Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12802152.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Teen_Sam_Winchester, Young_Sam_Winchester, First_Time, POV_Dean
      Winchester, Dean_Winchester_Has_a_Sexuality_Crisis, Underage_Sex,
      Possessive_Dean, Absent_John_Winchester, Background_Slash, Background
      Het, Swearing, Sam_In_Panties, Crossdressing_Sam, Desperate_Sam, Threats
      of_Violence, I_Don't_Even_Know, I_Blame_Tumblr, I'm_Bad_At_Tagging
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-23 Words: 3668
****** One Last And Final Effort ******
by rei_c
Summary
     "I figured this would get your attention," Sam says, and the
     bitterness nearly knocks Dean sideways. "Nothing else has." He
     glances down at the fists Dean hasn't been able to unclench and
     raises an eyebrow, looks back up to ask, "You gonna hit me?"
Notes
     No seriously, I blame tumblr. There was a picture, I went 'huh,' and
     then word spaghetti happened.
     ...It's a Thanksgiving miracle! Or something.
     (This is for M., who has been working hard and has been poorly and
     has been dealing with non-verbal me all year. You are the daiquiri to
     my white russian. ♥)
Dean parks the Impala in front of the motel room he's sharing with Sam, lets it
idle, takes a deep breath. He's already guzzled down half his coffee but Sam's
tea is getting cold as he sits there, staring at the door. It's been a long
week: Dad's the next state over chasing some kind of roving spirit to ground
and Dean's been left behind with an increasingly bitchy Sam -- no, not bitchy,
not entirely. There's another element mixed in with the attitude, something
Dean's never really seen from his brother before, something Dean might be
willing to call desperation if he didn't know better.
It's probably just the fact that school's starting back up in a few weeks and
Dad still hasn't told them where they'll be hunkering down for a semester -
- that or Sam's growing pains. The kid's got to be more than tired of them at
this point; Sam's shot up almost six inches in the last year and he's still
going. The latest growth spurt has left Sam long-limbed and nothing but bone;
there are times when Dean aches to get some fat and muscle on his little
brother. Nothing good is going to happen the first time Sam gets banged around
on a hunt if he doesn't get some padding -- and soon.
Sam's not helping, either, not with his preference for chicken and salads and
the way he likes water instead of milk, eats dry toast instead of buttered when
he even eats bread, drinks herbal tea and snacks on nuts while he studies
instead of juice and chips and cookies and Twinkies, has fruit for breakfast if
he has anything, not the Lucky Charms he used to eat like they were going out
of style.
Sometimes Dean thinks that maybe a little more sugar in his diet would make Sam
a lot more sweeter in personality. He's not stupid enough to suggest it,
though.
With one last inhale-exhale of peace, Dean turns off the car, picks up two
paper bags and juggles his coffee and Sam's tea to shut the car door and make
his way into their room. He kicks the door closed behind him, sets everything
down on the rickety excuse for a table, and calls out, "Breakfast, Sammy!" when
he sees that the bathroom door's closed.
Dean's emptying out the paper sacks, pulling out the oatmeal and nine-grain
muffin he picked up for Sam at the cafe down the street, when he hears the
bathroom door open. He's ready to tease Sam about Sam's squirrel-hippie food -
- fuck him, but Dean loves his brother enough to enable it -- but words leave
when he turns and sees what Sam wearing.
"Holy fucking shit."
Okay, apparently not all words.
Sam's standing there in profile and -- fine, he's not skinny; now that Dean's
got a view of the muscle of Sam's calves highlighted by heels, the curve of his
ass framed by those panties, the camisole that frames the rise of his
collarbone and dips just enough so that lace is the only thing covering his
nipples, he realises that Sam's lean, runner's build, all tight muscle without
the bulk that Dean carries, more like their mom than their dad.
He's also ridiculously fucking hot. Like, scorched earth, instant erection,
mouth-wateringly hot. Sam, little brother, sixteen-year-old little brother, in
black heels and bedroom lingerie, is every wet dream Dean's never had and the
only thing he's going to want from now until he dies.
