves you right for enjoying yourself. Sam shifts, makes a face, rubs
some sweat and hairs out of his face with his jacket's sleeve pulled over the
back of his hand. "I'm, uh. C-can we maybe- Uh…"
Dean's hand freezes in place, half-hovering over the hem of Sam's jeans. Taking
another bit of weight back to himself, he blinks down at Sam. "You okay?"
Nothing more than a whisper, the breeze of a frown.
Sam's heart aches at the softness of it. "Sore," he eventually admits from
between the webbing of his fingers. Even Dean should be aware of how there is a
limit to everything. This can't be normal for him, not even for him, no. Maybe
girls can take fuck-a-thons like yesterday's. Maybe they can satisfy Dean
better, maybe Sam isn't enough, cannot give enough, just won't be good enough
to-
And again, Dean kisses him, soft and only shortly so he can nuzzle Sam's temple
and whisper that "alright" right there.
Sam's lungs deflate with the returning weight on his chest. He blinks stray
droplets from his lashes, stares at the truck's ceiling. Again, he's light.
Again, everything is so easy.
Their hips pick up where they left off and Dean's hums against his skin make it
bubble with goose bumps. Sam gasps because he is so surprised at the lack of
drama, the mean words or weird looks. His Adam's apple bobs into Dean's mouth
and his eyes flutter closed. He tugs that body closer.
Sam wants to cry thankyouthankyouthankyou. "M-my mouth isn't sore, you know,"
he mutters instead.
The shudder going through Dean is hard enough to make Sam's body shake with it.
Dean groans into his mouth and then adds, "You'll be the death of me."
They rearrange into the backseat and it feels oddly familiar. This time though,
it's Dean spread out on the seats, his lean, bowed legs dangling from the open
door, upper body propped up on his elbows so that he can watch Sam work his
jeans open. He's so handsome Sam could cry. Instead, he pushes that t-shirt up
that flat, milky belly and feels it quake under the soft kisses he showers it
with.
Those eyes don't leave him for a single second and the weight of them tell Sam
that there is still worry, that Dean is still readying himself to shove Sam off
and suggest that they could lay low for a while, that Sam doesn't have to do
this if he's not feeling alright. Fact is, that's fucking bullshit, because,
maybe Dean hasn't noticed it with his eyes all over Sam with maybe too little
blood in his brain to remember that - but Sam enjoys all of this just as much
as Dean does. He gets it, yeah, sees that guilt in the way Dean eyes him all
suspiciously when he thinks Sam doesn't notice, as if Sam will bolt and run
from his arms any second now. There are four years and experiences like a
lifetime in between them. From an outside view, this is not alright, not
healthy, wrong in every possible way. Being this close, tearing at and fucking
each other up to the point of exhaustion and then going even further, until it
hurts and both of them are shaking bad enough to really make it a challenge…
When he thinks about it like that, it really doesn't sound too good.
Thing is (and Sam doesn't fucking know how or why he knows that) it is. It is
good; right, even. Feels like it, at least. And weren't they raised to trust
the feeling in their guts? Because Sam's guts say this is right. Familiar,
secure. Things he didn't knew he needed this much but won't let it get away
that easy now that he got a taste of what can be. Pain or no pain, fuck that.
Dean needs him, so Sam will deliver.
Dean started showing off his body hair early. Sam cannot recall when exactly he
first had been presented with that sparse line of hair from navel to button of
jeans but oh, had he been jealous. That much got stuck in his memory. Now, it
tickles his lips when they press down on it, use it as a safe road southwards
until the waistband of Dean's shorts starts to hide it. Before he pulls them
down, he ghosts his mouth over the damp spot on their front.
Seeing it all proud and flushed in broad daylight is still a little odd. Living
a lifestyle like they do, it's inevitable to one way or another catch each
other in the act of being naked or aroused or both. He'd seen Dean, Dean had
seen him, they were square. But those were quick glances and those were
disgusting enough, because who would want to stare at their brother's dick,
right? Well. How things change.
It's more inspecting than it is staring, really. On his knees, Sam takes his
time, runs his slack lips over the silken skin; has a hand in his hair and his
nose buried in Dean's pubes before he even knows what he is doing. A hesitant
voice asks for no, don't, it's nasty, but he insists that it's amazing, please,
and Dean can never say no to a please that ends with a mouth on his dick, can
he? He's easy to toss around, his horny, hedonistic big brother, and Sam's
cheeks light up anew under the quick thought that he's the one using Dean more
than the other way around, really.
Sam feels that new wave of sweat, smells it, tastes it, crimson of his face
darkening because Dean is cussing a few small things about how much of a dirty
boy Sam is; and won't you look at that, Sammy, look at you rubbing my dick all
over your pretty face. These kinds of words make his asshole throb and that
could be nice in a scenario where he's not torn open enough to make the wind
whistle through it. It's just a little painful extra to this here though, and
this, he likes. Blowjobs in general, yes, the act itself and what it means to
do that to someone, how much and how little power he holds all at the same time
with someone's dick between his lips, on the tip of his tongue.
Dean's gets wet easily now that they refueled with food and liquids. (The last
few orgasms of his had mostly been dry and this cannot be that healthy, can
it?) Those thick droplets on the roof of Sam's mouth are the best reward -
testimonies that this is actually happening, that they are fucking and Dean
actually enjoys it, enjoys how Sam is taking care of him; that Sam is doing
good, that he is enough. He sucks and wrings out creamy pearl after pearl, gets
those adorable sounds and shivers thrown right next to them. Dean's mouth runs
dirty and it doesn't take too long before Sam has to pull out his own dick and
get a hand on himself.
There's stutters when he starts lowering his mouth deep enough for Dean's cock
to slip into his throat and slip into it deep. The angle is a bit troublesome
for this but Sam manages, has to, because he is no whiney chick and he wants
that dick, one way or another. Remembering that story about Anny-Lynn from
Huston - Dean was one very lucky seventeen-year-old and Anny one very
mischievous college senior - and how much Dean still enjoys to linger in those
memories (he told Sam about both things, so, yeah, pretty serious business),
Sam gives every possible effort of his throat to make said Anny-Lynn's talents
look like mere amateur's work. He knows what Dean likes, after all, snippets
from experiences and fantasies more of a prank to him back when they had been
directed at him, but Sam never forgets, and for once, that is a blessing
instead of a curse.
It pays off. Dean comes pretty and heavy and is too out of everything to react
fast enough when Sam climbs up his body. There's more come than spit in Sam's
mouth during that kiss and disgusted groan mixes with wicked laughter between
their mouths.
"You little shit," Sam is told, and he laughs some more. Dean yanks him up by
his loose jeans. It takes a good handful of seconds and a shy "c'mere" by Dean
to make his brother's intention dawn on Sam. Suddenly, he cannot straddle the
other one's face fast enough.
"Pretty," he says with the little breath he has left, considering the view. His
thumb brushes over Dean's bottom lip, that fat cushion he lets Sam's weeping
dick rest on.
Green twinkles in a glare. "Shuwt uwp," Dean mumbles. Easily, his damn talented
tongue makes up all the lack of experience. With a breathless chuckle, Sam's
eyes slip halfway shut. He has to keep them forced open though, at least a
little, because there is no way he is missing this. This tongue is trained on
clits, those insane, tiny knobs Sam doesn't know a damn thing about, and this
tongue is his now, on his dick, the first dick ever that went into this mouth
and Dean is so awkward about it because this is something he probably thought
he'd never ever do, to anyone, but here they are.
Hands on his hips hold him back from rocking too loosely and he lets Dean get
used to it at his own pace. It's alright with him, hell, even that shy suckles
and the tiniest stabs of tip of tongue into his slit are more than enough to
make him come in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
Dean doesn't have to pull him down to kiss and lick his come back inside of
himself. Still, he feels that triumphant chuckle in that chest, as if Sam has
been forced to do this, like this is his brother's comeback (literally) for
earlier. Actually, it's a bit selfish though, because like this, Sam can make
Dean hold it in his mouth longer than he would have done otherwise.
He used to think that the smell lingering on Dean was disgusting when he came
back from his dates. Now, lying on his chest, covered in all of it, Sam
realizes that what really had put him off all this time was how much he smelled
like girls and perfume and outside - and how little like home.
Outside of the truck, somewhere far away and right in front of the windshield,
the sun starts sinking. The weather and temperatures gets uglier day by day now
and Sam would shiver if it wasn't for the warmth of Dean's body.
"Earlier," Dean hums out of nowhere, "when you said you couldn't... That was so
fuckin' adorable. Damn puppy eyes 'f yours." Sam cringes under the weight of
the praise, even without the added, "Always so fuckin' adorable."
"Deeeean-"
"No, really. I mean it."
"Ugh, no. I swear I'm not usually this… this weird." This guy has the
everlasting talent to make Sam want to hide under the nearest rock.
Skilled, known fingers divide the tangled strands of his hair. It soothes him a
bit, only a bit. "Well, I like it."
"Hmpf. As if! It's not very cool." His nervous fingers find the amulet on
Dean's chest. "With other guys, I'm like… It's so... Ugh. I dunno." The
uncertain mutter eventually dies off. Sam digs the amulet's horns underneath
the short white of his nails. "This is weird. Sorry."
After some looped breathes, Dean eventually breathes, "Different with me?"
Sam's heart stumbles. Maybe this is too far. Maybe he blabbered too much, no,
definitely did. Distress starts pulling knots into his stomach. "Yeah," he
whispers.
"So, the way you're with me… That's only when you're with me?"
He shouldn't answer this. It's too much. They can't handle this. But Dean's
voice is so tiny, so hopeful. Maybe not saying anything at all would be worse
than pushing that word that is caught in his throat out there. Maybe.
Sam hesitates before he spills his "yeah".
Nobody says anything for a while. All there is is that warm, full silence that
keeps telling Sam that this was the right choice. Its pressure seems to make
Dean's chest swell underneath Sam's cheek. Still, no answer, no reaction. Maybe
he won't blush as hard if he chews on the inside of it.
"I'm. It's, uh." Dean clears his throat. "You know, usually, I. I don't, uh.
Come that fast."
After all what Sam has expected, this is the most… no, wait, actually he didn't
expect this at all. Okay, rewind. What??"I'm, uh… It's alright… I guess?"
Dean doesn't seem to hear him, all caught up in his confession-mode. Sam eyes
him with confusion. And. Maybe. A little astonishment. "With you, I- I can't
control it. Like, at all. Usually, I can; I swear. And it really bugs me,
y'know, 'cause I wanna go on and on and on and Iswear I've never had problems
with that before."
His brother turns to look at him, face a bit flushed because this obviously is
the most vulnerable he's ever made himself look like in Sam's eyes. There's
this tiny fragment of shame, as if Dean's honestly feeling bad about it.
Sam stares back at him. His head is spinning a bit.
"And with you, I can't. You, out of all people."
He puts the "you" into the space between them like it's something holy,
something special. But it's Sam he means by it, isn't he?
"That's what you do to me," Dean says, "Fuckin' with my head. Turnin' me inside
out."
Something inside of Sam's head tells him that he shouldn't listen to this, that
it will get taken away, that the loss of this could break him - and something
else pleads him to finally listen.
Dean's mouth and eyes pull into something Sam barely recognizes. He's seen it
when Dean had unwrapped the necklace, just a tiny boy (a hero for Sam, even
back then) struck by happiness and so innocent and loving that Sam would pull
every plug in the entire universe just to make it possible for his brother to
return to this state.
"So, yeah," Dean chokes, his voice a little wet, and Sam doesn't need to wonder
why, "Think we're square."
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Hey Dad."
The spot on the sofa the farthest away from the kitchen table is barely good
enough. Sam pulls his knees closer towards himself and tells himself that his
"I'm reading, honestly" pose is convincing enough.
Dean is facing the fridge, one of Sam's beers in his hand, halfway empty by
now. Still, the faintest hint of nervousness is obvious. "How's it goin'? Any
news?"
Sam cannot hear their father's voice from over here, thank God. He can tell
what Dean is being told though in the way his brother shuffles in his chair or
what his hands or face or shoulders do (or not do).
His brother nods while he listens. "Okay. Uh-huh. … … Alright. … … … Well, if
they say so. And what- … … Okay, Dad. … … Yessir. … … ... … … He's alright."
Their eyes meet before Sam has a chance to stare back down into his book.
There's a silent question and Sam immediately shakes his head at it.
Dean's eyes roll. "… Nah, Dad, he's really tired. Maybe next time. … Yeah. I'll
tell him." A swig of beer. "'S Bobby anywhere close by? … Thanks. … … … Yeah.
You too. I'll call again tomorrow." Instead of hanging up, Dean's entire body
language makes a one-eighty turn. His smile damn near explodes. "Heya, Bobby!"
Nothing holds Sam in his sacred spot anymore. They haven't been to Sioux Falls
since February.
Seated right next to Dean, the familiar whiskey-gruff reaches Sam's ears well
enough to make his chest swell. "Hey, kid. Takin' good care of that rental I
gave you?"
"'Course," Dean smiles, "You holdin' up alright?"
"Ah, same old, same old. Your dad's drivin' me freakin' nuts. If you get 'im
back with a few new scratches, remember my words when I tell you now that it
wasn't me. Scouts' honour."
"Why? What's he doin'?"
"You know 'im." Sam can practically see Bobby now, that particular expression
he seems to have for Sam and Dean only; that mixture of pain and affection and
apology. "It's 'Dean' here, 'Sam' there, 'I hope they are alright', 'Oh God I
left them again, Bobby, what do I do', blah blah blah. You know, if he had the
money, you two'd be babysitted 'till you're forty."
Both of them melt a bit at that. Dean of course because this is his quarterly
dose of second hand fatherly love - Sam because stories like this always hit
him hard and sudden right into the guilt-pouch in his stomach. He steadies
himself again quickly though because against what Sam witnesses every day,
these far away fairytales of this strangely familiar and yet completely foreign
"John Winchester" don't stand a chance; not quantity-wise. One drop of clear
water into a miles deep puddle of mud doesn't make it any more drinkable.
"Hey Bobby," Sam eventually says, leaning over to speak into the cell's
receiver.
"Sam!" Bobby's voice is lowered. He knows better than to ask if Sam wasn't
supposed to be sleeping. "Good to hear you, kid. How're you doin'? How's
school?"
"I'm good, thanks. First day tomorrow, actually."
"Do an old man a favor 'n kick everyone's asses, alright?"
"I'll do my best," Sam smiles.
"Sure you'll do. Hey, how about you two stay here for a few days once this
madness is done with, huh? Haven't seen you little monkeys in ages."
Chances for this to happen are at about zero and all three of them know that.
Still, when Bobby says it, it feels real, doable, at least for a few moments -
so Dean huffs an affectionate laugh into his beer and Sam smiles along with it.
"We'd love to," Dean says for the both of them.
"I'll try wriggle that stick up your old man's ass loose and see what I can do.
T'was good to hear you, boys. Stay safe for me, alright?"
"Sure that."
"Alright." Bobby sounds tired, old. He's barely fifty yet. Sam often thinks
about how he's still in the right age for them to pass as his kids. "Imma get
some shut eye now. Talk to you soon."
"Bye, Bobby."
"Bye."
"'M sorry."
"It's okay."
"But I-"
"I said it's okay, Sam." Dean brushes his fingers through Sam's hair and lies
back down. "'N stop givin' me those puppy eyes. Stop it right there!"
But Sam can't help it. He feels miserable. "It's never been like this," he
mutters, head and body overheated, throbbing, because apparently all his body
is able to do is to fucking throb now, "I dunno what's going on. I'm not
usually this…" This weak, this feeble, this bitchy. "… this, uh, sensitive."
