Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1142505.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Weecest, Underage_Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, siken_fic, creedence_clearwater_revival_fic, Anal_Sex,
      Rimming, Anal_Fingering, Multiple_Orgasms, Fake/Pretend_Relationship,
      Established_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-19 Words: 2633
****** Low Dye ******
by compo67
Summary
     Sam is fourteen and beginning to understand poetry, life, and his
     brother. In every town they pass through Sam and Dean tell the locals
     a different story, but each one involves them dating. As times passes
     and the stories grow more elaborate, what is pretend and what is real
     becomes unclear. [TFWSecretSanta 2013 exchange.]
Notes
     Prompt: Sam and Dean are always moving to new schools and each time
     they always have some new story/background behind themselves, but one
     thing stays the same and that’s that they like to pretend to be
     together.
     Original Notes: The first italicized snippet is a quote from Richard
     Siken’s “You Are Jeff.” The second is from “Straw House, Straw Dog”
     also by Siken, both from his book Crush. The last italicized portion
     are some of the lyrics from “Lodi” by CCR. It’s recommended that you
     listen to the CCR songs listed in the fic so you get a feel for the
     music. <3
     I wrote this last year and now I can officially post it! :D I hope
     y'all like it. There isn't enough Weecest out there and I was super
     happy to include both CCR and Siken into here. I love the thought of
     Sam being a SIken fan and reading his poetry and thinking of their
     relationship. And I think Dean would be a CCR fan. Lodi is pronounced
     Low-Dye-Uh (ugh John Fogerty and your accent pls <3). Listen to the
     song and read the poems if you get a chance!
In Tulsa they were cousins.
In Wichita they were step brothers.
In Omaha they were foster brothers.
In Decatur, Illinois they are married.
Every town they pass through in the Midwest—when Sam is ripping through
fourteen like it’s tissue paper—sees the Winchester boys as a couple. The story
always changes because it keeps things interesting and Sam’s mind off other
things.
It’s easier to fabricate lies about their lives than it is to tell the truth.
Sometimes John will stick around and pick up work; he never cares what his boys
tell the schools he dumps them in just as long as Dean stops fooling around and
graduates. When John inevitably gets bored and picks up a call—because it keeps
his life a different kind of interesting and his mind off other things—the sky
is the limit for their stories. Sam once convinced a set of classmates in Plano
that they were a millionaire family slumming it for a few weeks, trying to see
which one of them cracked first.
There isn’t anything to do in this town. He can tell as soon as he finds out
the most interesting thing here is the sex and bong shop next to a Chinese
buffet off of Main. They have potential here so their story has to be good.
It’s mid-September and the weather is turning gray and miserable, which is
fitting for their arrival in town. Decatur is run down and sleepy; that makes
it a good place for John to ditch them while he works on a case three towns
over. Sam makes two attempts at asking for a visit to the state universities in
either Springfield or Urbana-Champaign and both are shot down by grunts and
grumbles from John. Sam just wants to see the libraries—maybe sneak into a
lecture—and begins to plan a way to do this but he’s distracted by their first
night alone in their Motel 6 room.
This is a period in Dean’s life where all he wants to listen to is CCR. Sam has
heard Cosmo’s Factory so many times that he swears Dean tries to speak with a
John Fogerty accent.
“Midnight Special” is blasting through the headphones on a cheap Walkman while
Dean’s eating him out, rough tongue pressed inside him, making wide, warm
circles. Slurping and licking away with enthusiasm, Dean hums along to the
song, occasionally taking breaks to wipe his mouth and mumble a few lyrics. Sam
is on his stomach, hips pushed up, naked and warm all over. He knows Dean could
do this for hours, putting that mouth to good use, but Sam is fourteen and
patience is not a virtue, at least not to his cock and definitely not when his
brother’s cock is concerned.
Wiggling free, he flips onto his side and kicks Dean’s shoulder. They shut off
the lights but kept the television on, muted, so the only sounds are them and
“Fortunate Son.”
“Impatient, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean mumbles, rubbing at his jaw.
“If I have to listen to crummy classic rock while we fuck then I think I get to
dictate when your cock goes in my ass,” Sam snips, twisting to lay flat on his
back. When Dean places a hand on his lower belly, fingers lightly running over
the sensitive skin there, and he relaxes. There isn’t a part of him that Dean
hasn’t touched.
Dean smirks at him, also naked, but covered in caramel freckles and a lingering
summer tan. He is miles of lean muscles and solid strength, young and
dangerously handsome. He is all of Sam’s.