Probably even after that, too, christ.
"Sam?" Dean asks, hoping his brother doesn't need him to elaborate. There's
nothing left in Dean -- all the blood in his body has gone straight to his
dick, he hasn't breathed, can't breathe, his mind is blank. Sam runs a hand
down his side. Dean's eyes track the movement; he takes one step closer, stops,
clenches his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and taking. "Are you -
- I mean -- what's --" Dean tries.
"I figured this would get your attention," Sam says, and the bitterness nearly
knocks Dean sideways. "Nothing else has." He glances down at the fists Dean
hasn't been able to unclench and raises an eyebrow, looks back up to ask, "You
gonna hit me?"
If it wasn't for the hint of heart-deep hurt in Sam's voice, Dean might
actually consider violence to be an acceptable response to that question. Does
Sam really think -- is there something so drastically wrong between them that -
- how did it get to the point that Sam would even think about asking that, much
less say it?
"Would you really just stand there and let me?"
"I'm still here," Sam says. He shrugs one shoulder; the strap of the camisole
slips off, slides down. "At least then I'd have something to show for it."
Dean tears his eyes off of Sam's skin, fights back the urge to go over, put the
strap back in place, let his fingers linger, let them trace up Sam's neck while
the other hand skims Sam's cheek with the knuckles, thumbnail dragging Sam's
jaw before he tilts up Sam's chin and takes his brother's sweet-bitter mouth
for his own.
Fuck.
The words are hard to parse but Dean gets through them, takes one more step
closer -- halving the distance between them with the size of this room -- and
forces his hands to relax. "Sam? What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know I've wanted to get away from Dad for years," Sam says. "Even ran
away, remember that? Why do you think I stayed? It sure as shit wasn't for him.
But you haven't been around much the past couple years, either, so I don't
really see the point anymore."
Dean does remember Sam running away, remembers the absolute panic when he and
Dad realised that Sam had left them, doubly so when they figured out he'd done
it on purpose. Sam made it three states away by the time they caught up with
him, three states and three weeks the month before he turned fifteen, and it
wasn't Dad's "get in the goddamned car" that got Sam moving, it was Dean's
"please, Sammy."
"It was two days after you lost your virginity," Sam says. "To Jennifer
Housman, while Dad was gone on a hunt. You thought I was asleep but I wasn't.
There was a leak in the roof that kept me up all night."
"You ran away because you were mad I got laid?" Dean asks.
Sam scoffs. "I ran away because I was jealous, idiot. Don't you get it, Dean?"
Sam says, and he sounds so tired. "You've always been the center of my world. I
thought, when you started sleeping with all the girls, that -- I don't know
what I thought, maybe that you were doing it to pass the time while you were
waiting for me, or for practice, or because you were bored. It took a while to
admit to myself that you just might not actually care, not like I do. I dropped
hints, thought for a while maybe I was being too subtle but you're smart, Dean,
so that wasn't it, especially when I got more and more obvious. But no matter
what I did, you never noticed. So I thought I'd try one last thing to at least
get you to listen before I give up and go."
Dean thinks back.
Sam at fourteen, washing the Impala in high summer heat, wearing a thin white
t-shirt that was almost instantly translucent with water, suds in his hair,
beaming smile on his face, shorts hugging the curve of his ass as he bent over
the hood to reach a tricky spot.
Dean smacked his ass, called him kiddo, told him they'd buy clothes that
actually fit him over the weekend, and went out on a date.
Sam at fifteen, climbing into Dean's bed in the middle of the night with no
excuse given and cuddling into Dean, the two of them falling asleep with hands
clasped together over Sam's stomach, Sam's ass right in Dean's crotch, and Sam
only humming in drowsy pleasure at Dean's morning wood the next day.
Dean left with Dad on a hunt that afternoon. They weren't home for two weeks
and missed Sam's school play while they were gone.