Dean's arm pulls him closer and he greedily gulps down each new square inch of
body contact. "I take that as a compliment," Dean smiles. Yeah, maybe right
along with that boner Sam has been digging into his brother's hip for a good
ten minutes.
"I really want to," he says, and this is not a confession because Dean must
know already.
"No, Sam. Not like this," Dean retorts.
Nobody would say no to Dean, nobody would have the nerves - because Dean would
shrug his shoulders and go for the next one in line. Depending on Sam's level
of frustration and vulnerability, said line goes from "everyone in a five mile
radius" to "two times around the block".
"We'll get you something tomorrow."
But that'stomorrowand this here isnow, Sam thinks. His hand slips down Dean's
stomach and into his shorts. When he finds his dick all ready to go, Sam feels
like crying.
Dean groans at the touch and pulls Sam's hand away. "Hey. No. Come on."
"At least let me-"
"No."
He's done it. He's pissed him off. As soon as Sam is fast asleep, Dean will
pull on his jeans and find some place someone will let him have them properly,
like he deserves.
"Fuck," Dean cusses, and yeah, Sam can relate, "I knew I'd… Fuck."
From beneath his lashes, Sam stares into Dean's nape of the neck. "You'd what?"
"Fuck it up," Dean grits.
Sam frowns. He is confused. Why is Dean the one stressing over this? He hasn't
done anything wrong.
"I'm the worst."
Woah, that's it. Intermission time. "Yeah you are, but... not particularly in
this case." A good job is something else, but maybe it at least makes Dean
laugh, takes away a little tension.
"No," okay, fuck, "I mean, I- I thought I could handle it. But we get it
started and I just- I'm sorry."
In a silent question, Sam props himself up on his elbow. He finds his brother
hidden beneath his own hand, something that usually is Sam's repertoire.
Dean doesn't protest when Sam straddles him then, shushes the hints of a
warning grunt, the little breathless whimpers when their erections align in the
trapped heat between their stomachs.
"You're just so- I never thought you'd be like… well, like this."
Sam takes the opportunity of that hand's retreat to kiss that mouth. Against
what Dean was preaching just a few seconds ago, it opens right up, almost
threats to swallow Sam whole. And Sam would let it.
When they part, Dean is looking at Sam just as crossed-eyed as the other way
around. In the darkness, Sam mistakes a bead of sweat with something entirely
different. "You keep doing all these little things… 'n I bet you don't even
know you do half of 'em."
He doesn't. He actually, profoundly doesn't. His cheeks heat with the thrill of
badwrongforbidden. "For example?" Sam barely finds enough breath to make the
words happen.
Before Dean rolls his hips back up into his movements, Sam hasn't even noticed
that he started humping them. "For example lookin' at me with those eyes."
Sam bets Dean does that all the time, talks with girls about their eyes and
their smile while he fucks them, makes them crash and burn on top of him. The
fact that it's directed at him now, that he is precious like them (or at least
precious enough to get the eye-talk) makes his head feel dizzy. "But I've
always had those," he contemplates against Dean's cheek.
"Exactly." It sounds like something bad, the way Dean bellows the word against
Sam's chin. Even without the drift of calloused palms down the back of his
shorts, Sam would have shivered at it. "'N you say my name, like you- 'S like a
whine, 'n it's the same no matter if you're embarrassed over how I flirt with
that secretary lady or how I get my dick inside you."
Sam could die from words like this, he realizes. Dean never talks this much,
especially not about these kind of things. His tongue obviously got shaken
loose, but Sam is not so sure anymore that he should be happy about that.
They rut and rub against each other like they have to stay quiet again, voices
turned down low and hands shaking devices on each other's skin. Irregular
breathing makes kissing difficult. Eventually and almost right into Sam's ear,
Dean groans, "It's like a porn flick, with like, all the best ofs."
Sam's heart takes a leap, forcing him to gasp. "I'm in your best ofs?"
"Fuck yeah you are."
So that's how it feels like for the ugly chess club girl to finally get noticed
by the football captain, huh? Oh God. Sam's body is about to explode from at
least two ends and it feels like it wants to tear another opening somewhere
between his ribs.
"Remember Jamie?"
That name feels foreign, sour spoken against his mouth, but Dean's lips know
how to push and prod to make it go down Sam's throat. Sam doesn't have to nod
his yes.
Dean holds him as if Sam was about to run from him, as if Dean would have to
put any pressure on Sam to remain in exactly this perfect, wonderful spot. All
Sam can and wants to do is press their chests closer together, dig his fingers
deeper into the meat of Dean's neck.
"Wanna know why I did it? Why I told her to take you home?"
Nothing but a dirty whisper. Could be one of Dean's date stories, about an
extra-naughty girl who did something to Dean Sam hasn't even heard of before
Dean tells him about it. But this is about Sam. Sam is part of that memory.
It's something they share. With all the things that happened since that night,
that party, that girl, it feels like a lifetime ago.
"'Cause I wanted to watch you fuck."
Something in Sam sets off. It could be in the way Dean almost hisses the words
like they are poison, like he's confessing something terrible, a sin; and how
hypocritical does that sound in between the two of them?
"I thought that if I'd get to see you like that… to only see you… that it'll be
enough. That it'd finally shut me up. All of that- all of the things I-"
As Dean's voice dies off, Sam closes his eyes. It's too much. It's all too
much. Even with the veil of darkness around them, he cannot stand what is left
of Dean's face for him to see. All there is is pain, hurt; so much it makes it
hard to breathe. Sam wishes he could take all of this away from Dean and
replace it with unimportant, worthwhile-y flirts in bars and diners and gas
stations.
But he can't. It's him who put all of that there in the first place.
Against all of those freckles, he pecks a kiss, two. He wonders if Dean can
feel his blood rush through his swollen lips. A million questions lie on his
tongue. The tightness in Dean's chest, so close and right underneath his hands
- it won't let him spit them out.
They continue grinding into each other until they end up coming in their
underwear. Too tired to change or do anything else than to sleep, really, they
give in to exhaustion.
Sam drifts off trying to remember the first time he woke up to his brother
watching him sleep.
The bathroom tiles are especially cold this early in the morning. All that gets
Sam out of bed is the promise of a new classroom, a new chance.
Dean trots next to him not much later. Even when looking like crap, he looks
downright edible. Toothpaste finds a new short-time place on Dean's toothbrush.
Encouraged by the soft warmth from where their shoulders touch, Sam looks for
Dean's eyes in the mirror. They're casted downwards, though. "About yesterday,"
he mutters under a smile, "What you said... I keep wond'rin' 'an I-"
"Forget about it."
It's like stumbling, except that Sam doesn't move. A frown places itself over
the shyness of dimples. "I just wanted-"
"Sam, I said: forget about it."
The Dean in the mirror is all stone and old scars and cold, dark nights; far
away.
Sam's gaze drops into the cracks of the sink. They brush their teeth in
silence.
He won't ask again.
"You like it when it hurts."
It's not a question, Sam is sure. On the other hand, he could be presented with
any statement right now and he'd simply take it as a fact because his brain is
not in the place to do any more work than that.
Dean stares up at him through Sam's mess of brown, shaggy locks and
outstretched arms. Sam shakes from both the stretch in his thighs and,
surprisingly, the thrill of being caught. If he wasn't too out of it, that
tongue on his brother's lip catching that bead of sweat would be his.
"Fuck. You do, don't you?"
He's pulled down on the last few inches and whines at the sloppy sound their
colliding skin makes in Dean's lap. Dean had gotten him some kind of ointment
yesterday, and today everything kind of happened by itself once Sam had
complained about how embarrassing it was to apply it in between classes.
Obviously, they haven't learned from earlier mistakes, considering that this is
round two since they made it out of the truck. But they do have the ointment
now, don't they?
The drag of every hard vein and ridge finally scratches that phantom itch
inside of Sam, finally again, and there's no shame in his hasty habit of
fucking himself down on Dean's dick over and over. He's close to orgasm number
two, hands free, and it's a shaky ride with clothes still clinging to his skin,
both of their skins, because they couldn't get on and inside of each other
quick enough. Jeans gone, shirts and half of their jackets still on is as much
as they could be bothered in their urgency.
Dean looks up at him in complete amazement, like he has never seen Sam like
this, frowns a little in concentration while giving Sam's hips a hell of a
momentum to ram themselves back down on him. "You like that, huh? You like
that, baby boy?"
"Yes!" He almost sobs it. Dean rewards him with powerful thrusts upwards every
time Sam drops down. The sounds are so obscene that Sam surely would come from
them alone if the buzzing in his ears wasn't that loud.
"Like riding my dick? Bein' stuffed full of it? Leakin' my come all over the
goddamn couch?"
The poor drywall didn't do nothing wrong but unfortunately still gets caught
under the drag of Sam's fingernails. "Dean!"
"Yeah, bet you do."
Sam's eyes slam shut. Yeah; yeah, he can feel it, can sense every little bit of
it. The sting of sore tissue, impact-red skin, the deep hollowness Dean's dick
leaves inside of him with every withdrawal; the sweet, numbing crash of it
banging back in place, not caring that there's insides in its way and insides
have walls and they are there for a reason. He's shaped anew, making space for
that intrusion, no matter how hard said space is claimed. And he loves it, oh,
he loves it.
"Gonna come, baby? Gonna come for me?"
Sam forgets to nod, just sobs incoherent nothings more or less in time with
Dean's jackhammering rhythm. Barely moving himself, he's still shaken more than
before, than ever, as if every collision rattles his entire skeleton, makes his
teeth clatter and vertebras shove into each other.
Finally crossing that edge makes him wish to be able to jump out of his skin.
Dean rams up into his quivering belly, once, twice, before slowing down. By the
time he stops, Sam is on the edge of tears, barely aware of the drool dripping
from his chin.
The world tips over somehow, and Sam wants to ask what is going on, but his
mouth won't listen to what his brain wants it to do. He's holding on to Dean's
sweat-drenched shirt for dear life, rock-hard dick still trapped inside of him.
Once there's a wall in his back, supporting the little weight he has to offer
just right, Dean's hips start pistoning again. Sam's throat comes back to life
with a cry.
"I-it's too soon," he sobs, "s-slow down!"
Dean's answer consists of a kiss wild enough to suck every last breath and
fighting spirit right out of Sam's head.
Thirty seconds, and he thinks he is gonna pass out. One minute, and he is
positive he'll piss all over himself. One and a half, and all he feels is this
scorching hot ball of energy somewhere in his middle. And it sings. It fucking
damn sings.
Dean's climax makes the steadiness of his rhythm stutter until it shrinks to
one mere hint of a movement. It's not like Sam would notice a lot of this, or
any detail of it. He slides down the wall, securely settled in Dean's lap until
Dean's knees hit the ground. The first thing Sam hears again is Dean's shaky
sigh, the hungry slurp of their kiss. Then, his own whimpers.
"Please tell me I di'n't break you ," Dean's voice pants.
Sam wriggles his toes… at least tries to. "Amazin'," he slurs.
"Hm?"
"Amazin'," he repeats, hopefully a bit more audible, while Dean peels them off
of each other. His brother carefully puts him on the floor and Sam searches for
a way to pull Dean next to him. The silent wish is heard and taken care of.
On his side, Dean's hands lazily roaming over his body help return feeling into
it. Sam licks kisses into Dean's mouth and shivers from the warm wave of come
seeping out of his hole that just won't close, no matter how hard he tries.
He's too relaxed, fucked out. Maybe Dean did break him.
"Good?" the bastard asks all sheepishly in the cradle of Sam's trembling hands.
Maybe if Dean would have had his regular of extra onions on his burger on that
one certain occasion, they wouldn't be here today, a strangely clear voice in
the empty void of his mind whispers.
Sam makes a face and groans his, "Go to Hell."
"When d'you know it?"
Sam raises his eyebrow. "What? That I was adopted? Eighty-fuckin'-seven."
"Very funny." Dean finishes off drying the dishes with an exaggerated toss of
the dishcloth across the counter. The couch didn't become any more attractive
with the stains their body fluids left on it, but Dean doesn't seem to care too
much once they decided to throw a blanket over it. "No, I mean. That you like
it up the ass."
"You did not just say that."
"What? I'm curious." Completely ignoring how Sam is currently doing his
homework, Dean flicks on the TV.
"The word you mean is 'impudent'."
"Come on. No need to be shy, Sammy."
Yeah, that's probably true. Still, Sam's cheeks heat up, half through anger and
half through, well, shyness. Sue him.
Thing is: it's surprisingly easy to get back to his studies without any further
disturbance from Dean who seems to be completely drawn into that episode of
Sunset Beach. Thing is: Sam is no fool. Unfortunately, Dean isn't either. This
is set up, and they both know it, just like they know that Sam cannot sit this
out forever - in contrary to Dean.
Sunset Beach becomes Friends and halfway through the intro, Sam gives up.
"Eleven," he mutters into his algebra.
"Sorry?"
"I said I was eleven," he repeats, voice annoyed and a little thinner than
planned. Hopefully the daggers he glares over to his brother land where it
counts.
Dean blinks at him for a moment, the television's lights drawing colorful
shadows on his face. The surprise in it make Sam's gaze shy back into his
papers.
"You 'n dad left me with this... super Christian baby sitter."
"Hillary," Dean nods.
… Okay. "Anyway. She was like, extra religious with body hygiene. So I thought
'okay, bitch, whatever, fuck you, I'll so not do what you want me to do in that
bathtub', and, yeah."
Dean tucks him under his armpit. Sam wished it weren't this comfortable.
"That's my boy," he is praised, that warm hand spanning over his breastbone.
"Kinda went from there," Sam ruminates, fingers carelessly brushing over those
rough knuckles.
"Your first time," Dean breathes, "when was it?"
He looks up into those eyes, green and wet and reflecting the image of a too
young kid in this arm. The question, as vague as it is, is clear to him.
Unfortunately for Dean, its weight as well. Sam turns away again as his mind
won't stop racing.
"Was it good?"
Sam bites the inside of his cheek, smells fresh cotton somewhere in the back of
his head. Eventually, he mumbles his "yeah".
A kiss is pressed into his hair. "That's all that counts."
"Wyoming," Dean says out of nowhere.
Sam blinks, once, twice.
Dean holds their gaze locked. His expression is blank, not telling a single
thing. Maybe it does, but Sam is too fazed to make a sense out of it. "Wyoming.
Two years ago, right?"
If his lungs weren't reduced to the size of peas, Sam would reply to this. Only
if.
"I was just thinkin'. Used to watch that damn soap there every damn day. Man."
Sprawled on the bed, Sam is tucked neatly in his brother's armpit. Dean's belly
bulges under his hand thanks to the earlier, generous filling of pea soup,
sausages and bread. "Those were the times."
Sam's memory keeps playing those scenes over and over and over, the first soft
gaze across the room, the warm hand grabbing his own, the wet mouth luring him
in and then making a mess of Sam's entire body and mind and being. He swallows.
"Best summer job ever." Tiredness pulls Dean's smile wider. "Boss fuckin'
spoiled me. I lived like a king for, like, a year from those pay checks."
Sam remembers candy, burgers, very little of Dean and a lot of perfume. Even if
Sam would have wanted to talk about what had happened during that summer day,
Dean wouldn't have been there to listen. There had been a lot of Curbain and
many nights where his thoughts had taken Sam back into that sun-filled bedroom
from a few days (an eternity) ago where it hadn't been as sad, as lonely.
"Always asked if everything was alright at our place 'n stuff. Guy had this
little Mother Theresa thing goin' on with us 'troubled teens', I guess." Dean's
lips brush the crown of Sam's hair. Nostalgia hangs heavy in his breath.
"Almost threw a fit the first time he saw you, 'member? Told you to raid the
fridge 'cause he thought you were bein' starved."