The bed underneath them is the cleanest one they’ve had since John accidentally
splurged on a honeymoon suite in Bixby three months ago. They ended up sharing
the king bed while John slept on the floor. Too bad they hadn’t had a chance to
dirty it up like this one. From inky darkness, the kind that only exists in
motels that passed code twenty years ago, Dean’s voice rumbles, “You keep
thinking you’re in charge, Sammy, that’s your first mistake.”
“I’ll destroy that tape.”
“C’mon, let me blow you to ‘Proud Mary.’”
“Dean!”
“But I’m workin’ for the man every night and day.” Over the sound of Dean’s
terrible singing—he’s off key on purpose, the idiot—Sam gets excited at the
snap of a bottle cap opening. He tenses up because he knows what he’s about to
feel and hasn’t had it in three weeks. It’s been hurried exchanges of rough
hand jobs and messy blow jobs in between truck stops and gas stations. John,
for whatever reason, felt like trying to be a parent for a while
and hovered constantly but they never did get caught. If only he knew what his
real style of parenting had resulted in; Sam’s not ashamed. Far from it. In
fact, what he feels about the unspoken, unofficial thing between them is the
exact opposite of shame. It’s pride.
Whatever settled into his chest between his lungs, in that organ called a
heart, hasn’t left. It has stayed since the first time Sam saw Dean. And not
saw Dean as in literally looked at him; but the first time he was cognizant of
Dean being everything to him. Everything included this.
Freckled shoulders loom above him for a moment. Dean looks down at him and Sam
understands the meaning to a poem he read. He wants to quote it out loud but
that will get him laughed at. The last thing he wants to feel like right now,
with the blunt head of Dean’s cock pressed against his hole, is a dumb, dorky
little brother. He wants to be a lover; he craves it. It’s his role and his
role only to be the one Dean pounds into. It’s Sam that he should be licking
off of his plush pink lips. As Dean pushes in—Sam’s legs folded up to his
chest—Sam repeats the poem in his head.
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you,
but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible… You’re in a
car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him,
and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he
reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and
you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something
you didn’t even have a name for.
It didn’t take long for Sam to memorize that snippet the first time he read it
in some used bookstore, hidden in the gay erotica section, desperately trying
to memorize everything. Frantically stealing whatever snippets he could from
civilized life before he was shoved into the backseat of the Impala; books were
the only places people spoke like that, where they formed sentences that way
and had it all make sense.
It didn’t long for him to chant this poem like a prayer.
“Sammy, stop thinking,” Dean mutters, one large, warm hand pressing down on
Sam’s lower stomach.
“Can’t help it,” Sam counters softly and has his muscles relax until he feels
Dean’s hips meet his. He starts tightening around the heavy, twitching cock
inside him, causing Dean to let out long, low moans. This is a good position
for them—any position is a good position for them.
Finally—finally—Dean leans down and kisses him. Sam doesn’t mind. He doesn’t
think it’s dirty.
They are marked by worse things.
“Oh,” Sam gasps as his hips are lifted and Dean’s cock shifts inside him. It
presses and pushes deeper at this slightly elevated angle. His legs rest on and
around Dean’s thighs and hips, though he can’t stop trembling as Dean starts to
thrust. He’s fucked to the same rhythm as “I Heard it Through the Grapevine.”
It’s a quick tempo and Dean slams into him roughly, causing the sweetest tinge
of pain, the best blazing burn. The slap of Dean’s balls matches the drum solos
and Sam undulates against the bed, his own cock swollen and thick, untouched
and red.
They talked about their story while they waited in the room ten minutes after
John left. They always gave him half an hour, just to make sure he didn’t
double back because he forgot something, as had happened before. It doesn’t
take long because they are both professional con artists, molded by their old
man. It’s a line people can relate to, which means they’ll buy it, lap it up,
and tell it to their grandchildren.
They’ll never see this town again, never eat chicken fried steak in the diner
on Main again, never pretend to care about the local attractions and tourist
traps as described to them by the older man working the visitor’s center, so
what do they care? This hunt will last two weeks and it’s not two John
Winchester weeks, it’s two real weeks this time.  After that this town will be
nothing more to them than the rest of America and their childhood on the
road—one big blur marked by moments of blood stains and first times in the
backseat of the Impala while it’s parked somewhere in a suburb of Lansing.
Because Sam had to go without for three weeks he wants to do something more
daring here. He wants to lie so well that he might buy his own con. The only
one he wants is the one that can’t possibly endure past adolescence. Dean will
probably chalk this up to hormonal experimentation ten years from now and never
mention it, especially not to the women he will eventually sleep with again. 
Just as Dean is slipping out of him—with a squelch and a pop—Sam is reminded of
another poem.
I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,
couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me
and it never made any sense, anything.