Sam bringing home poetry homework -- love sonnets -- for Dean to look over. Sam
with his cold feet tucked under Dean while they sat on the couch. Sam falling
asleep, his cheek on Dean's shoulder, sitting in the backseat of the Impala.
Sam's laugh as he wrote out 'Dean+Sam' with sparklers on the one July 4th Dean
had managed to scrounge up the money for fireworks. Dean giving Sam the best
food, the best school supplies and clothes he could, and Sam giving him first
shower and first music pick and -- apparently -- first love.
"So," Sam says. "What now?" Dean blinks, must look as off-balance as he feels,
because Sam does him the mercy of elaborating. "Are you kicking me out? Am I
leaving after you punch the crap out of me? Are you gonna tell Dad that I'm a
freak and let him try and beat the queer away?"
"Fine, I might be an idiot," Dean admits, "but you are too if you think I'm
gonna let anyone lay a hand on you like that, including me. And Sam, you might
be overestimating my intelligence here, because I honestly had no clue that you
-- jesus, I'm -- fuck, I'm sorry I didn't--."
Sam cuts him off, says, "Don't apologize. Normal people aren't on the look-out
for their little brother flirting with them. It's not your fault I'm sick."
Dean can't stand the steel of Sam's self-loathing smile. He closes the distance
between them, does what he's been aching to do and reaches out, ignores Sam's
flinch and fixes the camisole strap, runs weapons-callused fingertips down
Sam's arm.
"I'm not normal," Dean murmurs, "never have been."
He notices, for the first time, the way that Sam sways to follow the sound of
his whiskey-rumble voice, the way Sam leans into his touch, his space, like
it's the only thing Sam can breathe. This is the way Sam always is around him,
the way Sam gravitates to him, listens even if he doesn't obey, and how Dean
could think that was a brother-thing is just beyond him now. He's seen a
hundred girls all over the country act the same way, he's depended on them
acting the same way -- and he just assumed that when Sam did the same thing
that it was some kind of little sibling hero-worship to be called on and taken
advantage of when Sam and Dad fight or when Sam's in one of his moods or when
Dean needs Sam to cover for him?
Aw, shit. Dean might be a twenty year old hunter with one hand on a gun and the
other in a grimoire, too busy protecting the world to notice what's happening
in it, but he should have noticed this.
Sam looks at him, meets Dean's eyes, and asks, with more courage than Dean's
ever seen, "What does that mean?"
Dean's touch skates Sam's jaw, lifts his chin. "Means I'm a little slow on the
uptake sometimes, but you definitely have my attention, Sammy," he says, and
kisses his little brother.
It's just for a moment, long enough to feel Sam give into him, long enough for
Dean to taste Sam's lips, Sam's mouth, Sam's breath, but then Sam's pulling
back, shaking his head.
"Don't do this because you feel guilty, Dean," Sam says. "Or because you think
this is the only way to keep me around. I'm not gonna -- not gonna take sex as
some kind of twisted payment to get me to stay. I know you're not --." Sam
stops, cuts himself off to inhale, exhale slowly. "Look, underneath this," he
says, gesturing at the panties, the camisole, "I've still got a dick, not a
pussy." He takes a step back, runs a hand through hair that Dean is just now
thinking about getting his hands into. "This was a -- fuck, I should've just
left. You don't even like guys."
"Don't think that matters," Dean says.
Sam's expression starts to close off; Dean could kick himself for the instant,
thoughtless response. Sam turns and Dean reaches out, grabs Sam's wrist and
yanks Sam close, puts Sam's hand right over Dean's crotch. Dean's still hard;
their conversation hasn't made him any softer since his first sight of Sam and
the kiss, however brief, has only made the fact that he's still wearing jeans
and briefs that much more irritating. Sam glances down, lips parted like he
can't believe what he's feeling -- that or he can't believe that Dean's making
him touch what he's touching -- then he looks back up at Dean, flush starting
on his cheeks.