In the secrecy of Sam's skull, that voice tells him to look, look how pretty
your little stomach is, baby. The hand he had shaken so innocently in front of
Dean, had handed money and encouraging shoulder-pats to his brother, looked so
alien in comparison to when it pressed down on where Sam's skin stretched taut
over the cock inside of him.
"Too good for this world, our good ol' Dan, huh."
Again, Sam swallows, Curbain and candy and sunlight and motor oil scent and Dan
and Dean and sweat and sizzling-hot summer noons in his mouth, his gums, his
tongue.
He nuzzles that little dip in between shoulder joint and pecs before he hums
his, "Yeah."
Chapter End Notes
     There's an_audio for the sex scene. (Yes. I know. I am rotten like
     that.)
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: If you're super easily squicked out by not scat-less rimming
     (only lightly described - but I figure it's a big deal for some
     people and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable), then I am very
     sorry but maybe you should skip the last scene.
One week slips by like nothing. Every day is more or less the same - getting
up, morning run, coffee, school, homework, workout, bed - but for the irregular
yet absolutely not ebbing intervals of, well, not too brotherly activities.
Dean finds himself a job at a local carpenter halfway through Thursday. The
paycheck is exchanged for a new six pack and they do not get any further than
one and a half cans each before ripping each other's clothes off. Slightly
drunk sex is incredible, Sam learns.
The school is great. His classmates are okay - not too nosy, not too bratty;
definitely not as judgmental as he had feared they'd be. (Turns out he's not
the only kid pinching cafeteria money to feed their allowances.) They seem to
respect him. Kind of. Maybe the mysterious, handsome but slightly murderous
looking guy dropping him off and then picking him up again in that beat-down
serial killer truck each and every day has almost nothing to do with it.
Sam wonders what they look like to people who see them together. Dean never
gives out those embarrassing goodbye smooches, after all. Not that Sam craves
those. Not that he wants everybody to know that "yeah, this one's mine". It's
just something easily holding on to his early morning hazed brain, that's all.
He goes to sleep, surrounded by Dean. He wakes up in the middle of the night,
surrounded by Dean. He watches the first rays of sunlight climb into their
bedroom window, surrounded by Dean, and breathes, swallows, absorbs him. Even
in silent moments, it's too loud to think, the unity two of them filling out
every gap in between the ridges of Sam.
By now, he has quite given up on defining what they are, how it came to be like
this. They're happy now, right? Dean is happy, as far as Sam can tell. He is so
relaxed, laughs a lot, talks with his voice all low and rumbling, his skin
somehow always touching Sam's in one place or another.
And naturally, that makes Sam happy as well.
Yeah, this is scary somehow. Fragile. So new. But the big parts about them
haven't changed and that makes everything okay. They're still there for each
other, day and night, and Dean makes fun of Sam for whining about homework but
then again putting in extra hours to earn those extra credits, and Sam makes
fun of Dean for the splinters from work poking his junk even through his jeans.
They spar like before, yell and punch each other like before. All scarywowwhat
is simply added to the already existent stuff. They're still brothers, Sam
tells himself, and lets Dean bite the knee which is neatly folded onto Sam's
chest.
They grabbed coffee and donuts and drove a few miles past the house. There's
nothing much in sight but dirt and pine needles and light brown bits of
woodchips in Dean's hair. Sam knows this game, knows where this is going.
Two minutes after pulling the Impala to a halt, the donuts are polished off.
The coffee is bitter in contrast but caffeine and sugar is a too tempting
match. Sam's head is buzzing already. He isn't stupid enough to wipe the glaze
off his face. His brother has an intensely sweet tooth after all.
Sam slips off the hood and starts walking. They did this before. He tries to
move slow, smooth, oblivious like the first time three days ago. As if he
totally doesn't notice that tension in his brother that threatens Sam with
being jumped any second now. Sam shoves his hands into the pockets of his
jacket and licks at his heavy lips.
The forest doesn't exactly get thicker with the steps but nobody's around here
anyway. It takes five shuffles of too long legs for Sam to register that Dean
has stopped following him.
He turns around, confused, mouth growing itchy under the glaze.
Dean's hands found his leather jacket's pockets as well.
"How are we gonna do it?" Sam hears.
It's not sexual. There is no wickedness in those eyes, no danger. Not the kind
of danger giving him a boner, at least.
There is no need to make Sam understand, and yet there's more words. "When he's
back, I mean."
The caffeine rush leaves Sam's fingertips freezing. His throat feels raw from
sweetness.
Apology on his lips - and Sam knows this one by heart; you know it wouldn't
last, Sammy, I'm sorry - Dean looks tragic and lonely and Sam wants to punch
this face into indecipherability. "C'mon, help me out here, man. You're the one
with the brains."
"What do you want me to say?"
"How you want it to be." It's a demand wrapped in candy wrappers of silence and
unusually un-pouty lips. "With us," he adds, quietly, as if the trees will hear
and judge them. Pathetic.
Shame bleeds from brother to brother even over the distance of a few feet.
Sam's cheeks redden from it and he hates that they do. Before he knows, he has
chewed the glaze from his lips.
He doesn't have an answer to this. None, at least, that he thinks has any
chance. Hiding, hiding, holding your breath, hiding, running. There's only so
many options for surviving around John Winchester.
"Look..." A sigh. "I dun wanna talk about this any more than you do. Hate that
I have to, t'be honest."
Sam wants to snap a "boohoo, princess" but decides for silence instead. This
here is another chore of Dean's, another "watch out for Sammy" job. Sam would
throw a fit right here and now if he didn't knew exactly that it's his own
elusive behavior that forces Dean into taking care of the issue.
There's a tree Dean chooses to lean against, good enough for the support he
seems to need. A hand darts out from leather and roams over nine o'clock
shadowed jaw, mouth, chin.
"We'll be more careful," Sam offers eventually. Seeing Dean all uncomfortable
and worried never fails to in the end make both his will and knees weak.
"Obviously," Dean grunts. Ungrateful skank.
A few steps into his brother's direction let Sam feel the sudden weight of his
body. He hadn't been aware of it at all lately.
"This sucks."
Sam tries not to meticulously list down all the various ways of how this indeed
does suck - but it's hard with the words buzzing through his mind like
livewires. Danger. Getting caught. Shame. Secret. Wrong.
Touch-less hours (days). Sex-less days (weeks).
Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
How long is his brother going to put up with this situation before hauling ass
to the nearest all-too available girl?
Under the lack of eye contact, Dean names several opportunities they could take
here and there. There has been a lot of time invested into these thoughts,
judged the straight-forwardness Dean pulls them from his throat (like you would
rip off a band aid). All options include either John's complete absence or more
or less reasonable reasons for them to sneak out. Dean is honest enough that he
will not be able to lie to John's face. Everything else is banned. It makes
sense but it hurts nevertheless.
What if John knew? Sam wants to ask. What would it change anyway? Would he even
care? It'd probably up his alcohol intake and lower the chance for affectionate
father-son moments another digit towards that neon-spelled "zero". Not too bad
of a deal.
"He ain't stupid," Dean finishes with his eyes now searching for Sam's, and he
can see that in the corner of his field of vision, "an' we won't risk shit.
It's better he doesn't know anything. Like, at all."
Sam's insides cringe at the disgust Dean spits the words from his mouth with.
Eventually, he looks up into that face and instantly regrets it. Dean doesn't
look any better than Sam feels right now. "What does it matter anyway?" he
tries. We're still us. We still have each other. Doesn't that matter, too?
The echo of the deserted forest makes Dean's bark of a laughter even more
cruel. "Are you serious?"
Yeah, Sam is, he fucking is, and he blinks away from his brother and onto the
tips of his sneakers that are halfway hidden underneath foliage. He cannot even
see Dean's boots from this angle, this distance.
He swallows away tears, heartbeat, air. Everything.
"Sam."
He won't look up because he is already far gone, in a place where he can wait
eternally, where nothing can touch him, where nothing can be taken away from
him. Not ultimately.
Sam closes his eyes.
"If I were in his place," and Dean's voice is thick enough to make Sam's throat
hurt in sympathy, "I'd shoot me."
 
They went at it in the forest nevertheless. It's still a miracle to Sam how
Dean could pull both of them out of that fucked-up atmosphere, how he could
wipe away all anger and replace it with a soft smile and press their mouths
together as if no bad words or terrible predictions came out of them just
minutes before.
It should scare Sam that he's so easy to break in, to give in. He's heard it
all too often and he'll hear it a million more times - he's too soft. But fuck,
sue him, he can't help it, okay? Especially now that this boat is sinking, now
that the truth is out and ugly and hovering over them. He'll get what he can.
There is only so much luxury in pitying yourself when you're about to drown.
And this is Dean. He's always been like this for Dean, even when they were
kids. Dean barely had to throw him this one look, "Sammy" like a scream on his
entire face, and Sam would budge to whatever he would be asked to do. Since
Dean never allowed himself to exploit his little brother, this barely ever
happened. Only in emergencies, sometimes girls, sometimes lies, sometimes a
pile of dishes against a casted arm, Dean would reach out for him. Only when he
had no other option left.
So when Dean said "need you" and vowed it with his entire body, the urgency
stiff in his muscles, how could Sam have told him no?
That's how it works. How they work. How they survive.
His brother's eyes are fixed on the oil-slick metal in his fingers, face tense
in concentration but for the loose "o" of his mouth. His tongue flicks out here
and there, candy pink in the sparse kitchen light. Sam watches him from across
the room. It's around midnight and either of them should still be up - but Sam
has those crazy chapters of his history book plus three blank pages to fill
about them, and Dean seems to have one of those insomniac nights he sometimes
has. The longer John's "single Winchester" hunts stretch, the more often they
occur.
If Sam wasn't here, Dean surely would be sitting somewhere else, a beer or
something stronger in his palm, someone warm and soft next to him, in his
hands, in his lap. Sam had watched him leave for those occasions often enough.
He wonders if Dean misses those times already. Sure, he enjoys taking care of
the guns, especially his own favorite or the one John bought for Sam (Dean says
it's a good one which Sam should take better care of). It's his meditation as
much as taking the Impala for a ride or the thrill of danger right before
starting the hot phase of a hunt is. Or, well, fucking.
Movements are learned by heart, the bazillionth rerun of a movie. Swipe, rub,
twist; a flick of the fabric. If this is Dean's mediation, it's Sam's hypnosis.
"I always thought you were pretty doing that."
Dean's eyes swim for a moment before darting over to him.
It slipped out without his consent and Sam feels his stomach drop. But Dean's
face doesn't light up, his mouth is not pulling into a grin, a laugh, a
ridicule of Sam's words. It's simply blank, caught off-guard, pulled from the
bliss of a thoughtless task. Dean must be tired as hell.
"I bet you hear that often," Sam mutters into his papers, trying to deflate the
situation, the sudden attention, "The 'pretty' part, I mean."
It could be confusion ghosting over Dean's face. Maybe Sam is stuttering or
something and doesn't notice and Dean has trouble putting together what he just
said. There was no context to begin with. "Not really," his brother eventually
says, slow and almost shy in its quietness.
"But you are," Sam snaps. For some reason, he cannot stop talking, despite the
dangerous heating of his neck, that scratch in his throat.
His brother is twenty years old but he can look like everything in between six
and forty, all depending on the situation he's in. Right now, Sam would guess
it's twelve, thirteen, with that (familiar) confusion about someone giving you
a compliment you did not expect or deserve.
Then, Dean's entire face melts, breaks, all tiredness taking over, a lazy smile
pulling on the corners of his mouth. Softest dips in his cheeks where Sam grows
valleys, lashes dropping to cover the wet green-whites underneath the lids, and
Sam could suffocate in the love exploding inside of his chest at this moment.
"You really oughta be in bed, kiddo," Dean rasps.
His silent smile hovers over Sam's gun in his fingers for another ten minutes.
 
November is rainy and ugly. Sam jogs through crowded streets, four pounds worth
of newspaper articles and police reports clutched to his chest under soaked
jacket and (hopefully still mostly) dry flannel. John and Dean await him in a
run-down coffee shop with the same amount of what Sam delivers already
plastered over their entire table.
He's greeted with silence and an outstretched hand from John and a coffee-warm
"hey" from Dean. Before peeling his jacket from himself, he slips the papers
from underneath it and hands them over. John scolds him for dripping all over
the place, so Sam combs his hair back with his fingers, releasing an annoyed
sigh that is completely ignored from over the booth.
Naturally, Dean is right beside John, focus entirely on the information in
front of them, helping out with arranging the facts. Naturally, as soon as Sam
finds his place opposite of them on the other side of the table, Dean's foot
bumps forward and against his own. It's just a small gesture, barely worth
being called a "touch", but it's what's possible in this scenario. Sam is not
too sour about it anymore - beggars can't be choosers. They could squeeze in
half an hour of privacy two days ago and Dean made it worthwhile (like he
always does). It's a good week.
Dean raises his head and for a moment Sam thinks he's the one being addressed,
but then the seriousness morphs into sleek, bedroom-y dreaminess and Sam knows
there's a waitress behind him even before he hears the jingle of her earrings.
"Can I get you anything else?" She sounds excited and Sam doesn't blame her. If
Dean would look at him like that, he'd probably forget what "left" and "right"
means. Holdin' up good there, girl.
"A coffee for my little brother here-" An almost invisible nod towards the
shivery, soaked mess that is Sam "please kill me" Winchester. "-an' please make
it steamin', sweetheart."
"You know I will," and Sam hears that wink.
Her steps lead away but Dean's gaze lingers, along with his smile that turned a
bit naughtier with the surprised raise of eyebrow, the click of his tongue at
her words.
Sam gleams at the letters scattered in front of him and wipes his sleeve from
nose to ear and around his neck. Sinking a bit lower into his hunched over
position, he pulls another rerun of everyone's favorite "he should be allowed
to look at whoever he wants to why am I angry about this he didn't do anything
brain please stop I want to scratch her eyes out and serve them to him on a
plate what are you doing brain calm down Sam". It's the fucking top rated movie
these past weeks and Sam wouldn't mind decapitating every single critic who
keeps pushing its ranking.
A solid six years or so since Dean started his sideline as Casanova and still
Sam can barely hold back an eye roll at the cheesy lines. Even with them being
the way they are for a few months already now (it's been months already, holy
shit), Dean obviously hasn't yet handed in his notice to the female population
of the US. Maybe Sam should be pissed, offended, but after all, this is
something out of his competence.
It's how Dean is. He does that all the time. If Sam was so conflicted by it, he
should give Dean a reason for not even spending a mere thought on looking at
others. And obviously, he doesn't, and obviously, Dean is not sated in this
scenario, their scenario, their life, so Sam has no right to complain. Sam
doesn't blame him, really. Thinking back to how insatiable Dean can be, a
quicky in the woods or a measly blowjob at some gas station restroom doesn't
even begin to scratch the surface of his needs.
Sam isn't enough, and he understands. So he won't complain.
 
"You looked pretty pissed earlier."
Sam is buried this deep in political studies notes from two schools ago and
really really doesn't need this conversation right now. His bangs are long
enough now that when he blows really hard, they fly out of his face and stick
somewhere else on his head instead. "If my face bothers you, don't look at it."
Somewhere in the gas station shop, John rummages through packed sandwiches and
tries really hard to remember what his boys' favorite toppings are. Dean
halfway leans over the passenger seat and the lights from the neon signs make
him look paler than he really is. There's this mocking smile, this "little
Sammy throws a tantrum" smile, little brother smile, douchebag smile. "If this
is about that girl in the-"
"Oh shut up, asshole."
