Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8255365.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean, Sam
  Additional Tags:
      Kinks, Rape/Non-con_-_Freeform, Somnophilia
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-10 Words: 2411
****** Nothing Looks To Me As It Did Before ******
by pinkwithoutplot
Summary
     Sam discovers things about himself he wishes he hadn't while watching
     his brother sleep.
 
 
 
Sam watches Dean sprawled out on the bed. Jesus, he can smell the sour mix of
bourbon, stale sweat and pot from over here. He'd been in the shower when he
heard Dean come back from the bar and knock the lamp off the bedside table. By
looks of it, the flurry of slurred curses which followed were Dean attempting
to right it and failing miserably. The cable snakes under Sam bed and there's a
soft pool of light on the sticky carpet. Must've kicked it out of reach before
he could get a hand on it and given up.
Sam shakes his head as he replaces the lamp. It's early by Dean's standards. He
wonders if this latest episode of self-destructive hedonism means his brother
was knocked back by some woman, or whether this is just about Dad leaving them
behind again, flying solo and keeping his secrets. Maybe Dean had just intended
to get messed up from the outset and not even tried to score. Yeah, that's
probably it. He's seen Dean in action, and even smelling bad and swaying on his
feet, one eye gone a little lazy, he can give most guys a run for their money.
Sam's not sure why he's even giving it so much consideration. He guesses he is
just surprised to see him back. He was sure he'd be alone for the night. Maybe
even tomorrow too.
Dean's mouth is open, lips soft-looking and slack. He makes a glottal snort and
mumbles something Sam doesn't catch. Sam re-tucks his towel around his narrow
hips and pushes his wet bangs out of his eyes before checking the salt lines
and padding closer to the bed. Dean still has his damn boots on. He sighs and
gently starts to unlace the first one. He's tentative to begin with, but Dean
is dead to the world, and gradually his movements become more careless. At one
point, Dean's leg spasms violently and Sam has to whip his head back to avoid a
sharp kick to the face.
While he's working on the second foot, Sam finds, much to his amusement, that
he can hold a conversation of sorts with his paralytic brother.
“Come on, Dean. Just need to get this off,” he says quietly to himself while he
wrestles with the boot. He's taken aback when he gets a mumbled response.
“They're not all striped, Sammy. Some of them...can speak Spanish.”
Sam's brow furrows for a second, then he feels laughter bubbling up. He
swallows it down, and pulls the boot off triumphantly.
“Oh yeah?” he says, starting to realize the comedic potential of the situation.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs after a second or two. “And that mailbox is too high.”
Sam grins and bites his knuckle to stay quiet.
“Right, right. I think, I know something else that's way too high, Dean.”
“She was a bitch anyway,” Dean says. “She ate my pie.”
Sam has to cover his mouth with his hand. He waits until the urge to laugh long
and hard has mostly passed, and then stands, placing Dean's boots at the foot
of the bed.
Dean is wearing his battered leather jacket and jeans. Sam knows from
experience that jeans are not the comfiest thing to sleep in. Also, he once
read an article on testicular torsion and man, did it stay with him. He's had a
thing about falling asleep in restrictive clothing ever since. He should
probably get Dean out of his smoke-steeped clothes and under a blanket so he
doesn't wake shivery and clammy and feeling even worse than he needs to. Dean's
gone enough that he probably won't notice, and he certainly won't struggle. So
Sam gently starts to ease the jacket down his shoulders, cradling the back of
his brother's head and lifting to get the wiggle room he needs to work it off
and get the sleeves down his arms. It takes a while, and he needs to stand and
re-knot his towel by the time he's finished, but he figures that's the hard bit
out of the way.