“Harder,” he begs his brother, clinging to the blankets and sheets underneath
him, turned over and feeling Dean mount him from behind so that they are chest
to back. Sharp teeth bite down on a sensitive spot on Sam’s neck while more
lube is applied. Dean begins to bite harder, applying more pressure, until he
pushes into Sam in one long, deep stroke, breaking the bite to take in a sharp
breath and let out a content sigh. The song has changed to “Run Through the
Jungle,” and Sam can’t take the rhythm. It’s too fast and Dean’s balls, large
and soft, are hitting his hips, smacking in just the right way. Every other
thrust pounds against Sam’s prostate and midway through the song, Sam comes.
Dean pushes Sam’s hips into the mattress, driving him down, fucking him harder
at that angle, pulling out all the way and then shoving back in. Sam cries out,
his mind blank for once, and comes all over the bed and his stomach. He works
his ass as best he can but it’s not enough to make Dean come. His ass is then
spread by two large hands and two thick fingers slip in alongside the cock
already inside.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers, bending down and licking a stripe up from Sam’s
shoulder blades to his neck. “Open up Sammy, open up.”
“I am,” Sam whines and shudders when he feels three fingers inside. “Dean…”
“I got you, don’t worry.”
The fingers leave and Sam is almost sorry. He’s hard again; the pressure
against his prostate builds. When Dean grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, he can no
longer quote poetry. Everything is about Dean grinding into him, pushing Sam’s
hips down with the force of his own hips, breathing hard and leaving marks that
they’ll explain away as bruises later. It’s fevered and frenzied and Sam
challenges his older brother, makes him work for it, bucks against Dean’s hold
and the grip on his hair, not bothering to be quiet any longer. The bed is
squeaking but it’s not as loud as the headboard, which is thumping against the
wall, banging to the demanding drive of Dean’s powerful thighs.
Gone is the teasing. Sam knows his brother is close; he can feel it in the
twitch of his cock and hear it in the way Dean is breathing. Sam pushes back,
applies as much pressure as he can, fucking himself and hitting his prostate
until he starts to feel his own orgasm build. Dean doesn’t like to come inside,
he prefers to stripe Sam’s skin, but Sam begs him to stay in. Something else
must wear Dean’s resistance down; they’re flat on the bed, not an inch between
them and Dean pulls out completely then sinks back in to the root one, two,
three times, hitting Sam’s prostate every time.
The swell of their cocks—Sam feels everything all at once—and Dean’s lips on
his cheek, leaving unexpectedly tender kisses, causes an upsurge of singeing
electricity. It’s not an often occurrence but this time they come together. The
crest, the crown, the crescendo causes Sam to tremble. He mewls when Dean pulls
out and rolls over, fumbling around with something on the nightstand. It’s not
fair to go from so full to so empty; it’s always over too soon. When Dean rolls
back, pressed next to him despite the mess, a warm, slightly damp towel cleans
Sam up. His hole is sore but Dean is careful with the cleanup; a slick of
lotion is applied and he’s given a rewarding kiss, something rare from an
eighteen year old with more experience with shotguns and salt than vulnerable
affection.
Instead of poetry in his head, it’s Creedence as Dean gets up to check on the
salt lines. He comes back and lifts up the covers to place them underneath,
cold at first but warming up.
Just about a year ago, I set out on the road seekin’ my fame and fortune
lookin’ for a pot of gold. Things got bad things got worse I guess you will
know the tune. Oh! Lord stuck in Lodi again. If only I had a dollar for ev’ry
song I’ve sun and ev’ry time I had to play while people there sat there drunk.
Oh! Lord, I’m stuck in Lodi again.
Dean sings along with this John, a John who has probably never run through the
Bayou with a werewolf after him, a John who doesn’t pray to Jack Daniels on the
regular, a John who will never ask what stains his fingers more—whiskey or
blood.
This time Dean is on key and his fatigue creates a twang so lovely Sam tries
not to tell him he loves him.
He chokes down the truth because lies are easier.
They’ll pretend they’re married—shotgun wedding down South, they have fake gold
rings from a hunt last month they can use—and Sam will con his entire class.
Dean will help with well-timed kisses and fake, corny words of sentiment. These
are words they never use, words Sam only reads in his poetry—sweetheart, baby,
mine.
It wouldn't be appropriate.
It’s easier to hand out lies like candy in small towns than it is to face the
truth between them in beds that will never be theirs. The frailty of Dean’s
voice isn’t talked about; he has his own fears and worries and things he quotes
in his mind when they should be sleeping. They start school tomorrow and Sam
knows they’ll end up like this again every night until John inevitably returns.
Until they run out of time and money.
They’re stuck in Lodi again.
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