Dean whistles. "Bull's eye." Sam watches him wipe his mouth which is stupid
because it's as dry as it can get. Looks like Dean is contemplating if putting
a hand on Sam's knee or even thigh is "safe" in this situation. With the close
destination to the shop, Sam doesn't have too many illusions. "You pissed at
me?"
"I don't mind it," Sam mutters into his papers, a frown on his forehead where a
sneaky strand of hair slips back in place.
"Don't mind what?"
"Girls."
He can't see Dean's eyes from this angle but the sudden silence after this kind
of "gun firing speed" conversation says it all. Triumph swells somewhere in
Sam's chest because he got Dean unprepared with this open answer. A small,
terrible part, hidden good and deep, groans that Sam should speak up, spit
every nasty thought he denies he has. He mutes it.
When he speaks again, Dean's voice is turned lower, uneven. Sam refuses to go
into defense mode at the first flutter of anger in it. "If she gave me her
number," he starts, "would that've been okay with you?"
Sam shrugs, all play-pretend, all totally not Sammy. "Whatever."
"If I'd called her?"
"This is a free country."
No hesitation in the, "If I'd fucked her?"
There, Sam looks up, has to. Panic is kept right beneath his surface, anger
pushing hard, but he won't let that win. "You woulda wanted to?" he croaks.
"You woulda let me?"
Interrogation - and he has no chance in this. Sam grinds his teeth, pulls his
lips in between them and lets his eyes dart away, out of the window, out of
this situation.
"Talk," the command comes.
Sam winces under it. "I-I don-"
"You want this to be an 'open' thing, Sam?"
He stops, stares back at his brother, face half shadow, half neon blue.
Dean holds their gaze, all firm, all anger, no place for Sam to find an excuse
for what he just heard. "If you 'don't mind' this shit, if that's not important
to you, then what? No big deal to you, huh?"
Stay calm. Stay calm. His heartbeat works hard against that, but his mantra
keeps him awake. "Would. Would you want that?" Sam rasps.
"If I saw you with someone else, I couldn't take it."
It takes all out of him not to sigh in relieve at that imminent answer. "Well,
there you go," he croaks, soft shrug of too bony shoulders under too wide
flannel, a swipe of sweaty palm over too shiny forehead.
The bang from fist hitting console startles Sam hard enough to send a book from
his lap to the ground.
"Fuckin' STOP THAT," Dean yells, "Stop bein' this- this INDIFFERENT about this,
for FUCK'S SAKE! How can this NOT make you want to rip my head off?! I know I
DESERVE it, Sam, so-"
"I don't blame you!" His outbreak startles both of them and Sam can see his
reflection in Dean's wide eyes; just a little, desperate boy with sweat stains
shooting from his armpits despite the biting low degrees in the car. "I- I
don't blame you, I mean- You're, you're so great, and I- I am just-" He holds
the words back just before they tumble outside. There's no way he can let them
see the light of day, the proof of his failure, his disgusting self-pity, his
weakness. There's other words for Dean, prettier words, softer words, and he
puts them in between them like sad little pots of flowers, a fucking offering
to the god he calls his brother. "You deserve these girls, every single one of
them. It makes you happy, an' who am I to take that away from you?" Dignity,
what is that? "I just want you to- He's coming."
He could sob at that, the sudden panic taking over Dean, the realization that
he did not pay attention, that he let himself get carried away.
"This isn't over," Dean hurries, and Sam stares at the trembling backs of his
hands in his lap.
 
Two nights later, John agrees on a motel - two rooms, after Dean somehow
managed to convince him that John's starting a cold and should get proper rest
and that he will take care of Sammy and that John should really really rest.
And as if Dean was his little worried wife, John eventually breaks with a weak
nod, a shy, apologetic smile, "maybe you're right", his smile a louder "thanks"
than anything else.
Sam is almost deaf with the pulsing of blood in his ears. With his back to the
paper thin wall, he couldn't be any more helpless. Except that Dean is towering
over him, in front of him, consuming; a wild animal in every sense of the
meaning.
He has his head turned to the side so Dean's mouth dances blindly over the
tendons of his neck. "You want me to what?" he hums there, right into Sam's
flesh, and Sam knows both of them are hard to the point where it hurts. "In the
car," he reminds, "What did you want to say?"
"Want you to be happy," Sam recites. His voice, body, everything is strained.
Dean does that to him, everything connected to Dean, every thought or wish or
fear, everything.
Dean makes a strange sound, somewhere between growl and whine and moan, and
there's no air left in Sam when they crash into a kiss because Dean presses
their bodies together tight enough to remind Sam of that broken rib from a year
ago.
"How can you say that?" They're grinding against each other before they know,
Sam's arms like vices around that back. "You're the worst little- Fuck- Sammy-"
Hands force themselves between them, unbuckling Sam's belt, and Sam mirrors
that on the one in front of him, hiccupping at the scorching heat that meets
his hands down there. With thin walls and spring box mattress, there's only so
many options left, so he starts dropping down to his knees - before Dean can
catch him under his arms, pulls him back up.
Before Sam can protest, he stands straight and Dean is the one kneeling on the
floor. He has just enough willpower to slap both of his hands over his mouth
before Dean swallows his cock down right to the base.
His knees give in a little but he forces to stay upright. Dean's hands pin his
hips to the wall behind him and that's what he sees when he looks down; his own
skin stretching under those pale fingers and Dean's head bobbing back and
forth, forehead covered in sweat already and eyes screwed shut under a frown
that could mean anything.
They worked on Dean's performance, they really did, but this is a drastic jump
forward. Usually, Dean hates gagging and always puts the blame on Sam's
"monster dick" (which is ridiculous, because yeah, it did grow remarkably this
year but it's nowhere near "monster" in Sam's definition) which he then refuses
to take all the way down and instead swirls his tongue until Sam forgets his
own date of birth. Which is absolutely fine, Sam thinks.
But this? This is dedication.
"Gonna come-" It's half warning, half whine, a hasty whisper in the screaming
silence of the room. Dean immediately reacts, pulls off of Sam's angry-red cock
with a wet gurgling sound and Sam thinks he said it too late, that it's gonna
happen, but he's yanked down and pulled and twisted so harshly that all he can
do is barely suppress a startled yelp. The moment his ass is up in the air he
arches his back like a cheap porn starlet, a damn animal in heat; it's all he
can do in this position, really.
From where this erupted from, he expects everything; a spanking, a raw or spit-
fueled fuck, it doesn't really matter. What he absolutely does not expect is
Dean's mouth kiss-sealing his asshole.
Sam yaps before he can crush his mouth into the rough carpet, tries to wriggle
from that sensation, unbearable and wet and fucking lighting him on fire, but
Dean gropes him hard with both hands, pulling him apart in the middle with his
thumbs. Sam humps backwards onto that mouth, he can't help it.
Dean has never done that before. Obviously, Sam hadn't asked for it either. He
doesn't know what pussy tastes like but it definitely must taste better than
some sixteen-year-old boy's ass. His brother's groan that vibrates through his
entire body scandalizes that thought, makes Sam shake and pushes tears into his
eyes.
Dean is greedy with it like he always is with everything once he lets himself
go. His tongue pushes in without the slightest hint of hesitation or reserve
and dishes out broad, wide licks along every square inch he can reach, pumps in
and out and does things like rolling and twisting and Sam doesn't even know
what exactly is happening or how it is happening in there but he knows he has
no time to warn Dean this time.
Keening, thrashing, Sam comes right then and there, his stuttering cock
spitting long white stripes onto the already stain-covered carpet. Under the
threat of John hearing them, he knows he can't make a sound, so Sam turns his
lungs inside out to keep all the noises in his belly. There is no air but it's
okay, gets even better when Sam starts rolling his lower stomach and hips and
fucking feels his ass clamp and flutter around the slick little muscle licking
him crazy. Dean moans right into his ass and doesn't stop whatever torture he's
invented, doesn't until Sam writhes hard enough to leave an impressive enough
signal of "no more", his orgasm long gone dry, his cock still flush and hard
and veined.
Easily, he's flipped around again, pulled away from the wall a little farther,
and his leg being thrown over Dean's shoulder is just as automatic as Sam's
arms clutching around his brother's back. There's no shame from that filthy
mouth when it kisses Sam and kisses Sam deep, almost makes him want to hurl
with the taste but Dean pushes it into him until he accepts it back inside of
himself. Dean's tongue is still halfway down his throat when the crown of his
cock pushes into his ass, slow and spit-slick but demanding and fuck he's so
wet down there, like a girl, and it's Dean who did this, who made him like
this.
With their mouths close against each other, they allow themselves tiniest
sounds, mere troubled proofs of their breathings than anything else. The smell
of their breath is strange but Sam is overwhelmed by the completeness of this,
of all these tastes and it's both of them, their skins, their mouths, their
bodies.
There's no built-up in this rhythm because Dean simply never stops moving,
rolls his hips oh-so slightly and then more generous, hums and gasps into Sam's
temple, ear, hair, nape of neck. Sam knows he's being pulled inside out from
the friction, knows he clings to Dean's cock on every pull out, chokes on the
hollowness on the push back in. He imagines Dean is watching it happen like he
knows he could in this position in the secrecy of his face being shielded by
the back of his head in Sam's face. He's told him once, told him about how
pretty it was, so tight, baby, look at you; is it too big, huh?
Dean's mouth is back on his own and kisses softly, featherly, heavenly.
"Only you," he is whispered to, "This, only you. I'll do anything, just gotta
tell me, Sammy, I'll do anything. You're everything I see, all the time. They
get a second, a glimpse. You get everything of me. All of me. Everything."
They fuck until the rugburns start bleeding. Sam licks exhausted hisses from
Dean, the iron red on his tongue like a testimony of this night, the last
ingredient to the cocktail of their bond.
Between their mouths, it becomes real.
***** Chapter 16 *****
New Year's Eve is fucking freezing, that's what it is. Fuck the new millennium
- all Sam wants right now is to be inside a warm house, slurp hot soup and then
drown himself in a scorching bath. But it's Dean who is out here with him, and
it's John who is inside with Clark and Beth. And it's Dean who glows with
whiskey and the privacy of a good few yards of distance between them and the
windows. Behind the Impala, it's perfect, even if Sam's balls are slowly but
surely freezing to the ground.
By almost midnight, the bottle is almost empty. Dean's insatiable thirst let
him drown most while not being any more drunk than Sam is. Which is great,
because John will be pissed anyway but surely would be raging even more if Sam
threw up into Beth's snow crusted flowerbeds.
Dean's mouth makes the whiskey warm and smooth, kisses it into him until his
lips are tingling from it. They share little stories, the funny ones, because
tonight is a good night with one restless spirit less in this town and another
family saved. If he remembers that time in blah, the other time in blah - and
Sam does, does remember every little thing Dean digs out, because he was there
with him, because it's them, always them, the two of them.
Fireworks start exploding in the distant sky thanks to some impatient little
pricks. Temple to temple, Sam and Dean count down to the hand of Dean's
wristwatch.
Whiskey clouds in between their mouths, they laugh into the year two thousand.
Only then they bother to get to their feet and watch the colorful spectacle.
More alcohol than oxygen in their system makes them sway. Baby gives support
but they hold hands anyway.
Relaxing against the closed, crystal covered windows, there is not much more in
Sam's world but the sky full of stars and coldness and lonely fizzes and
explosions and colors and his own breath and Dean.
In this moment, and it's stupid, naïve to think like that, he knows - but Sam
has this little spark of hope that everything will work out eventually.
"I FUCKIN' HATE YOU!!"
This is the second time this week that Sam is dashing through the snow and he
is in no single way a fuckin' slide or a reindeer (even if the slenderness and
length of his legs might indicate the latter). When he comes to a halt a few
miles later in a completely different neighborhood than the one he has been
fleeing from, he has to remind himself very very thoroughly of his New Year's
resolution number one: Do not shed another tear for John Winchester.
Ten minutes pass, twenty. Dean's steps in the snow come after thirty.
"Nanny express's here, shithead." His brother obviously is annoyed. Sam cannot
blame him. "Come on, before you lose a toe o' somethin'."
Sam follows in silence. Dean looks like a walking marshmallow, wrapped in one
of those ridiculously thick army jackets. Sam eyes the tassel on top of his
brother's hat and wonders if he would survive ripping it off and running for
it. Not very mature, no, but Sam's in this destructive mood other people would
justify setting the poor neighbor's cat on fire with.
"Don't say things like that to him, Sammy."
He grunts something that is not exactly a response but exactly what he thinks
about this.
"Really, don't. He's tryin' real hard."
"Totally," Sam snorts.
Dean twists around then, eyes in a scandalized frown. Sam tries to hold on to
his anger instead of letting it slip-slide into guilt. "He's our dad!"
Yay. Congratz to us.
Now, during winter break, John actually stuck to his promise of taking Sam
along more often. As far as he can tell himself, he's doing quite an okay job.
Sure, he's not as skilled as John or as tough as Dean - but he is clever,
quick. This should be worth at least something, right? Well, John doesn't
exactly think alike with him there. (Surprise surprise.)
Every little mistake, every hint of a hesitation is nagged upon. Nothing is
good enough. Dean took him out for extra practice more than often enough these
past few months and John doesn't get how Sam still can be that unexperienced.
Well, John also doesn't get that they don't exactly practice what he expects
them to practice... out of his field of vision... all alone... in completely
deserted places. Huh.
But Sam is sure he is good. Good enough at least not to be treated like a
doormat.
He doesn't deserve this.
Gently, the sentence starts imprinting itself into the walls of his skull.
They're almost back "home". He could ask for a kiss, but maybe their lips will
stick together like warm tongue to popsicle. "Anything you want for your
birthday?" Peace offering.
Dean sighs white dust into the early January. "Fuckin' dinner without you two
bitin' your fuckin' heads off."
Sam sighs along.
No savings in his whole life could buy him the patience to make that wish work.
Small and golden, the ring creates an unfamiliar, almost alien sound being
placed on the table. So much different than a knife (or even a bullet).
Dean stares at it.
Maybe harder than Sam is.
"This was hers."
John's fingers still linger on it like it's glued to them, like it doesn't want
to be let go as much as John doesn't want to let it go. Eventually, he lets it
drop from between his fingertips, covers it with them and shoves it across the
table like a secret. Protected, precious. Sam doesn't hear Dean's breathing.
"I want you to have it," their father rasps. When Sam looks up, there's
something vaguely resembling a smile somewhere between all that beard. "Happy
birthday, Dean."
After a while that could have been an eternity, Dean moves again with an
audible swallow. His arms cross in front of his chest and suddenly everything
is very quick; the way his eyes dart all over the table but for the little
space the ring takes up. "No. Just no. No, Dad." It's panic, disbelief, and it
breaks Sam's heart to see it all over his brother. "I can't have this. It's too
valuable."
"She woulda wanted it," John hums. His voice is so warm, soft, like from a
different body, lifetime; a different world. The memories Sam has about this
side of John are so vague that until now he wasn't sure they really were about
their father.
Dean wipes a trembling hand over his face, thumbs the corners of his eyes. Sam
can do nothing but watch it all happen.
"Twenty one," John reminds with a soft chuckle that is no accusation, not even
in a hundred years, "God. Who would have... Here. Here, please have it. She
woulda wanted it."
Hesitant fingers curl over the tiny object before swallowing it completely.
Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times without spilling a sound.
When he has enough composure to keep control of his voice, all Sam hears is a
"thank you" and the rustling of clothes as Dean gets up to pull John into a
hug.
On the other side of the table, Sam learns a new definition of loneliness.
It gleams in the street lights' halos, bedside lamps, rays from between gaps of
blinds; every fucking opportunity. Sam makes a short attempt of mocking Dean
over the fact that he has girly fingers if Mary's ring fits him - but it's
futile. It leaves Dean shrugging unimpressed and maybe even a bit uplifted from
having something in common with their mother. Sam remains bare, still alone and
angry.