"Never thought about another guy like that," Dean admits, "and I never thought
about you like that. But I'm thinking about it now, Sammy. And you know me, I
don't fuck anyone unless I'm one hundred percent into it. Jesus fucking christ,
Sam, you think I can make myself get this turned on?"
Sam looks at him, those green-gold eyes of his narrowed, and then says, "Prove
it."
Sometimes Dean forgets what a dick his little brother is. "Sam," he says,
"don't you think we should --."
He's cut off, not by words, but by Sam pulling his hand back, brushing past
Dean and heading for his duffel bag.
"Uh-huh, there it is," Sam snarls. He's throwing crap in his duffel -- books,
clothes, a couple knives he'd sharpened last night while Dean had been out
making money playing pool at the local bar and getting blown by a pretty
bartender in the stockroom -- and all Dean can do is feast his eyes on the
perfect ass right in front of him. Shit, but those panties are a size too
small, riding up Sam's crack as he bends to reach a sock on the other side of
the bed. "All well and good to talk about fucking but the instant it comes down
to the thought of someone else's dick, that's all you are: just talk. I
should've known."
"Gimme a chance to take this in, Sam," Dean says, now just as angry. "You can't
just spring something like this on me and expect me to have you bent over the
table five seconds later."
Sam turns around, glaring, crosses his arms over his chest. "Why not? You're
not shy about fucking anyone who asks. Oh, that's right, what did you say, as
long as you're 'one hundred percent into it.' Well, fine. I've had my say,
you've had your chance, we're both clear on where we stand. I'll get on the
road and you can bring what's-her-face from the bar back here with you
tonight."
Dean is just -- so done. "God, you are such a little fucking bitch."
Before Sam can protest -- and he's definitely gearing up for it -- Dean tugs
Sam close, gets his hands on Sam's ass, takes Sam's mouth like he's going to
eat up the argument from the inside. He can feel the instant Sam gives in, the
moment when Sam presses in close, gets one hand in the back pocket of Dean's
jeans, the other digging jagged fingernails into the back of Dean's neck,
fighting words turning to moans.
These sounds are a hell of a lot prettier.
When they break apart, with Sam searching Dean's eyes, Dean says, "I was going
to say that we should talk about this because I've never done anything like
this before and I don't know what to -- I don't wanna hurt you, okay? What
should I -- what do you -- fuck."
Sam laughs, tilts his head up in clear invitation, and Dean accepts, leans down
for another kiss. This time, once they're done, once Dean's got one hand in
Sam's hair and the other tracking fingertips over the lacy edge of Sam's
panties, Sam says, "You're kind of an idiot, y'know."
"Oh, blow me," Dean says. There's a moment where he doesn't realise what he's
said -- they joke like this all the time; he does, anyway -- but Sam goes
curiously still in his arms. Dean hurries to say, "No, I didn't mean --."
"I will," Sam tells him, interrupts to say that and those two words short-
circuit Dean's brain. "Right now. 'S'not like I haven't been thinking about it
for years." Sam leans up, pulls Dean's head down so he can murmur right into
Dean's ear, "Been wondering for so long what you taste like, what it'd feel
like. Sometimes when you brought girls home, I'd watch or listen when they went
down on you."
The thought of that. "Fuck, Sam."
"You like to pull their hair, like to touch their throats when they take you in
all the way," Sam goes on, and holy hell, he's right, he's exactly right, how
fucking close was he paying attention? How close was he watching? And why does
the thought of that send a lightning strike right down Dean's spine to his
dick? "Like to feed them your come after so you can watch them lick it up,
smear it on their lips and watch 'em lick it off. I can do that, Dean. I
wanna."
"Yeah," Dean says. His knees, christ, he needs to sit down, his fucking little
brother has -- is -- what the actual living hell -- "Sam. Are you sure. We
could -- we should go slower."
