Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/505338.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC
  Additional Tags:
      Not_Weecest, No_abuse, f/m_fingering, Non-graphic_underage_(term_"fiddle"
      for_the_action_of_self-soothing)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-06 Words: 3104
****** Observances in Paradise ******
by framedhim
Title: Observances in Paradise
Author: framedhim
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: main – Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC’s
Warnings: confused very young, non-graphic underage (so everyone knows, I use
the term ‘fiddle’ to imply), no Weecest, including masturbation
For essene 's prompt, "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan// a stately pleasure-dome
decree." for the delicious LiveJournal community salt_burn_porn.
Not beta’d, bad framed :/ I will edit this but I needed to get this up as I’m
late already with posting. And now that it's been posted I'll add one more
thing - the underage in this isn't a kink, rather, I'd meant it to be a set-up
as a Pavlovian reaction between the brothers as well as a very common, child
behaviorism when a child is under duress.
+
 
Dean’s four, an adorable mess of tow-headed mischief the women at the shelter
said, and he misses his mom. Tonight’s the first night without anyone watching
over him and the baby while dad’s out getting dinner. They left the shelter two
days ago, slept in the car the first night, and checked into a motel the
second. He’s scared, doesn’t know what to do if there’s any grown-up problems
like Sammy choking or him burning up if another fire starts, and he’s looking
into the make-shift bassinet his dad’s made out of a back-alley Woolworth
crate.
Yeah, he misses his mom something bad like when her long, pretty hair would
trail over his shoulder as she helped him with his paint-by-numbers car
picture. He misses how she smelled up close, baked pies and brownies, and five
minutes later, he still can’t stop watching Sam puff little breaths. He misses
his mom, wishes he could wrap his arms around her neck, whisper ‘I love you,
momma’ into the soft curve of her neck. Dean knows she would be upset with him
that the baby doesn’t have enough blankets.
It’s good watching the baby – one breath, two breaths - and Dean squirms in the
huge motel bed, worried about why his dad has been gone longer than the Scooby
Doo and Shaggy cartoon has been on, and it's upsetting that he can’t fall
asleep. He maybe feels bad for laughing, couldn’t stop the giggles when Scooby
pulled the mask off the doctor pretending to be some meanie Khan guy.
There's a commercial break, and he tells himself once again that's it's good
watching Sammy because mom didn’t make it out of a giant fire and dad and him
are real, real sad, and now his chest feels tight and weird. Dad’s face gets
all kinds of ugly now with these big fat tears smearing down his jaw when he
doesn’t think Dean’s looking. Dean, he knows the tight feeling he has is a
warm-up to some crying of his own. So Dean squirms, not thinking of anything
but wanting his dad back and for Sammy to be okay, and he reaches down to where
mom only had to tell him once ‘never in public, honey’ and fiddles.
So he fiddles and hears the tv commercial go away, ABC nightly news coming on
to bore him to death, and he’s watching Sammy live while he presses down
absent-mindedly until he hears the lock on the motel door turn. A blast of cool
late afternoon air hits him, and his head feels floaty being afraid of
everything. His eyes snap to the open door and the superhero figure his dad
becomes as he's outlined and shadowed in front of the sunlight that soaks the
room. Dad walks into the room, paper bag crinkling, and the rush of being safe
is too much, and there's a crazy spike of feeling good zipping from where he
fiddles down to his stomach.
He watches, exhausted and confused, and the paper bag is on the table, a head
of lettuce tumbling out and rolling around like a weeble wobble. Dean loves his
dad, loves how the man hulks out standing over him, and craves his rough pats
to the top of his head. There’s no smell of beer tonight, at least not right
now, and he shifts into his dad’s arms and hears a mumble of ‘you okay, boy?’
and something about ‘cheeks are flushed, need to check for fever.’ Dean loves
his father, knows that dad hangs the moon and is sad as the stars now that
mom’s gone. His pop smells like outside, fresh cut grass and something sharper
– sweat and that stuff he puts on after he shaves. The smell is thick, and
Dean’s almost out - has to look at baby Sammy one more time. He watches three
more tiny whiffs of breath and then lights out. He whispers, "Miss mommy, Sammy
does too," into his dad’s cheek before his eyes close.