Dean doesn't take it off, even in the shower. He explains that it's a little
tight and a hassle to wrench on and off his finger - but Sam is not stupid.
Dean has always worn jewelry and clothes and shoes and everything that did not
fit right - because he had no other option. But he has at least two rings (or
lost one, but that still makes one) that fit very well. It even looks less
feminine. And yet, Dean decides to wear Mary's.
It's a relic, nothing more or less.
Sam feels like crawling out of his skin whenever it brushes him. A million
kisses on day three of another John-less period cannot overpower the icy burn
of the ring, not even with the heater working overtime to make up for the lack
of clothing and sheets.
It's like Mary is here with them, watching them. She wouldn't have wanted this.
No mother could have wanted this.
"Please take it off."
Dean's head tilts up from Sam's flat stomach, his right fist lying between them
displaying the gold like an accusation.
"The ring," Sam mumbles, "It's. It's weird. Please."
There's no annoyed sigh but Dean nuzzles his navel to hide his face. Sam
squirms under it. "Why d's it bother you?"
Barely a breath is needed. "It's Mom's."
Silence. Gurgles of the heater, steady and quiet twin drums of hearts. Three
letters that haven't passed their lips in ages, not in this context, and they
take up the entire room.
After a while, Dean pushes himself up Sam's body, leaves a trail of faint
kisses and keeps the ring off of Sam's skin. "It's mine now," Sam is told,
drowns in green that generously reflects the petite bedside table's light.
The amulet is pressed in the dip between his collar bones.
"Just like this is."
Another kiss. Sam's body seems to weigh a ton under Dean's bare body.
"You're always with me, right here." A hand guides his own against that chest,
presses down. Dean looks at him through heavy fans of lashes. In the dimmed
light, they paint deep shadows on his face. "She deserves the same. Don't you
think?"
"Of course." Andyoudeserve to have this, you do, you really really do. It's
just that it reminds Sam of things he usually is spared from. Of corners of his
soul he keeps untouched for a reason.
"See? That's why I'm keepin' it." Again, Sam cringes lightly under those eyes,
the lips curled in hope of harmony. He's willing to give that to Dean, to
really be happy for him to wear this treasure. It's just… "Or would you want to
have it instead?"
He holds his breath for a moment, blinks in the halo of the offering. "No," he
swallows, color rushing in and out of his face within seconds, "No, I- You
should have it. He gave it to you."
"We could share it."
"It, i-it wouldn't fit. My fingers are too slim."
"Then put it on a necklace."
Sam hesitates. "Wouldn't be the same."
"Would be." Once more, Dean dishes that smile out like it's so easy and Sam is
so stubborn to not see how nice it would be to follow his plan. "As long as
you're wearing it, you're wearing it. It's not that difficult."
"We..." We can't share aring, Dean; but he cannot say that out loud, he can't.
It would probably hurt Dean. And anyway, it's Dean's. Sam doesn't want it. It's
not meant for him. Never was. "Just keep it. It's okay. Keep it. I'll be
alright."
Two hands cup his jaw, cradle his skull in a kiss. The ring has heated a
little, almost the temperature of Dean's skin, maybe a little bit warmer.
The mouth disappears and hovers over Sam's ear.
He shivers in the warm huff of a chuckle.
"Now I need a hairclip from Dad and I'm aaall stocked."
Sometimes - and Sam tries to keep those occasions as rare as his birthday, he
really does -, Sam's fingers sneak their way into the back of Dean's discarded
jeans, the folds of his discrete wallet. He knows what he is looking for and
it's like meeting an old friend when the pads of his fingers find the by now
softened edges of that photograph.
It's only March and this is the second time this year that he looks for parts
of himself in his mother's features.
He imagines he has her chin, her jaw; broad and wide. He imagines her smart and
on-point, every sentence either a ballad or a verdict. In the picture, she
smiles sweet enough to make Sam want to jump to John's side and tear the thing
that took her away to pieces. The little boy in her arms smiles just as honest,
as oblivious to the coming events.
Maybe she was pregnant with him then already. Maybe he's somewhere in the house
behind them, sleeping or maybe crying for her.
Sam barely dreams of her since his brain cannot come up with her face, her
voice. If he does, he knows by instinct that it's her, even though she looks
nothing like in this picture (the only proof he has had of her so far).
He chooses when to look at it. When he can take it, when he's ready, when he
needs to, when he's cutting the edge anyway.
The ring rips him open with every glance.
It's not yours, it's not yours, it'shis, it has nothing to do withyou. Dean
should be allowed to enjoy this present, he was so happy; don't you remember
his face from that evening? This means so much to him. You cannot make him feel
bad about this. This is not aboutyou.
The picture slides down and home, no trace left from Sam since Dean will not
check for fingerprints. Wallet back in place, he slips back into his own as
well, head slowly lowering on Dean's shoulder. Fingers skip from wrist to
knuckles to ring, slide over the fingers, up the chest until they meet leather
cord, warm, almost moist metal. Back to the ring. Back to the necklace. Up
Dean's jaw, his ear, hair. Back to the ring.
He will get used to it. He will do it for Dean.
Just because Sam has no memory of their mother, it doesn't give him the right
to take away Dean's.
Somewhere around the end of another two weeks later, Dean's bare finger gets
him out of nowhere. Sam almost chokes on the sight.
"Returned it," Dean confesses when he is asked. He seems peaceful but Sam
cannot trust this.
"You shouldn't have."
"It's okay."
"No, Dean! This was important to you!"
"Prolly woulda lost it at some point. What should I have told Dad then? No,
it's... it's alright." Dean shrugs. Sam wants to punch him. "Wasn't fair
anyway. You shoulda gotten somethin' similar, too."
He stares at the pavement, not his brother, not the smug self-pity in that
face, the empty place Sam cleared out for himself yet again. Sam's fists are
rocks in his pockets. "Dad would never give me something this valuable."
A snort and Dean is back to his old role - keeping Sam in place. Moralizer
slash traitor slash brother slash asshole. "Whenever we go out there, he gives
you his life, our lives. He'd take a bullet for you and you know that. Don't
think he wouldn't, Sam." Sam's eyes roll. That pointed finger doesn't have to
be raised to actually be there. He knows Dean thinks he is just as convincing
as he sounds like. "Jus'cause you don't wanna see it doesn't mean it doesn't
exist."
Funny how you told me the same aboutmonsters once, Sam thinks.
In a bathroom in Anamosa, Iowa, Sam notices for the first time that Dean has
his face tipped upwards in order to reach his mouth.
The realization ripples through him and punches some air out of his lungs, a
few inches out of his knees. He has always been smaller, always. Little
brother, little Sammy. And suddenly, that is gone, just like that.
Dean's palms press on his chest, push him deep into the wooden door and the
towels hanging from it, almost building a veil around them in their puffiness.
Sam might get high on cheap laundry detergent and Dean's body heat. Somewhere
behind this door, John is roaming through the rooms on his quest of supplying
each and every single one with protection spells (the resident witch is a true
beast, no joke), so everything beyond this pathetic dry humping is out of the
question for now. Nevertheless, Sam cannot let this moment pass just like that.
He takes it all in. This new perspective, the new angle on Dean's shoulder,
ear, neck. Muscles bulge in his back and Sam can see it. Curiosity lets Sam
wrap his hands around his brother's waist and God is it small in these hands,
are those his hands? The hips are even smaller, narrower; he runs his hands
down them and there is so much of Dean he can touch just like that - why hadn't
he noticed before?
Dean's mouth stumbles when those hands plunge into the waistband of his shorts
but he keeps himself from moving, doesn't ask Sam to stop just yet (he's horny
too after all and Sam is happy to exploit this easiness). It's a chance for Sam
to bite into this plush bottom lip, test the give of it between his teeth while
the meat of his palms do the same to that firm skin. Goosebumps under his
fingertips and moist exhale into his cheek, he squeezes, and Dean groans.
His hands are big enough to almost cover one entire globe of ass each. With it
being an ass like Dean Winchester's, that says a lot. Round and big and firm
and he's got his hands splayed all over it; goddammit, this shouldn't be
possible.
Dean is trembling in his grip, maybe a little like a small animal contemplating
to run. But Sam feels the wet spot in the front of those shorts pressing right
against his own. Dean will not run. Not from him. Still, this is different.
There's a certain power, a certain advantage Sam has all of a sudden with the
blessing of those extra inches of body height, and he's the towering one now,
the taller one, the one looking down. Sam's head gets dizzy with the thrill of
it.
His hands slide to the front and Dean is fuckin dripping while still
whisperbitepleading a hoarse "no, he's right out there" as if that could stop
this here from happening. "Then you gotta be quiet," Sam mouths, gives a long,
powerful tug from base to tip and Dean almost suffocates, "and quick."
There's something unwilling in his brother; maybe he's mesmerized by this as
well. Sam cradles Dean's sac with his other hand and gently rolls it. It's been
some time since they had an opportunity like this and "full" is an insufficient
description of what he feels. He can tell Dean won't take long, knew it even
before he made sure of how his nuts are already pulled up tight. Has jerking
him off always been this effortless? There's only such a small movement he has
to do to slide his palm over the entire length of his cock. It's ridiculous.
"When were you gonna tell me?"
Dean's lips are slippery and swollen and he wants them like this twenty-four-
seven, the little cross eyed stare he has this shortly before reaching his
orgasm, the helpless little frown, the tiny grunts. "Wha...?"
"That I outgrew you," he clarifies.
Dean comes then, every muscle rippling and Sam feels it against his thighs, his
chest, everywhere, because Dean is draped over his entire front. Gasping for
air like a fish on dry land, he doesn't allow his throat the tiniest noise,
throws his head back to add pressure on his windpipe to keep it from working.
Sam wraps his lips around the sweaty mess of it and bites and sucks soft enough
not to leave a mark (just like they discussed), swallows against the thrashing
pulse.
There's something marvelous about using Dean's come as lube for his own cock.
Sam comes after three powerful strokes, his mouth still uselessly loose around
his brother's neck. His own cock in the one and Dean's balls still in the other
hand, it's nothing more but a few seconds of blissful connection.
Both their shorts are ruined but it was damn well worth it. They took spare
ones with them anyway.
Dean climbs into the shower first, throwing an accusing glare at Sam who is
squeezing copious amounts of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "Thought about
prolongin' it until I needed a fuckin' elevator," he rumbles.
The sound of water hitting enamel tub keeps Sam's laugh a secret.
"Hey!" Sam tries to get a grip on the newspaper's edge but Dean is too swift
and too far away too fast. "I wasn't done with that!"
"'I wasn't done with that'!" Dean imitates with his mouth full of some ominous
chocolate bar, and no, Sam is pretty positive that he doesn't sound this
effeminate. His big brother strolls to the kitchenette and scans what should be
in Sam's hands right now. He stops in his tracks right in front of the counter.
"Job ads?"
Sam groans into the couch cushions.
"Thought you were busy bein' a full time nerd."
"I want a new discman," he explains with little motivation, "The old one broke.
Or drowned. Or both."
He dares a peek and yeah, there it is, that short burst of memory in Dean's
expression, lingering in a soft pull of corners of mouth. That bathroom.
"Coulda just asked me, Sammy."
"I want to pay for it myself."
"Well, guess I could make you work for it."
"Ha ha." Dean put the newspaper away to rummage through the drawers more
effectively. Maybe he has given up on the entire idea already. Sam gets up and
closes in on his brother in the hope of maybe snatching the already-circled ads
back into his possession. And, well, Dean is always happy to bow to a little
body contact. And puppy eyes. Lots of them. It's sick that Sam has to rely on
these cheap methods to get what he wants. Then again, what other choice does he
have? "No, seriously. Just a little something in the afternoons. Dunno, maybe I
could-"
"Sam."
Something about being interrupted makes Sam want to throw a tantrum. There is
this kind of hierarchy in their family about this, top to down from who gets
least to most interrupted. John is on top, obviously. In the middle, Dean lets
John shush him but will never get tired of doing this here, exactly this:
stomping on Sam right along with their father. Sam used to have silent phases,
still has them when the anger isn't fueling enough to speak up for once. When
he does, they do it again. Then again, again, again, until he knows his place
and follows instead of leads.
He's good with words. Teachers tell him all the time. Debating clubs are easy
to sneak into, even in just-so-many-long periods of school visits - and so
rewarding. Others listen to him, cross-eyed and impressed.
They take this from him, willingly or not. They take this from him.
"Your 'job' is to go to school and bring home good grades, right next to
kicking some sonsofbitches' kneecaps with your big ol' brother here. That's
your job." A clap on his shoulder is meant to be encouraging, soothing. It
isn't, actually. "Sounds enough of a job to me."
He's tired of this. This discussion, the deafness he encounters. It hurts even
worse knowing this is Dean, Dean who usually understands him in every way,
every possible way; Dean who maybe wants to see something in Sam that Sam is
not.
"I'll see if I can sneak some of my next paychecks into that discman of yours.
That alright with you?"
"Thanks," Sam says.
The bin swallows the newspaper.
Something's up. Sam can feel it in the air that morning and finally has it
confirmed when he returns in the afternoon. He almost runs into Dean who
carries their duffle bags. When he wants to ask for reasons, Dean avoids his
eyes, ignores the drop of his jaw. It snaps back closed.
Inside, John struggles with the unwilling lid of a bullet box. The homework in
Sam's backpack weighs tons. "You said 'until spring break'," he reminds.
"Change in plans," John announces.
If he knocked him down, tied him up, kept him fed - he could get through these
last two years of school like that. It's a terrible thought, yes, but John is
the one who brings Sam to this extremes. Maybe John wants it to happen. Maybe
he wants a final proof that Sam is not to be trusted, not one of them; that Sam
should be left behind and spat at and maybe it would be for the better like
that.
Dean bumps into his shoulder, maybe halfway to get past him and another half to
shake Sam out of his fury-induced haze.
Sam closes his eyes and wishes he would crash face-first to the ground - but
his knees betray him with stability, so he doesn't.
They're on the highway five minutes later. On the other side of the window, Sam
imagines himself at the table he used to do his homework on for the past two
months. Two books in his backpack will never return to their library. If you
could get arrested for too many overdrawn library accounts, he sure is gonna
get it more sooner than later. It wouldn't be too much of a change anyway.
Miles run by and byer. When Dean taps at his thigh, Sam hasn't realized the car
even did pull to a stop. The sleazy neon sign reads "Earl's Garage" through a
veil of rain that makes the air smell of muddy roads.
"I'm sorry. Old man wouldn't change his mind."
"Two more weeks," Sam muses, "Only two more weeks until reports."
"I know."
"Could've scratched my ass instead of writing this damn paper all night." Away
from the front seats, closer to cold glass, rain, moisture of his own breath.
"Ten pages, man. Right down the drain."
"I know," Dean repeats softly but oh-so empty.
"It's not fair."
"I tried, Sammy."
"... It's not your fault."
"Still. I just want you to be happy. I know how important all of this is to
you. ... Wish I could make it easier for you."
In moments like this, he is afraid a touch between them will give birth to an
emotional telephone line which will transmit all of his nasty thoughts right
into his brother's head, so Sam's hand doesn't go for Dean's.
His brother sighs and sounds old with it.
***** Chapter 17 *****
This is a stupid idea and the entire thing is stupid and they are especially
stupid for messing with it. "Killer cows" his ass. They banned the curse that
poisoned the crops, didn't they? Farmers have guns. Farmers should take care of
their animals themselves. This is stupid.
His brother looks thrilled. This guy is way too enthusiastic about steaks,
seriously. "He said we could keep the carcasses!"
"Urgh, DUDE. Disgusting."