Sam gives him the brattiest 'are you even fucking serious right now' look Dean
has ever seen. "Dean, I don't need you to take me out on a goddamned date,
okay. I need you to shut up and let me suck your fucking dick."
Dean sits on the bed -- thank god it's there, his knees have given out; the
only thing in his body that hasn't been turned to jello is his cock -- and he
has just enough time to say, weakly, "Your tea," before Sam's spreading Dean's
legs and kneeling between them like he owns that space. Christ. The little
bitch does, now that Dean's seen him there, owns it and knows it, judging from
the gleam in Sam's eyes.
"Fuck the tea," Sam says, and Dean's mind is following his body into piles of
nothing because he feels like it's only a split-second before the wet heat of
Sam's mouth is around him, soft strands of Sam's hair somehow grasped in Dean's
greedy hands.
"Fuck the -- yeah, okay, fuck the tea," Dean says, unsteady, quickly followed
by, "Who the fuck did you learn this from, Sam?" because there's no way this is
Sam's first rodeo and now Dean's going to have to go kill people. Sam doesn't
stop what he's doing, just looks up at him with his mouth stuffed full of
Dean's dick and one eyebrow raised; Dean reaches out, thumbs the corner of
Sam's mouth and smears the small line of drool forming there.
Sam's eyebrow lowers, Dean can tell the pout's turning into a soft smile, and
he can practically hear Sam say, 'Oh god, you absolute fucking neanderthal.'
Goddamn it, that's Dean's little brother, that's the person Dean loves most on
this sorry excuse of a planet, and, Sam is -- Sam's -- jesus, Sam is currently
swallowing down Dean's come like it's that disgusting herbal tea he drinks
twenty-four seven.
"Wow," Sam says, voice rough, lips spit-slick, looking up at Dean like nothing
so much as the cat who got the canary and the cream to go with it. "That was
quick."
Dean would protest but Sam looks a little reassured, probably more comfortable
with the sudden appearance of Dean's attraction since Dean went so quickly, so
Dean just waves a hand and says, "Don't think you're getting out of giving me
names, Sam. Gotta go back and make sure -- shit, wait, they ever see you like
this?"
Sam snorts. "I'm not about to dress like this when I go to school, Dean, and
it's not like I go out at nights by myself." Dean asks again, can't help
pushing, not when the thought of someone else seeing Sam like this is doing
caveman things to his hindbrain, and Sam finally snaps, "What, you want a
notarised list of every dick I've seen, touched, sucked, and been fucked by?"
"Yes," Dean says. Thought of someone else touching his little brother -- the
thought of someone else fucking Sam is enough to take away the post-orgasm
languor riding through him and fill him instead with violent possessiveness.
"Hell yes."
"Guess you'll just have to do it better," Sam says, and it's such a sly
challenge that Dean almost misses it at first. He blinks and Sam says, now a
little more hesitant, expression closing off at Dean's lack of response, "Make
sure I don't remember any of them. Right?"
Dean hauls Sam upwards, heels falling off Sam's feet and thudding to the floor
as Dean practically forces Sam to straddle him. In this position, Dean can feel
how hard Sam is, that and how wet his panties have gotten, soaked with pre-
come. Jesus, the kid's gonna kill him. He kisses Sam, slow and steady with a
hint of fury underlying the bite, the ferocity that Dad's trained into him and
that Dean's learned to keep leashed by the thinnest of margins around
civilians, and Sam gives into it -- Sam, Dean's mouthy, grouchy, whip-smart
and, underneath it all, far-too-gentle Sam.
When Sam's the one to pull back, pupils blown and lips swollen, bloody in one
spot, Dean makes sure Sam's looking at him when he says, "No one else, Sam. No
one ever."
"For either of us," Sam says. "Right?"
"Fucking right," Dean replies. "And as soon as I can move again, I'm gonna fuck
you so hard you won't even think about remembering anyone else, either."
Sam grins, says, "Promises, promises," and shivers as Dean traces the lace edge
of Sam's camisole -- right over his nipple -- with his teeth.
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