+
Dean’s eight, hair a mess of curls right before he needs a trim and the blonde
fading to something brownish.
Whatever, he thinks, not as if anyone cares. He cares, gives a dawg gone about
the girls in class wanting to put their stupid fingers in the mop-top, and he
sure cares about the boys, doesn’t want to get in another fight after school
because he’s taking all their girls away. Whatever, he thinks again. It's not
his problem the boys in this dumb city are too soft, too much like their old
men to make a girl smile.
See, Dean’s been checking them out – not the idiot boys – but the families
here. It’s a given that his dad takes him and Sammy with him every once in a
blue moon. Families that are always crying, dads even - with their beer guts
and their snotty attitudes - and Dean knows the score with the stupid boys in
class. Trey’s dad is cool, sad though, and Trey’s been over at their small
rental home, his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpack so full of homework the
boy is constantly tipping to the side.
Dean and him clamor up the steps to the cottage, slamming open the rickety
wooden screen door after another totally boring second grade hell. Trey’s mom
is missing somewhere in the forest about a ten-mile walk down the road, thick
maples and pine keeping her in there, and Dean’s friend is moping. He gets it,
sees the dark circles under the other boy’s eyes – purples and blacks.
“Where’s your dad?”
Funny question that is, that Dean knows John’s in the woods with a hammer
blessed by some creepy old lady that lives two blocks down from the library;
that John is by himself, looking for Trey's mom, and that the claw hammer is
something to do with a...a relic he thinks it was called. Speaking of which,
Dean taps a piece of coffee-stained notepad taped to the hallway mirror, the
words Khan Dynasty and vessel, and the hell if he knows what any of that means.
“No clue, dude. Hold on – Sammy!” he yells. An answering squeak of wired four
year old settles his mind’s doubts before he adds, “There’s pizza in the
fridge." He makes his way towards the kitchen where the babysitter, the baby
brother, and the glorious food all are. Only…
Dean flips the kitchen light on, thinking for a split second on how odd that
is, when he stops dead in his tracks. Because there on the kitchen floor, in a
pile of spilt Coco Puffs, is his kid brother with a chubby hand down the front
of his pj bottoms, his cheeks lit up a bright tomato red and eyes a swollen
mess.
Dean’s knocked forward, a stumbling oaf of a friend banging into him, and he
can’t stop to think But where the hell is the babysitter? and can't help but
freak out and shout, “Sammy!”
Trey’s eyes pop wide at the scene, his mouth stuck in a fish face gape. Dean
can’t freeze, can’t handle the sight of his baby brother so terrified and
scoops Sammy up, the kid’s hand still in his pants, and Dean smashes his face
into the child’s neck. He can’t. He can’t even think beyond who he’s going to
kill, string alive like dad threatens the many floating telephone voices, and
Trey shoulder bumps him – gets him gulping in breaths and scenting his kid
brother’s skin. Smelling him, wet dog scent of being outside playing and kool-
aid, and he doesn’t know what the ever living hell happened today but Sammy’s
okay.
They’re both scared shitless, but Sammy’s okay now.
+
At seventeen, Dean’s long ago figured out what his dick is for and how to use
it well. Dad’s told him before, "Don’t let it rule your life," but Dean knows
if he’s man enough to be hunting and playing a pseudo-father more and more with
each passing year and finishing up school, then he’s man enough to spread the
love that only his dick can provide.
And he does – spread the love. All the time. Most days, he manages to get by
with a quick jerk-off session in the bathroom and that’s that. No tenting with
the passing breeze because chances are, Lydia from Mrs. Tack’s class is blowing
him in the school’s cafeteria junk closet until his eyes cross. Or Annie, from
Room 200, who lets him finger her during a library break.