"They're not affected physically," John explains over his shotgun, "It's in
their brains, cutting the circuits. Flesh should be fine."
Sam squints over the table. "I repeat: disgusting."
"Just because you like to hug trees and befriend squirrels, Samantha, I won't
let this barbecue pass me by." Dean cocks his eyebrows along with his shotgun.
"We ready?"
"Ready," John confirms.
"Whatever," Sam sighs. Three guns, three men, thirty five dairy cows. What a
day to be alive.
John shoves the barn doors open in front of them while Dean pulls Sam closer by
the shoulder, almost crashes their noses with how unprepared Sam is for it. His
brother practically flies by Sam in an attempt to keep his next words a secret,
a casual dare between brothers. Sam can only catch a glimpse of that crazy
twinkle in his eyes that usually foreshadows a really really crazy something to
go down.
"High score gets to top next time."
Dean's hand is gone and his entire brother is gone and Sam can barely pick his
composure and jaw back off the floor before John already bellows to move ass
pronto. Before he knows they're back in the car - with more than half of the
score on John's account. Dean sprawls nonchalantly in the front- and Sam, still
not over what he heard half an hour ago, in the backseat.
"Sam, what was goin' on with you back there?"
"Yeah, Sam. What was going on?"
Sam blinks against the bypassing streetlights. "Dunno," he states, and couldn't
be more honest.
Unspoken rules are pretty convenient. Between the two of them, they work like a
charm since they can practically read each other's minds anyway. This here is
one of them. Or, better yet, was, because Sam knows that Dean knows that this
is a line you do not cross without consequences.
Dean is not gay - Sam knows as much. He is attracted to girls… and, some
magical, fucked-up way somehow, Sam. Blowjobs had already been a big commitment
and Sam could tell that Dean had his problems getting used to be on the giving
end of this topic. Sam is perfectly fine with how it works between them. The
roles are one-sided, yeah, but why not? They're obviously both enjoying it,
aren't they.
Sam would never ask anything of Dean that he wouldn't want to do. Taking it up
the ass, as Sam remembers it even before it was a common thing between them,
has always been the reddest of all the red flags in Dean Winchester's
definition of "a good time". Once, one of his dates had a pair of way too giddy
fingers, and Dean wasn't shy to complain about the "agonizing pain" for the
following three days. This had taken place two weeks after Dan and Sam had been
this close to educating Dean about some real pain. In the end, well, some
things work for some and for others they don't. Dean is very sensitive when he
is not stitching his own battlefield wounds up with as much as a fifth of
whiskey, dental floss and a leather sewing needle. The idea to ask that of him
naturally never crossed Sam's mind. It was never even an option that as much as
occurred to Sam.
And now, Dean suggested it himself. Yeah, wrapped in the not-so innocent shape
of a stupid dare, but still. Before getting out of the car, Sam decides to act
like it didn't happen.
It's good the way it is. Obviously, Dean wasn't exactly in his sane mind (if he
even has one of those). Maybe he regretted putting it out there a few seconds
afterwards anyway and was doing his best to be the winner. Not too much of a
challenge keeping in mind how utterly useless Sam had clasped on to his gun
instead of actually shooting.
At the next given opportunity, Dean has him naked and pounded into the motel
room's drywall in what could be a new record of the two of them. He doesn't
mention anything and Sam doesn't, either.
"Any wishes? For your birthday, I mean."
Sam gives the only answer he can give in his current state of being: an
undefined but happy hum. The sheets smell good and Dean's skin smells even
better. Being buried in both is a rare treat and the soft strokes of fingers
through his hair and down his spine do not motivate him to compose actual
words, either.
Dean caught a nasty cold and - in unnecessary addition - a few days ago, got
knocked out by some douche protecting what he thought was his child but indeed
was a quite cannibalistically orientated imposter. Cold shivers, fevers and
hunts do not mix well. John's glare was nasty when he brought Dean home, but
not as nasty as Sam's inner monologue. If Sam would have been there, maybe he
could have prevented it. He had been studying for a math test instead.
School is getting more and more intense. His last summer break is ahead of him,
already waving its flags. Grades are serious business now, they count, go into
his final ones. Every lost or missed tests sends Sam into what people who have
not been raised on them would call "panic attacks". With Dean's help, they're
rather easy to take care of - but John doesn't necessarily enjoy seeing his
sixteen-year-old letting himself getting pampered. Leaning into Dean's hands or
arms and their calming rubs over his heaving back is dismissed over "sucking it
up". Sam does more sit-ups, punches more shadows. That helps too, somehow, and
John approves of it. Limbo.
Dean is less of an asshole these days. He shoves even more food in Sam's
general direction than usually and searches for body contact even in John's
presence, even if it's only a bump of shoulders, a pat on his back; "You
okay?", "Should I get you something?", "Sammy?". John tolerates this only
because Dean is working overtime with hunts and part time jobs. Their father
knows that even more than his task, it's his brother's mission to keep Sam's
head above the water. He's tired, lately. All of them are.
Not much has changed, hasn't it? Without the sex, they could have been like
this years ago; were like this years ago. It's on Sam's mind a lot lately.
Almost a year has passed since they started figuring this out. It still feels
like the life of someone else.
"Nothing then, hm? Alright."
Sam forgot about the question.
Dean hums Zeppelin's "The Rain Song" into Sam's hair until both of them doze
off to it.
"Sure, why not. Go."
"Mh. I dunno."
"Come on, they invited you. Try to be cool for once."
When Sam squints at his brother, Dean is still staring at the same page as two
minutes ago. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck curl. "I dunno what to wear."
"Help yourself. My bag's in the bathroom."
He cringes, hesitates.
It's long enough to make Dean snap. The book slams shut and on the floor. "Oh
for fuck's sake, Sam, stop this bullshit. Go or don't go, make up your damn
mind!"
"There's this- this guy," Sam spurts, eyes straight ahead and drilling a hole
next to the television.
The following moment of silence is long enough to make Sam regret bringing all
this up. Maybe he should just have went without thinking too much about it.
Maybe this is all in his head.
"What 'guy'?" Dean wants to know eventually.
"I think he likes me."
"… 'Likes' you?"
"Yeah."
"… So?"
Sam expected everything from laughter to yelling - and all Dean does is stand
there, just stand and stare at him with a tight mouth and what could be ice-
cold fingers dangling next to his hips. Sam stares back, upwards, knees under
his chin. "I don't want to lead him on."
"… Jesus Christ." Dean stomps to the fridge, rips it open and slams it shut.
The fizz of the opening beer bottle makes Sam swallow. "You know, Sam, just
because someone smiles at you, you don't have to ride their dick."
This is about the bruise and yet it's not, about Dean providing a helping hand
and yet not. Yeah, he shouldn't have started this. It's not fair to Dean. It's
too much. "I know, I… I just thought, you'd… ... I felt like I had to tell
you."
"Oh, yeah? Well, thanks, but you're out of your diapers and I ain't the one you
have to ask for permission on how to spend your free time." A greedy sip. "Or
with whom." Another. Sam's heart aches at the way Dean pins his eyes to the
wall just like he himself had done it moments ago.
"Sorr-"
"I'm not jealous!" A raised forefinger. Wasn't Sam just now announced diaper-
free? "Not jealous. Shut. Your. Mouth."
"I wasn't-"
"SHUT."
Sam complies.
"Good." Dean's eyes are full of storm when he trots back to the sofa, left hand
buried deep in his jeans' pocket, right hand clutching the bottle. "I'll tell
you what's gonna happen now," his brother starts. Sam doesn't dare move a
muscle. "You're gonna go to this party and you're gonna enjoy yourself. Open
your drinks yourself 'n don't let 'em out of sight. No open cups. No smoking.
You're gonna talk to people and I do not care and I do not want to know who
these people are, I really fucking don't. Do what you feel like doing.
Whatever."
This probably isn't supposed to make his dick hard… which doesn't make it any
less hot. Adds up to it, actually. Dean jumps between moods quickly, too quick
for Sam to catch on sometimes. Anger flips to eros and more often than not sex
feels more like a fight than anything else, with strained muscles and hefty
words and the entire motel needs a cold shower once it's finally over. He likes
games like this (if this even is one). Sam nods. "Okay."
"Chicks, dudes, I don't care. Go crazy." Dean must know how it looks like when
he purses his lips around that bottle neck. He has to. "But you are coming
home."
To me, Dean doesn't say. Into our bed, Dean doesn't say. But Sam hears them.
All of them. "Yes," he answers.
--
Past-midnight showers are strange. The street outside is bright enough for Sam
to leave the lights off. After toweling himself dry, the guy in the mirror
looks strangely familiar and yet not. Sam takes a while to examine himself, all
those new inches, the few new muscles. Still bony… but better than before. His
torso is almost matching the length of his arms now (Dean hasn't called him
"octopus" in months) and his cheeks stand out prouder. His nose is slimmer
somehow, too. Huh. So he did have baby fat after all.
When Sam crawls under the covers to him, Dean doesn't even pretend to be
asleep, simply curls his arm around his neck and pulls him close, right onto
his mouth. Faint sleep on his tongue in contrast to fresh mint makes Sam dizzy.
Dean is like a warm bed that he can lose himself in, always welcoming, always
warm. Sam's dick is up ever since the host announced to throw everyone out.
Dean rolls them over and shoves his thigh between Sam's legs. His movements are
fluent, always fluent, as if this was a dance or a performance and he was going
for that ten. Sam gasps into the mouth that isn't his at the first drag of
cotton boxers over his naked skin, of warm belly and chest under an old
Metallica t-shirt the two of them share at irregular intervals. Them, theirs.
Sam pushes his hands underneath it, over the wide space of Dean's back; endless
valleys of muscle and skin and everything here is his.
"You smell like beer," Dean hums.
"They had beer," Sam confirms.
"Hm. Kids and their underage drinkin' these days." A nip where Sam wouldn't
disagree with a bite. He hums nevertheless. "You drunk?"
"Not too drunk for this."
"Hm." A dark chuckle. Sam smiles against Dean's cheek. "That's my boy."
"Yours," Sam slurs, is kissed. The beer makes him heavy while his head feels
light. A good dose, no whiskey. His favorite kind of drunk.
Dean keeps him pinned loose enough for Sam to squirm for more, but he regulates
the pace. Sam is aware that he is noisier than when he's being sober, even more
aware how much of a turn on that is for Dean. Still, he's kept in line. Sam
winces. He might not have the patience for the slow kind of thing tonight.
Dean kisses his neck. "What do you wanna do?"
"Hmmm. Can youuu. Can you give me head, maybe?"
Dean chuckles. "'Maybe'?"
"'Maybe' please."
"'Maybe' alright."
Dean is out of sight but Sam feels his mouth travel south, along the stretched-
long lines of his body, fingers never too far. Without much of a ceremony, his
cock is engulfed in warmhottightwetamazing and the "fuckkk" he croaks does not
even scratch the surface of how he feels like right now. Dean's throat
convulses around him and Sam could cry.
"Shit," his brother splutters after pulling off, coughs but goes back down
immediately.
Sam's eyes flutter shut. Compassion overshadows swelling pride in this matter.
He puts Dean through a hell of inches down there and had been absolutely
satisfied with the size three ones ago already. But he grows, and he grows, and
he grows, and he can't do a damn thing about it. Apart from little curses like
these, Dean doesn't really complain; maybe out of hopelessness. Both of them
know he outgrew Dean dick-wise, too. Both of them know the day Sam mentions it
will be the beginning of a long dry episode.
"Y-you don't have to, if…"
"I'm okay."
Oh God. What does he even do with his tongue there? Is it even anatomically
possible? Sam groans, shoves one hand into Dean's hair; something between
holding on and pushing down. Dean lets him.
Time is very relative when you're drunk or getting your dick sucked. Both
together is like floating in space. Sam's hips become restless after whenever
and thrust upwards, right into where it feels so good to be buried. Hands push
him back down as everything draws together tightly again but it's so good so
Sam's hips keep going, up, in, always more. After a few attempts to stop it,
Dean lets it happen. Without the weight of his hands, Sam's pelvis all but
rocks. He holds Dean's head in place with both hands now, doesn't remember how
exactly but definitely praises his brother with little snippets of wonder and
amazement. Dean, who is so good to him, always so good to him, always giving
him everything.
They take a few short breaks where Dean coughs his lungs out and sniffles his
nose back free, but then his mouth returns, hungry and open and watering only
for Sam. "Ah, fuck, I get it now… He's yourboyfriend, right? The one in the
black car, always picking you up?" Sam had only been able to stare while Martin
shook his head at him turning beet-red. "Damn... Too bad. Cool that you came
anyway." A bottle of beer, no red cup but no soda either. Sam took it into his
shaking palm. "Let's drink to you pretty motherfucker's LUCK though. Damn, son!
Where'd you findthatguy?"
People think you're mine, Dean. People think I'm yours. They're jealous and
theyshouldbe jealous, because how could anyone ever be as lucky as me to have
you? Sam kisses all of it into Dean's mouth once it returns to his level,
tastes himself and Dean and them, wipes the tears from Dean's cheeks that he
put there with his impatience, with his desire and his love and it will never
be enough. "So good," he pants, kissing off what his thumbs didn't clear, "so
fuckin' good, Dean."
"Yeah?" Dean sounds exhausted, rougher than rough around the edges, a bit
broken. A way only Sam can make him sound like.
"Fuck yeah."
Dean hums.
They rut against each other and Sam notices that Dean took his boxers off.
Warm, silky and smooth and warm, little hairs brushing Sam's still mostly
smooth skin. Again, he wraps his arms around that back, can never hug it tight
enough, long enough. If he could wrap his entire body around Dean, he would do
it, cover and devour his brother entirely, every single cell of him in touch
with Dean's. It'd be perfect, he figures.
Dean's breath is moist against Sam's chin. A too wide push backwards let's
Sam's dick poke at Dean's taint; almost higher. He presses his ass deeper into
the mattress to give Dean space to correct his position.
Again, a roll of hips on top of him pushes him there.
Sam mutters something along the lines of "hey" but isn't too sure what exactly
leaves his lips.
"We can do whatever you want," Dean tells him. He sounds on the edge, like he
sometimes does right before a hunt.
"I can ask Dad to drive you home if you want. I'll be alright. Should I ask
him, Sammy?"Sam doesn't like this tone.
Air, more air, and he blinks into the darkbluenothing night, his lashes
dragging over Dean's cheekbones. "Jus- Just like this, just like…" His hips
suggest the usual rhythm until Dean's go along. The friction is great like this
for both of them. Dean has this talent to put just the right amount of weight
in it. "Yeah… Yeah. Like that." Sam's hands slide up and down, up and down.
He searches for a mouth that is turned away from him. "Dean?"
Dean doesn't answer.
"Is this for a school project?"
"Yeah, actually."
"Ah, I see." Her fingers fly over the keyboard and Sam watches the search
results reflect in her glasses. "My little brother has to do the same thing. If
he worked half as hard as he complains…!"
They chat about Juab High's best and worst teachers. It's a small town and
everybody knows everybody which is always a plus if you're looking for someone
in particular. Sam learns that her name is Katie and that her dad is running a
grocery store two streets over. She smiles a lot. She just turned eighteen.
"You weren't very lucky with your assigned topic there, Sam, weren't you?
'Local history of witch burnings'… Mrs. Jacobsen is a true villain."
His breathless laugh is more about the sad fact that this is not even about an
actual burned witch but her lover who takes revenge on the executers'
descendants. A whole lot of work around seven corners to get to said family
names. He should get a medal for this one, seriously. "I like a good
challenge," Sam tells her.
Before she takes her bottom lip between her teeth, Sam doesn't even realize
they were flirting. The image of it hits him like a truck though. "Challenges,
huh?"