He's opening the buttons of Dean's shirt when he starts to feel a little
weirded out about undressing his brother. Then the fact that he's a little
freaked makes him feel even weirder. His fingers have gone a bit clumsy and
there's an odd, loose feeling low in his abdomen which usually signals either
nervousness or something he doesn't want think about right now. Dean's shirt
falls open as the final few button are slipped back out through the eyelets,
and Sam sees the soft rise and fall of his chest, the way his stomachs sinks
concave on the out-breath. Dean's been skipping meals so Sam can eat. Sam knows
it and Dean knows Sam knows, but they don't talk about it. Dad's lost to the
job right now, following some lead with a fervor that scares Sam, and they're
barely making ends meet.
There are scars too. So many for someone as young as Dean. It's jarring, the
way they mark up the soft skin, gentle musculature, so at odds with Dean's
almost girlish features. Sam glances up at his brother's face. He's a picture
of the sort of relaxation only all the chemicals pumping lazily around his
blood could achieve. Usually, he'd be in a shallow, no-man's land between sleep
and wakefulness, one hand under the pillow, gripping the hilt of a knife. For a
fleeting moment, Sam feels a blaze of anger that Dean's let himself get into
this state. What if he needs him during the night? What if something comes for
them and Dean's as good as useless. But then he remembers he's seventeen – not
a kid anymore – and perhaps this is Dean's way of telling him that he needs
looking after too sometimes. Needs rest and to forget the things he's seen and
Sam's rage hangs a sharp left and finds their Dad who should be here to see
this. To see the lengths his son needs to go to just to fall into a deep sleep.
Dean's longs eyelashes flutter over the purplish smudges under his eyes, and
despite the shadows he looks heartbreakingly young all of a sudden. If he leans
right down, Sam can see the smattering of freckles across his brother's nose
and cheeks and he can smell the booze and herbal smoke on his warm breath. It
should be gross, but before he can stop himself, Sam is closing the last few
inches of space between their faces and touching his tongue to his brother's
plump bottom lip. He can taste the alcoholic tang, the lingering smoke, can
feel how soft Dean's mouth is. He laps at his top lip and sucks it gently as he
pulls away.
Kiss. The word appears on his eyelids, seared into his brain like a neon motel
vacancy sign. He just kissed his brother. His sleeping, passed out, drunk-as-
Hell brother. Shit. Shit. Shit. Sam feels his breath becoming labored and wills
himself not to panic. He's waiting for Dean's eyes to snap open, and for the
meaty thwack of a fist connecting with his face, but it never comes. His
brother snuffles a bit and starts snoring gently.
Sam straightens up again and realizes his dick has chubbed up and is pressing
out the folds of the thin motel towel. He feels sick. He stands for what seems
like forever, afraid of waking Dean, afraid of these feelings which have snuck
up on him and sucker-punched him in the gut. Shame starts a slow burn over his
skin, his face flushing, spreading to his chest, but his nipples are taut, his
cock is fattening and his fingers are itching to touch.
Sam's gaze sweep up and down the length of Dean's body. He feels like he did
the first time he stole candy from a gas-n-sip. His hands are trembling as he
reaches for his brother's fly. He wonders if his face would betray him if Dean
were to wake now. He tugs at his buckle and slides the worn leather out through
the loops. It comes easily, and once the belt is open, Sam starts to slowly
unzip Dean's pants. He feels dizzy. Dean doesn't even stir. Sam bites down hard
on his lip and pulls at the waistband. Dean's a dead-weight, and Sam shifts his
hips from side to side as he pulls the jeans down and under his brother's ass,
realizing too late that he's taking his underwear with them. Dean's cock is
suddenly right there in front of him, soft and lying against the pale flesh of
his thigh. Dean's pubes are lighter than Sam's and fine-looking while Sam's own
are more wiry. Sam freezes and chances a look up at Dean's face. No change. He
takes a deep breath and lets one of his fingertips brush the tangle of hair. It
does feel different.
He remembers he can't get caught doing this, and moves down to pull at the
ankles, whipping the pants completely off in one swift motion, like a magician
pulling the table cloth out from under the crockery without displacing it.