Annie’s a quick finger bang; she likes him flicking her clit, wet little button
he finds easily when she spreads her muscled runner’s thighs. She's forever
wearing this bejeweled denim mini-skirt, allowing him easy access to push her
cotton panties aside and get her pussy slicking up so he can sink his thumb in
as far as he can reach. Annie’s quick to finish, always stands with her back to
him like she’s searching for a book. Dean rides her ass through his own denim,
pressing in tight and sideways so that even in the darkened aisle, no one can
see he’s mapping out her cunt like it’s his job.
Two minutes tops - she only ever closes her eyes for a few seconds - and Dean
shoots off in his jeans, untouched, each damn time. After the girl’s walls
unclench, stop fluttering, Dean pulls his fingers free and leans into her
space, crisp apple perfume hitting him in the gut. He sucks the tips clean,
lips smacking, and whispers, "Okay," and he’s off.
Only, today is unexpected. Today, he lets his dick rule over all his other
senses, and Annie manages a nasty surprise on him. Tanned skin, permed hair,
and she smiles slyly over her shoulder at him, says, “Hey there, Sam.”
Dean just shot his wad, so sure he’s sluggish, but he can still register that
what Annie just said is beyond fucked up. Everyone knows his kid brother –
they’ve been sitting on Lambert Falls, Ohio, like it’s the end of the road;
seven months and counting, with Sam on two different geek squads after school.
He’s about to tell her good luck, sayonara, when he hears a sound, a shuffle of
sneakers on threadbare carpet, and instead, he’s spinning. Loss of blood to his
head thanks to the movement, thanks to cumming like the seventeen year old he
is, it’s nothing compared to the dizzying ride his brain is on when he winds up
face to face with his geek brother.
Sam stands there, dad’s flannel shirt over Dean’s white tee engulfing the kid,
one hand grasping a book and holding it towards Dean. Dean sputters, thinks on
what the fuck the boy just saw, and hopes to all that’s holy that Sam can keep
his fucking mouth shut. He’s terrified, can’t quite place what it is he needs
to say in order to make this scenario in any way, shape, or form suitable and
okay.
Sam hands him the book, smiling a grin that isn’t anything that’s been on the
kid’s face before. Certainly nothing that's been on Dean's radar. Shy, then
confident, with shaggy brown hair falling in his eyes. The kid licks his lips,
and Dean’s on that like now. The spit-shine gloss of his kid brother’s lips
confusing him, blending in with the anger of being caught, and Annie’s scent in
his mouth. Dean does the only thing that makes sense: reaches for the book
without pause and grins maniacally at Sam.
Sam knows. He knows, and he doesn't let Dean's smirk egg him on. “It’s that
book of poems you needed for your lit class, weirdo. Good luck, Dean. Samuel
Coolidge is gonna blow your mind.”
“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says, watches as Annie hightails it halfway down the
library’s corridor to get to class. The buzzer just rang, he needs to get
moving, and he makes to push past his smarmy kid brother. Sam grunts, turns
into the push; slender hips jerk forward helplessly, and that sole instance
wipes the bizarre look clean off the boy’s face. Dean feels it, feels the hard
line of Sam’s dick against his hip, and they’re statues, motionless. Sam backs
down immediately before Dean is able to get the, “It’s okay, Sam,” out.
Sam’s a blur out the library doors, and Dean is stunned. He whispers, “You’re
thirteen, it rules your life.”
Only, the day doesn’t let up, and his traitor dick decides chubbing out is the
way to go during his next class. Mrs. Orion - she of the tiny tits, a B cup at
most, and shoulder-length brown hair – is leaning down, shoulder to shoulder
with him and her rayon blouse loose in the front. It's hanging open, Dean side-
eyes against his better judgement, and there’s her bra. Front-closure clasp,
all Dean’d have to do is snick it open, palm the small offerings.
Mrs. Orion of English and Literature, his very married teacher with her boyish
waist and narrow hips, is tall in height and completely earthy. There’s a waft
of deodorant hitting him as she continues leaning over him, but Mrs. Orion
smells mostly like outside, fresh-cut grass, and she’s musky. She smells like
Sam when Sam’s pinned beneath Dean outside wrestling, like when they're both
wound up, balls aching from the kicks, and dicks hard as steel from the close
proximity and exertion.