Okay. Deep breath. You can do this. Why is his throat so dry all of a sudden?
Fuck.
"Hm, tell you what, Sam." Katie's fingernails make plastic noises on the keys
again and her eyes only shortly leave Sam for the screen. "I'll print this out
for you now so you can get to work. And, if you want to-" The printer spits out
the search results aka book list aka next few hours of work. She hands the page
to him with a smile as if it was the birth certificate of his newborn baby. "-
you can come see me when you're done. I'm doing the closing shift today. Seven
AM."
The paper sticks to Sam's sweaty palm immediately. "Alright," he smiles,
"sure."
Two hours into his work and during his third coffee of the day, Katie checks on
him. Like, literally. If Sam was a weak man, this table would be covered in
something else than books.
Settled in the frame of six foot two and counting, puppy eyes and abandoned
hair is suddenly not so uninteresting anymore, is it. Winchester genes are
kicking in, full speed ahead. Only took 'em almost seventeen years, but hey.
Girls notice him. And with "notice" he means "undress him with their eyes". The
waitress at Barney's, Logan's daughter, the girl at the gas station, the
cashier... and now Katie.
Sam has to lean back in his chair to let this sink in. He really didn't notice.
Sure, they were being exceptionally nice. Sure, Dean had been kind of pissy
when he had been around at those times. But hadn't that been because he had
wanted the attention for himself? Hadn't he been angry about Sam hogging the
conversations? Maybe this is the reason for the strange dare a few months back,
that weird night three weeks ago. Dean looks restless, more than usual. Could
this be it?
Halfway home, Sam has come to terms with the decision that he will not approach
the issue in order not to make a fool out of himself. True or not, Dean will
most possibly avoid talking about this. Being laughed at isn't high priority
for Sam currently, so fuck it.
As soon as Dean tries something funny again, he can always still confront him
about it - the dog and the bone and all that. Sam has different worries right
now.
The second of May comes and passes... passes... passes. At around noon, John
sends a text message that wishes Sam a happy birthday from two states over. No
word from Dean though. Others would come to the conclusion that his brother
forgot about his birthday but the idea doesn't even start to come up in Sam.
No, Dean knows exactly. He never forgets about it. This isn't the first
birthday where Dean will launch a surprise out of nowhere. Supposedly.
Naturally. So Sam waits.
A sunny Tuesday makes a good opportunity for a walk. For pretty much
everything, really, but Dean strolls along and acts like nothing is going on.
Sam can play this game too, even if the anticipation grows with every hour. The
sun wakes the scent of leather in Dean's jacket, the warmth of their skin. They
are walking side by side, hands in pockets. A usual day, usual brothers, usual
coffee. Dean doesn't mention that Sam took the day off of school just as much
as Sam doesn't mention that Dean can't keep his hands still for a single
second. Sam imagines seeing that tongue prod around in that mouth, restless
just like his fingers. Sam rolls his lips between his teeth and turns his
attention back to the pavement.
Seven AM, and still nothing. In front of the TV, Sam starts wondering. There's
still plenty of things to do in the dark, actually, even more now that they
are... whatever it is that they are. Still, if Dean took him out for a stargaze
or drive-in movie or a ride to nowhere, all simple and innocent, it would still
be everything Sam could ask for. As long as it's with Dean, it's enough.
The thing is though: Dean has been in the bathroom for half an hour now. Music
is blasting from inside there, too, and Sam wonders what his brother has to
keep secret. Definitely nothing too innocent, probably. The thought keeps Sam
alert and his cheeks in a nervous pink. Birthday sex. That is something Sam can
definitely come to terms with.
By the time the radio stops blaring, Sam is hard enough to pound nails. He
keeps staring at the TV and doesn't turn down its volume, ignores how his
sweatpants are tented to the point of ridiculousness.
A lock is being undone, a door opens, then closes. Barefoot steps on the
ground.
Sam's heart flutters in his chest. Oh god, yes, please.
A soft drift from tip of ear over the back of Sam's head. That cheap motel soap
smells like a thousand dollars once it's come into contact with Dean's skin,
and Sam has to sigh when its scent reaches his nose.
"Close your eyes, Sammy."
Taking a deep breath, Sam complies.
It's not a hardship to trace Dean's movements without seeing him. He circles
the couch from the right, and then Sam's body heat rises another few degrees as
Dean's climbs into his lap. Very warm. Unnaturally warm. Like a bed after a
long, cozy night of sleep. Dean breaches his arms on the backrest to steady
himself, doesn't sit down but stays on his knees until after he ghosted his
mouth over Sam's forehead, down his temple, cheek. He kisses there. Scent of
shaving cream, lips like pillows. Dean is soft for him where he is for nobody
else.
Sam cranes his neck for a kiss; the first for today. Dean lets him search for
it blindly, moves and lets them play catch for a moment before he lets Sam find
him, all gentle and pliant and Sam is so hungry for contact that it sends him
melting deeper into the couch's cushions. There's no thought to it when he
raises his hands to lay them on Dean's waist (because he needs to touch Dean,
everywhere, always), but when his palms find blank skin there, Sam's head
starts swimming with surprising heat.
Hands around his head, into his hair, spanning over the back of his neck, no
word of hesitation, of holding Sam's hands back as they drift over more skin,
more back, up and down, and there's nothing, just warmth and Dean. Where Sam is
a little awestruck and a hell of a lot in love, Dean continues kissing him with
slow movements of his mouth. Sam can feel the heat in those cheeks against his
own, the hotness of a mouth and sweat on those hands. Goosebumps under his
fingertips - and he knows that Dean is nowhere near as calm as he pretends to
be.
A gasp because Dean sinks down into his lap, right on his straining dick,
burning him up and giving the sweetest weight. Sam blinks his eyes open very
carefully, very uncertain. Dean's face is right in front of him, hot and supple
and beautiful.
"Happy birthday," Dean hums into Sam's mouth. Sam can't respond.
Dean guides his hands lower from where Sam let them rest, on the narrow of a
waist; two confident hands that betray with a moist surface of skin. One hand
for each globe of ass - not the outside but the center of them. Sam puts no
pressure into his hands, unsure what Dean is trying to accomplish, so Dean
leans his forehead against Sam's and presses his palms harder against his ass.
Silent command. Sam grabs and Dean shudders, almost a tiny nod, adds more
pressure and pulls Sam's hands outwards. Fingers push at Sam's to drift closer
to that crease that is so secret and hidden, so hot when he touches here.
Dean's hips shift, push his ass out a little more, wider, open. Dean tugs him
there, into nervous sweat and burning skin.
"Want you to."
Sam shudders under this whisper, under the soft shake to those words because oh
dear God. "We don't... we don't have to do this if you don't..."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, I- C-can't you just...?"
Such a strained voice. Sam swallows, but his throat feels full. Oh God. He lets
his middle finger prod lower, deeper; furled skin, damp with sweat and so so
special. Now, Sam starts seriously sweating. "Dean."
Burning skin, soap, mint. "C'mon," mutters Dean. Sam feels that heart thud in
that chest, how it turns that throat tight and hoarse.
Sam kisses this unexpecting mouth as he drifts and pushes his fingertips. He
only feels over it, hesitant at first and broader later, rubbing calmness into
the firm muscles. Dean starts shifting in his lap, maybe nervous or
uncomfortable or both, but he stays and tenses. Sam can relate. He has no idea
what he is doing either.
After a while of petting and kissing, Dean finally starts relaxing a little
bit. Sam can feel his brother's erection against his stomach - so this isn't
something that is completely against Dean's interests. Good. Dean is stubborn
enough to put himself through something for Sam's sake even if he doesn't enjoy
it himself... but there are borders. Or, well, have been. They seem to be
expandable.
More pressure, especially on the middle finger. Sam crooks it a little so that
it can dip nice and firm against Dean's asshole, not breaching it, no, but
definitely making a statement. Dean kisses him blindly and is unreadable in his
expression. Hips cant, invite Sam in, but that pucker won't soften.
Dean makes an uncomfortable sound and shifts to his left, digs his hand behind
pillows. What he finds, he presses into Sam's fingers. Sam should be less
touched by the fact that his brother hid the lube here in wise preparation. All
was planned. Of course it was.
He pops the cap open, pours some onto his fingers and rubs them together to get
it warm. Still, he is hesitant with his touch, feels Dean recoil before he gets
a grip of himself and slowly melts back into Sam's hand. Sam keeps his eyes
open while he kisses down a tense neck, feels a groan building up in there as
the very tip of his finger starts slipping into Dean. This has been done to
Dean before but this is still special - because it's Sam, and because Sam is a
guy, and because it's Sam's birthday. Sam swallows, forces his finger deeper,
feels the clench of tender insides his brother is offering him. How far did
Dean let this girl go with him? How far had she been up inside of him, and for
how long? Had there been others? Had Dean tried anything himself? Probably not.
It's a difficult topic. But still, Sam can't help but wonder. "Did you... when
you were in the shower...?"
"Not with a finger," Dean mutters.
Sam flushes all the way down to his sternum. "Oh," he gasps.
"No, not like- Geez, no, I... I did this uh, thisenemathing, so..."
Sam blinks. "You- What?"
Dean's neck is straining so his head is averted from Sam. He can still see the
bright red of that skin though. "Not gonna say it twice."
Oh God. Oh God oh God. "Y-you didn't have to."
"Yes, had," groans Dean. He tilts his face back to Sam now but hides it as he
frames Sam's head with his arms, drapes them on the backrest. They're even
closer like this, and Sam leans his cheek against his brother's neck.
"No, I mean." He licks his lips. "It's, it's not disgusting or anything."
"Shut up."
"You say you don't mind when you do it to me."
"Yeah, but that's not my ass, so...!"
First joint, second ring of muscle. Dean's insides flutter around his finger,
and Sam feels him holding his breath. "I wouldn't have minded it," he whispers.
"Hm," Dean grunts. "... It's your... it's your fucking birthday after all,
man."
Lazy kisses go along very well with lazy pumps, just a little, just slow and
easy and in and out and maybe a little shaky. Dean's neck tastes like salt
(secretly hidden underneath the soap) and Sam tries to lick it all away, bites
while he is at it. So this is happening. So Dean is going through with this.
This is a big thing for Dean, bigger than it is for Sam, and Sam knows that
exactly well. For how long has his brother been hatching this? It must have
taken weeks if not months to get the necessary courage together.
A tad deeper. Dean grunts. "Does it. Does it ever stop feelin' like I have to
take a shit?"
"You'll, uh, I guess, yeah." Wow. Never thought he'd talk Dean through this.
Also never thought it would be this hot to do it. Sam licks his lips. "You'll
forget about it eventually. You've gotta relax."
"Mpfh." Dean is adorable in his embarrassment. "You bastard. You always make
this look so easy."
"We can stop."
"No." A shake of head, a quick kiss. "Gimme another. I'm not gonna break."
Sam watches his brother's face intently as he instead shoves that single finger
deeper. Big enough of an effect - Dean stutters his breath, tenses. Sam kisses
him, withdraws his finger, slides it back in. Dean's mouth might be too big for
his own good sometimes, but Sam never gets tired of watching it.
It quivers so nicely. Dean makes a small sound. "Is that...?"
"Yeah," Sam breathes.
Dean gasps when it is being bumped into again. Everything squeezes tight. Sam
wonders if Dean is aware of that.
"Is this okay?"
"M-more like it, definitely," Dean nods. A groan when the finger picks up its
pace. Weight drapes heavier over Sam's shoulders. Dean does this for him. For
him.
Finally, Sam's ring finger squeezes itself next to his middle finger. Dean's
body tries to pull away before it sinks down by itself. Vision blurry, Sam has
troubles keeping his head moderately clear. Dean wants to go through with this.
He will allow Sam to fuck him. Sam's dick jerks in anticipation.
"Oh, fuck." Hoarse curse. Sam latches on to a straining neck. He can feel how
Dean is struggling to take the girth of two of his fingers, but it gets easier
to fuck them in and out with each minute. At some point, Dean starts trembling
in Sam's lap. That mouth is watering. It tastes good. Who the fuck needs
birthday cake anyway? "C'mon," Sam hears; slurred, troubled. He's got his
fingers shoved in to the hilt. "Sammy, c'mon, please."
"Just a little more," he mutters. Both Dean and Sam's dick cringe at that.
"No, if you- if you don't- F-fuck, I, I don't wanna come yet, c'mon!"
Sam's eyes are very open all of a sudden. "You're… On my fingers…?"
"A-at least put it in," Dean keens. He keeps his eyes closed and makes a
slightly hurt sound when he gets up on his knees. Sam's fingers draw out, feel
over where they just have been while Sam's other hand pulls his dick from his
sweatpants. Dean sounds pretty with a bite to his nipple, two fingers teasing
and prodding at his ass. Sam watches with his heart somewhere in his throat.
"Sammy." It could be a warning, a request for help; maybe both. Sam's pants are
being jutted down to his knees, Dean's thighs framing his own, a too-hot hand
lining him up.
Nobody has ever done this for Sam before - an offering. Sam tries not to stare
right through his brother's face, tries to concentrate on that one pearl of
sweat making its way down a temple, creases of a frown, just in order not to
come here and now from the first contact merely counting as a kiss.
Dean sinks lower, dick wet enough for Sam to feel it through his tee (he almost
came on your fingers), so tense with concentration, so soft where Sam's dick
nudges him open; soft and slick and hot.
As it starts slipping in, Sam holds his breath.
The hand slowly lifts itself from around Sam's dick which then stays in place
on its own, almost in up to the tip's flared edge. A sound, and Sam can't
distinguish from which one of them it comes, because another inch gets
swallowed in time with a spontaneous twitch of Sam's hips. Dean shivers with an
"oh" and Sam sobs that he's sorry, is kissed, is assured it's okay, it's
alright, Sammy.
Too much space is left for him in this man, too much happiness and fulfillment.
Dean is so forgiving, so innocent in his desires, his efforts. Sam is too
impatient, too rapt by that perfect, strangling slick that is throbbing around
his cock, and he circles and pushes up inside even though he's saying sorry,
needs to feel more of Dean, of that secret, pure place Dean had been keeping
from him, for him, oh; and he holds on to shoulders and kisses skin.
"Sammy," gasps Dean, and if Sam didn't know better he would say Dean is falling
apart on top of him, crumbling down to pieces with his hips losing control and
slipping down too far, impaling a quivering body and making everything even
more narrow, trapping Sam soso good-
When Sam becomes aware of the wetness spreading on his belly, he is done with
holding himself back.
Dean has never sounded like this; as if it hurts, as if he was losing it.
Groaning turns into hissed curses, moaned curses, breathless stutters, all
while Sam slams his hips upwards, in, always in, deeper, harder. There is
nothing but Dean, wonderful, beautiful Dean who just came on nothing but Sam's
dick, Dean who stopped cursing and switched to Sam's name, Sam, Sammy, Sam, and
everything kind of turns inside out for Sam at that choked "oh God please".
Sam wonders if it's the same for Dean when he comes inside of him, if it was
like this for all these other guys Sam has had. He wishes he could pay
attention to his fingernails on or in Dean's skin, but no, all there is is this
blinding, perfect thrum of release. Hyper-aware of every flinch of muscle,
Sam's eyes roll backwards behind his closed eyelids. He thinks of rats and
orgasm-buttons. If he had a button for this here, he would have no issue with
starving to death.
Something mouths at him eventually, and he gladly kisses back; softly, careful
not to move too much. Sam lets his hands slip down Dean's body, feels where
they are still connected. Dean's ass is flush with Sam's thighs.