Dean is now naked from the waist down, save for his socks, which Sam thinks
he'll leave on. He hopes Dean's won't think it's too strange that his underwear
is off. Maybe he's too intoxicated to remember and he'll believe he took them
off himself. His shirt is open, but Sam doesn't want to have to move his head
again, so he stands stock still for a while wondering what to do next, knowing
he's tenting his towel and he'll probably never be able to look his brother in
the eye again. That he should go and put his sweats on and get into his own bed
and turn out the light. But Dean cants his hips up a little in his sleep, makes
a small moan low in his chest, and some indefinable force propels Sam toward
the bed again, and he lets his palm settle on Dean's thigh. He slides it up,
inch by inch, the blood pounding in his ears until his pinkie is resting
against his brother's flaccid cock. He moves his finger infinitesimally, barely
stroking it, and before he can second-guess himself, he's leaning in to lick a
wet stripe along the length of it.
Dean smells different in the juncture of his thighs, muskier, stronger, and
like Sam but not quite. Sam's feeling braver now, nuzzling, the soft weight of
his brother's dick and balls against his nose, his cheek, soft hair tickling
him, darting his tongue out every now and then to taste. His right hand slips
in between the folds of his towel and finds his throbbing dick, a bead of
precome welling at the tip already just from the guilt-laced thrill of being
able to do this to Dean. His brother will smear him up the walls and probably
never speak to him again if he regains consciousness now, but Sam can't stop.
He swirls his tongue around the head of Dean's cock as he pulls himself off,
squeezing his eyes shut as Dean groans in his sleep and his cock twitches
against Sam's mouth. Sam comes all over his fist and the towel, hips hunching
forward, his body wracked by wave after wave of pleasure so intense it almost
hurts. There are tears in his eyes when it all finally subsides, and Sam is
sure Dean must be awake by now and about to pound him into a paste.
But Dean is still and silent, except for the occasional snort and mumbled
nonsense words. Sam wipes his hand off on the towel and hopes the smell of
spunk will have dissipated by morning. He fetches the spare blanket from the
cot bed Dad's been sleeping on when he's here, and tucks it around Dean. He's
suddenly struck by the unfairness of having just discovered what he wants most
in the world, only to find it's the one thing he can never, ever have. This was
a one time deal – a huge risk – and he kind of thinks it might have been better
if he'd never found out that his brother's dick feels warm and strangely
delicate against his lips and tastes like salt. After all, you can't miss
something you've never had. He's unable to resist pressing a gentle kiss to his
Dean's open mouth before he retreats to the bathroom for his second shower of
the night.
He gets hard again pretty much immediately and gives in to it, wrapping his
fist around his swollen, over-sensitive cock and pumping almost violently, the
sound of running water drowning out his groans and the slick sound of flesh on
flesh. He imagines how it would have gone if Dean hadn't been so drunk and
stoned, if his dick had filled under Sam's touch and he'd been able to bring
him to a shuddering climax without waking him. If Dean had simply been
pretending to be out of it, and Sam had suddenly felt strong fingers snarl in
his hair as his brother fucked his mouth, unable to hold back any longer, and
flooded his tongue with pulse after pulse of come.
When Sam finally lets sleep claim him, it's not long before he's dreaming of
all the filthy things he never knew he wanted his brother to do to him. He
wakes in the early hours with semen cooling on his stomach and a phantom ache
in his ass, his hole clenching and opening for something he's never had. He
lies and watches the light change, and by the time the first shaft of sun
breaks through the blind, he's made his decision. It's only one more year. He
can bury this for a year. He'll have to get the application forms sent to
Pastor Jim's.
Dean belches in his sleep and rolls away from the intrusive sunshine. Sam
snickers despite himself and wonders if he's got enough change to get Dean a
decent coffee from the diner across the street. He's got a feeling he's going
to need it.
 

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