Dean needs to fuck something. He wants to bend his teacher over his desk, grab
her hair (shaggy, Sam needs to cut his), and fuck her from behind. As soon as
class is over, he’s out the school’s front door and in the Impala. Dad’s rule,
don’t mess up the car, keeping him from flicking his jeans open and jerking off
hot and fast.
Five torturous minutes later and he’s in the motel room, barely aware of his
surroundings as he grunts and opens his jeans. His brain is aware enough to
hear the bathroom door open, on enough of an alert system to see his kid
brother level him with a glare and stand there, challenging. Dean can’t think
for the blood rushing in his ears, and when Sam licks his lips, eyes riveted to
Dean’s dick being stroked by Dean’s hands that have a mind of their own, Dean
loses it.
Okay, he’s not okay. Hand and jeans covered in jizz, Sammy panting and slamming
the bathroom door closed, they’re not okay. Something happened, Dean fell down
the fucking rabbit hole, wound up here. They’re so incredibly screwed.
+
Dean is thirty-five, aged. His body is in motion, nothing in the play of
muscles like his teenaged self. Leaning down, licking a stripe up a sweat
slicked back, he is nothing if not pure energy. Vibrations, liquid movement,
laughter from his belly on up, ending in a rich baritone that’s his and his
alone. Massaging the shoulder blade that’s splayed before him, he grinds down,
teasing, with his dick drooling a tacky line on the rounded ass cheeks beneath
him.
There’s a sigh, a melancholy tenor not from his own lips, and his hips stutter,
circle, empathize. It’s a few birthdays past, an anniversary of a mother’s
death, a father long ago lost to a mission. They've moved sideways to it all,
and now there's the need to fuck it out, to taste and bite as it won't go away.
Won't ever leave them be. Dean wants to wrench the sorrow away with his teeth,
but tonight, tonight he flips onto his side and shoulder bumps his brother into
moving on his as well.
Sam scoots in, and Dean is sweating already, heat surrounding him from all
angles. His leg tucks forward, bent at the knee in order to stick his ass out,
and Sam comes in for the kill. Hand smacking Dean's away, Sam pries him open,
scenting along the column of Dean's neck. Pine, sweat, mineral ore – they’ve
been stomping about the forest for a solid two days. Aches and pinpricks, their
bodies screaming after the hunt.
Dean’s wet, prepped and lubed enough to be slick as a woman, asshole tight even
after all the years they’ve been here, done this. The t.v. is playing random
shit, an old Olivia Newton-John music video, Xanadu or whatever, and he grunts
as Sam pushes the blunt head of his dick past the rim. Dean is forever
impatient, pushes down and back, sinks Sam in quickly.
Their pace is slow. There's nowhere to be be, all the pain of them and more
encroaching, and Sam battles for them both; counters the pace with punishing
thrusts. Fucks them past the nothingness that threatens their spaces between.
It's brutal, a fight they can handle, Sam's sweating palm holding Dean open,
nearly ripping Dean’s leg hair out. Dean hears himself, outside of himself:
lost, the slap of Sam’s balls against his ass loud in the room, lube squelching
with the rhythm they’ve set. Dean pants, a burn setting him up, he’s on fire.
Lost, not terrified, and this is his life now. He’s no idea how he became this,
how he’s moaning like a whore in church for his kid brother’s dick. The one
taking him apart piece by piece, year after year.
Dean is okay; he’s fan-fucking-tastic. Sam is safe, and Dean spasms backwards
when his brother wraps long fingers around his mid-section on down, down, down
to his dick. It sets him off, sets him shooting his load toward his chin, inner
walls clamping down on Sam's dick.
Sam is okay, maybe. Dean thinks maybe as Sam’s balls tighten against his ass,
as Sam skips a stroke, falters. They’ll be safe, and Dean’s on fire, never left
that goddamned house maybe because he’s burning up when Sam empties all he has
up in him. Liquid, they are. And Dean can sleep for a little bit, exhausted,
cum leaking out his hole on down his thighs.
They’re okay here. Paradise.
Maybe.
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