Dean looks as dizzy as Sam feels. Sam tells him that he's got him, asks if he
is alright, and Dean gives a faint nod, lets himself get kissed and tipped to
the side until he can lie down on the sofa. His back is arched, ass stuck out,
and he groans into his hands even though Sam is pulling out as gently as he
can. Worries about if he hadn't come way too quickly don't even occur to Sam
right now, not at the sight of his completely wrung out brother. Here, Sam
kneels, hovers, catches his breath, watches Dean's body calming down, relaxing.
A sigh, a snivel. "Jesus motherfucking Christ," Dean slurs.
Dean's voice breaks so prettily at Sam's shove back inside. His arm comes over
his body and twists it into art, eyes so so small where they are searching for
what or who is doing this to him, brows furrowed and lips parted, ready to
complain, but Sam watches and listens very closely and nothing comes. Instead,
Dean drops his head back into the pillows, grunts at a harsh push that lets Sam
almost bottom out, pouts, lets his fingers tickle up Sam's forearm.
"You said it's my birthday, didn't you?"
"Uh-huh," Dean replies. A faint smile, almost drunk, along with, "My birthday
boy."
The smile gets lost with thrust after thrust, but the hand on Sam's arm stays.
The usually so colorful vocabulary of Dean Winchester is reduced to deep sounds
from within his chest, sometimes a little higher when Sam hits the right spot.
After a while, Sam rearranges those legs to flip Dean from side to back, fits
so well between them, so very very well. Dean puts his arms around Sam's neck,
lets them drop down on couch and pillows, switches again, eyes closed most of
the time except for when he dares to open a small slit for Sam's love-struck
gaze, smiles again, moans. Sam comes again at some point, while Dean's arms are
thrown around him, holding him in place. Dean's pleasured humming is the
perfect soundtrack to Sam's orgasm.
When Dean switches the TV's channel, Sam realizes it had been running all the
time. His mouth feels heavy. Underneath him, Dean's body is warm and no longer
slick with their combined sweat. Sam blinks through darkness. "Did I fall
asleep?"
"Ten minutes or so, yeah."
A hand pets through his hair, so Sam lies back down. He nuzzles Dean's neck,
breathes deep. Dean managed to pull a blanket over them.
"You okay?"
He snorts, smiles. "Shouldn't I be the one asking that?"
"Pfsh, someone's confident, huh. But don't worry. I'll live, I guess."
They follow the news for a while; Dean watching and Sam listening. Sam's
fingers play with the necklace on Dean's chest. Dean scratches his nose, puts
his arm back down over Sam's upper back. Sam feels him tracing a scar on his
shoulder.
"Is my birthday over yet?" he wants to know.
Dean's laugh is breathless, if not a little scared. "Dude, gimme a break, would
ya."
"That's not what I meant." Yeah, no joke. Sam feels sucked dry, actually. "What
time is it?"
"Maybe nine? Ten? Can't see a clock."
"Hm," makes Sam. TV again. Then, "I still can't believe we did this."
"Yeah, no joke."
"Seriously." He twirls the leather cord around his finger. "What has gotten
into you all of a sudden?"
The hand drifts from shoulder up to neck, to his ear. Dean's chest quakes with
his small, huffed laughter. "You, for one."
"Ha ha. Seriously," Sam reminds.
"What?" Now, Dean turns to look at him. A soft, pliant smile, skin still
glowing. The TV and night paint beautiful shadows over freckled skin. Dean
shines differently tonight. "Little brother's birthday" shine. "Didn't enjoy
your present or what? My cherry not special enough for you?"
To overshadow the stumbling of his heart, Sam shakes his head. "I just… Why
now? You always said you hated it."
The smile thins out. "You maybe forgot about the part where I went off like a
freaking geyser? I just gave this whole… this whole butt-thing a long, good
thought, an' I assumed you'd enjoy being on the other end."
Just like that, the issue is being shrugged off. If Sam was strong-minded and
not as tired, he would press for more honesty. Instead, he waves his white flag
in the form of a defeated sigh. Dean mirrors it.
"I just thought… You hadn't ever… y'know." A shrug. "Figured you'd like to put
it to use at some point."
Sam watches Dean's pulse drum through his neck.
Weather report. Another sunny day tomorrow.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
After stressful days, Dean's legs are perfect to crawl in between. Even though
there is a scowl at first and several embarrassments later, Sam is assured that
yeah, no problem, the birthday thing was not supposed to be a one time
exception if Sam doesn't want it to be. Sam loves how easy he can turn Dean
flustered once the table has been turned. For once in maybe their entire lives,
Sam has more expertise in something than Dean. And how ironic is it that this
"something" happens to be Dean's ass? What maybe turns Sam on most about it is
how nobody but him has ever seen this side of his brother, how Sam probably
will always be the only one. The thought keeps him going.
John suggests taking Sam along more and more often. Every missed opportunity to
study is a disaster. Sam can't bail on every hunt, but he takes what he can
get. Luckily, Dean has his back. Sam can hear them reasoning with each other,
about him, as if Sam was their child. There never is yelling involved. When
your voice is being heard maybe you don't need to yell, Sam guesses. He says,
"Thank you," to Dean and avoids John's eyes. It's not fair, of course. Sam
knows that alright. But if Dean knew... Well, he just can't know, and that's
that.
Because when Dean is somewhere knee-deep in trouble, fighting for his life and
just a little more good in the world, Sam is safe and by himself in front of
his school work - and he pulls out neatly folded papers from their secret
hiding spots in between books and notebooks. Fanned on his desk, they look
absurd. Sam usually has to sit back and stare at them for a while before
actually doing anything with them.
He likes to remind himself how it's just a fantasy, just another fugitive mind
game like finals, school, studying. It's not what is destined for him - this
seems to be the broad consent. And still - and sometimes he feels strangely
empty when he does it - he accepts flyer after flyer, stuffs them deep into his
bag, attends information event after information event. He isn't even sure what
exactly it is he would like to study if he was in any position to choose. In
the secrecy of a desk lamp's small halo of light, bent over smooth white
papers, Sam reads about dorms, extracurricular activities, student loans,
scholarships. He ticks medicine here, journalism there, politics, law,
literature, criminal science. It's a game, nothing more, but Sam muses he would
be suited to study every single one of those subjects. He'd fit in.
Dean and John have been gone for two weeks and Sam listens to Dean's roughened
voice while lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, phone pressed to his
ear. Dean reminds him of eating enough, doing the dishes, cleaning his gun,
setting the salt line. Is the money sufficient? Should he send over some more?
How is studying going? Sam says he's fine, everything's fine, and he says he
hopes Dean is holding up alright. "Dad 'n me are good, yeah," answers Dean.
Almost no accusation in the "Dad" Sam didn't ask for.
Maybe the loneliness is taking its toll on Sam. Maybe Dean is stressed; Sam
knows how his brother can be consumed by hunting, and maybe, just maybe he's
only sounding more and more like John because he's stuck with him in what
sounds like isolation to Sam. So maybe when Sam actually hands in a handful of
forms, it's just to take his game a little further. Nothing big. Nothing
serious. He didn't even use his real name, didn't have all the paperwork
together to make it go through. Because it's just a game.
Another school, different partnerships with colleges, new set of papers to hide
or burn or hand in (whatever, doesn't exactly matter, does it?). Dean is a mere
shadow, wears blood under his clothes Sam has no chance to look or peel at,
gives a one-armed hug because it has to be quick, because John is present,
because the next hunt is right on their heels. Sam gets a lopsided smile, warm
but too distant, too little after all this time apart. One part of Sam wants to
ask to come along this time, just to be close to his brother, but the other
part knows that if he did, Dean's efforts to keep him out would have been
wasted. Picking sides. So Sam watches the Impala descend down a road and walks
into the opposite direction.
The first time he spells out "Samuel Winchester", it's because he really likes
his English teacher at that particular school. She's a sweet lady in her late
forties and has the kind of worried eyes he is missing so hard lately. She
tells him he's so talented, that he should really try, that there are
scholarships and programs applying to pupils like him ("so talented", "troubled
background"; and she doesn't even know half of it). They spend hours after
school, just her and him. She shares her herbal tea with him and Samuel
Winchester moves his pen with his eyes hidden underneath his hair. Her letter
of recommendation is his most sacred treasure until they give him something new
in Springfield, Illinois.
Nights without sleep, without Dean and anyone to talk to - those nights give
away the strangest thoughts. Sam recognizes voices he thought had died a long
time ago. Maybe they just waited for the right time to sneak in again, maybe
had been there all this time without Sam's notice. He tries not to cry or snap
or complain on the phone, tries to get off on verbal-only sex which seems to be
so easy for Dean. But Sam thinks of Dean in a lonely corner of a street, maybe
freezing and with beer breath clouding in front of his mouth, smug smile, and
it frustrates, frustrates so so hard. He mutters, "I miss you," and Dean
answers, "I know, baby boy, jus' a little longer, promise, soon; keep that head
up for me, alright?" Like a record on repeat, learned by heart. Sam swallows
fist-thick.
A first essay. Nothing big. He simply likes the topic, that's all. Five pages.
He leaves it on top of his "nerd pile" (as Dean calls it) like a dare. Nobody
gives it as much as a fleeting look. It could as well be a recipe for
Thanksgiving stuffing. Invisible. Unimportant. After sending it in, he writes
another, better, more. He keeps a certain Californian dream like a favorite
song, book, photo album. He flicks through it when they are gone again, alone
once more. It's okay to dream. Just a dream. Dreams aren't real. Dreams can't
hurt anyone.
"He's slacking off and you know that."
Sam presses his ear harder into the mattress. It doesn't help. "It's his last
year, for Christ's sake. Just a few more months and it's over."
"'A few more months'. You say that like it's nothing."
"You know how much it means to him."
A brittle laugh. "You don't say." Some silence.
"At least let him finish high school. We can't take that away from him. Once
that's done with, he'll be right with us, I swear. Just let him get this out of
his way first. He'll work hard, he'll catch up. You know him." Dean is close to
whispering. He knows why.
Sam though, having heard every single word, hunches his shoulders tighter under
the covers.
Dean probably is the only person on earth who has the nerve to ask, "Shouldn't
you be studying?" with ten minutes on the John-timer and Sam's mouth on his
dick. Sam scowls and gets groping hands which tug on hair first and dick later,
fingers onto tongue and into ass, breathless kisses and headless profanities.
Such an honor that Sam snuck away from his private tutoring, lets Dean peel him
out of his school uniform, oh, baby, the panties hadn't been necessary. Pent up
hard enough to go crazy even without the fantasy, they don't make it much
farther than two minutes. Sam feels too tight, too wrong in this yet again
longer body, Dean like a stranger with new bumps and scars. Another round.
Sam's toes curl in time with the door banging open a floor underneath them.
Sam gets hickeys sucked over his hipbones and under too thin covers, and Dean
only agrees because John has been snoring for an hour straight and because Sam
promises to keep a close watch on the bed a few feet away. Unlike the pulsing
spots, Dean can't stay, slips away and onto the couch again. Sam can run his
fingers over them once everyone is gone again, can stare into the mirror and
trace leftovers. Dean can smirk all the way through the phone line when he asks
if they're still there.
"Not much longer," Sam hears again. He answers, "I know," and shrugs his coat
on to bring another set of envelopes to the mail office.
Hell means two weeks until finals. Hell means two hundred and fifty square-feet
for three grown men. Sam is snarling constantly, neck so wrecked that there is
not a single day without headache, without too dry eyes and deep, unnerved
sighs that make John explode every now and then. It's Sam choice to do it like
this, isn't it? Staying in one place, making himself and everyone in this
family miserable while preparing for this useless test. Sam won't even need it.
Yeah. No need to rub it in.
Dean is a shape, a piece of furniture, a small voice asking them to calm down,
to take a walk. Sam ducks away under an arm, pushes against a chest, avoids
green eyes. "Not in the mood," he explains, shoves fists deeper into pockets,
takes wide, wide steps with even longer legs. Sam's mind is full of words,
dates, numbers. The spinning is making him dizzy; like a merry-go-round. He
wishes he could say he hated it.
Dean is timid and small on the edge of a bed and it sickens Sam to look at him,
so he doesn't. Dean sucks him off without complaint, without asking for
something in return. He kisses Sam softly, from balls up to forehead, and Sam
curls his arms around his brother so that he can hide in the crook of his neck.
It's on him to mutter, "Not much longer." What a thing to say. Does it taste
just as bitter on Dean's tongue when he recites it?
More often than not, Sam thinks about giving up. It's of no use anyway. Why
should he keep on torturing himself like this? Dean is right there and needs
him. If Sam has to hiss another disgusting thing at his father, he is going to
throw up. He never wanted this. Didn't he always want to be with them, his
family? Doesn't he belong here? But if he does belong here, why won't his mind
stop running, sucking, gobbling? It would be so much easier if he wasn't this
dedicated to everything he does - just like Dean said. Hard working. Dutiful.
He can't give up. Not now. If he gave up now, everything he worked for up to
this point would fall apart, be stepped upon and eventually drift away with the
wind.
No. He won't give them this satisfaction.
It's maybe like dying. Floating. Cold sweat. Emptiness. Out of the classroom
after a bell has struck, papers gone, hands still shaking. The endorphins don't
come before noon, Dean in front of him and looking as hopeless as he looks
hopeful. Sam imagines he can hear that heart drop when he crowds his brother
against a wall, cradles a perfect jaw and kisses the best mouth hard enough to
make up for a hundred two-thousand-ones.
They fall apart like there never was anything else, like it was the first time
all over again, Sam's heart beating up into his fingertips and down to his
toes, rush right in the middle, twirling, blinding, Dean. Right. This is it.
This is what it has been all this time, all along. All there is to live for, to
fight for.
This man. These hands. Consonant, vowel, three consonants, and they sound to
die for with a voice like salvation.
Sam feels like an animal after wondering if he would feel like anything ever
again, all pieces together once Dean fills every single of his orifices like
purest powder, reaching into every cell. He forgets what he is, who he is,
before the world and consciousness slam back into him, making him sob and Dean
doesn't stop, just crushes him tighter in his arms, under his hips, and Sam
spills pleas for forgiveness like tears. Dean has always been willing to
please.
Dean is warm. Dean smells like Sam and bed and leather, and Sam smells like
Dean and bed and warmed cotton. The world is not spinning, not really. Strange
how little Sam misses sitting down and holding a pen. Life goes on, he guesses.
There is blood and guns and it's easy once you concentrate on simply worrying
about which side of the barrel you have to stand on.
"Maybe you 'n Dad can do the next one together; just you 'n him? I feel like
sleepin' for a goddamn month."
"Hm." Sam's head rests nice and good on his brother's chest. Nothing to think
about. No post offices.
"You could do it, y'know. You've become pretty good."
"Thanks."
"Truth. Dad said so, too."
"Hm. Good to know."
"Oh." Soft fingers through his hair. "You know he's... shy with his applause."
"Hm."
"But it's true, I swear. Exactly his words. 'He's become pretty good,' he
said."
"Okay."
It's good when Dean is smiling. Dean is smiling a lot lately. It's contagious,
so easy to go along. "It's so good to have you back," Sam hears.
The phone will ring in two minutes with Bobby on the line. Sam will be asked if
he has any explanation for that ominous envelop with a scarlet red "S" sitting
in his mailbox.
He gets a hold of Dean's hand, weaves their fingers together. As long as he
holds on tight, everything will be just fine.
Sam kisses those knuckles before he says, "Yeah."
Chapter End Notes
     So, here we are. It feels weird to write these lines, to say goodbye
     to this story... but everything has to end eventually. I can look
     back at the countless hours I spent with ITS and its ups and downs
     and I can nod and say, "Yup, worth it."
     Thank you for your incredible support, your comments, kudos,
     bookmarks; everything. I can't stress this enough: it wouldn't be
     what it is without you guys. Thank you. A million times thank you.
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