Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8248688.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Bobby_Singer, Castiel, Dean, Jimmy_Novak, John, Sam
  Additional Tags:
      Character_Death, Dean/Male_Character, Rape/Non-con_-_Freeform, Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-09 Words: 8697
****** Pitch and Sway ******
by pinkwithoutplot
Summary
     It's not like Sam didn't know his feelings for Dean were warped. Not
     like he hadn't punished himself year on year for wanting his own
     brother. He'd tried to make the break. College and Jess. He'd almost
     believed he could be that person too, before Dean had broken in one
     night, like the worst kind of thief, and tugged on the reins...
Notes
     This story is the weird, bastard offspring of many things I had
     rattling around my noggin. A chimera, if you will. The title is taken
     from the song Big Black Bull Comes Like a Caesar by Jay Munly and the
     Lee Lewis Harlots, which always makes me think of the Weechesters,
     and heavily influenced this story. May I take this opportunity to say
     if you've never read When My Brother Calls Me by the amazing
     Sylvanwitch, you should do so right now because it is a stunning
     interpretation of that song, starring Sam & Dean. She did it first
     and best! :) It was also a bit of a reaction to 7x06 Slash Fiction
     and some of the comparisons leveled at the boys over the years.
     Anyway, I hope it's not too much of a hash!
 
 
”Til you and I die, and die, and die again. 'Til death do us part.”
 
“Jesus, I hate witches. Too many bodily fluids. Skeevy bitch leaked all over
me.”
Dean wiped the blade of his hunting knife on the skirt of the dead woman,
inspected it with disdain and threw a tarp over the bloodied remains. Sam
tucked it around the body and hoisted it over his shoulder like it weighed
nothing, letting Dean exit the house first to check that the coast was clear
and to open the trunk of the Impala. Sam laid the body on top the arsenal
stored there, stuffed it in tight and slammed the trunk shut. They'd have to
find somewhere to salt and burn her before rigor mortis set in, else Sam would
have to break some bones to get her out again.
“So, we have a little while to kill 'fore nightfall. What's say we pick up some
chow? I'm starved,” Dean said, rubbing his blood-tacky hands together.
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Hardly.” Nothing put Dean off his food, but Sam still found it a little
disconcerting to be faced with a rare hamburger when he'd been elbow deep in
gore just minutes before. Even after all these years. “Besides, we should get
rid of our new passenger as soon as.”
Dean shook his head.
“Nuh. We should wait 'til it's dark. She ain't going anywhere.”
Sam thought about arguing, but decided Dean was right. It would be too risky to
make a pyre while it was still daylight.
“OK. But we better get you cleaned up first. There was a gas station a couple
miles back. I'll drive, you get changed in the car and I'll pull up as close to
the restrooms as possible so you can hop out and wash up.”
“Aww, Sammy. I get all tingly when you take control.”
Sam tried to ignore the way that, even in jest, Dean's gruff seductive voice
sent ripples of something warm and buzzy down to his groin. He ducked his head
when Dean made to snag his bloody fingers in Sam's hair, and gave Dean is best
pissed face, but his brother just winked at him, licked his lips real slow and
slid into the shotgun seat.
Sam watched Dean lick burger sauce off his fingers, noticing there were still
dark crescents of crusted blood deep under his nails. Their knees were butted
up under the table as they sat facing each other in the booth. He tore his eyes
away from Dean's tongue working over his own thumb and pushed his salad around
his plate.
“What's up, Princess? Wishing you ordered some proper food now?”
Sam glared at him and put a cherry tomato between his teeth, leaning forward
before he bit down, feeling the skin give way and the sweet, juicy innards
burst over his tongue, some squirting out and hitting his brother in the face.
He grinned around the seeds and pulp as Dean wiped it off with a napkin.
“Very mature, Sammy. Hah hah.”
Dean swiped a tomato from Sam's plate and examined it, rolling it around
between his thumb and forefinger before pushing it against his lips. Sam
watched as he bit the top off, and proceeded to suck the flesh from the inside
with relish, eyes closing as he hummed his appreciation and then opening them
to fix on Sam's. His lips suckled around the shiny, red fruit, and something
about the way he held eye contact while making obscene slurping noises made Sam
want to break his nose. Knock him down. And then maybe do something very
unbrotherly to him. One of these days, Dean, Sam thought, and Dean answered him
with a smirk as if he'd spoken aloud.
In hindsight, Sam thought, he probably should have pushed his point about
getting rid of the body before dinner. If it wasn't for Dean's bottomless
stomach, they'd have been long gone, and they wouldn't currently have half the
state's police force on their asses.
“Hang a left here!” Sam said, flinging his arm out in front of his brother's
face to make his point.
“Dude! It's a field!”
“I know it's a field. Drive a way into the corn and cut the lights.”
“My baby's rims aren't designed for off-roading, Sam.”
“Well, it's either this or we get hauled in, Dean. And in case you've
forgotten, we have one very dead witch in the trunk.”
Dean made a face but wrenched the wheel left and steered the Impala over the
rutted earth and bumped down through row up on row of tall corn plants.
“OK. That's far enough. Kill the engine.”
Dean sighed but did as he was told.
They waited in silence for a long time, hearing the occasional siren wail past
on the road. The wind rasped through the maize, and Sam found himself holding
his breath for protracted periods, eyes darting around as ears of corn bobbed
and swayed, flinching as one fell from time to time with a dull thud on the
dusty ground.
“We need to get out of here. Get rid of the body and just drive,” Dean said
finally.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “OK. It's been quiet for a while.”
Dean seemed to take a last listen, cocking his head, and then he turned the key
in the ignition. They crawled back to the road, and fired her up, heading out
into the cover of night.
They found an abandoned shack in the woods a few miles over the state border.
It was approaching dawn and both boys were covered in dirt from their toils,
clothes reeking of smoke and sweat, the sweet, greasy smell of burning human
flesh. Sam's shoulders ached and he had blisters on his palms from where the
shovel had kept twisting in his damp grip as it struggled to break the impacted
earth. But as he threw down his bedding roll and looked over at his brother, he
felt strangely elated. They had come pretty close to being taken in, but they
hadn't. They were free men, and the world was one evil bitch down.
“Man, I'd give just about anything for a shower right now,” he said.
Dean stretched his arms up over his head and yawned, exposing a sliver of
smooth belly where his shirt rode up.
“Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure there's zero chance this dump has running water.
We'll head out in a few hours, see if we can find a stream or something once
it's light. Try and get some sleep.”
Sam nodded and hunkered down to arrange his sleeping bag before shucking his
clothes. He noticed Dean was still and looked up just in time to catch him
averting his eyes. Something ignited and caught, crackling under his skin.
“Dean?”
“Get some sleep, Sammy.”
Sam narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. He stood, fingers playing at the
waistband of his underwear as he watched Dean take off his own tee-shirt and
try and make a nest for his body on the dirty wooden floor. He waited until
Dean's eyes were back on him before shoving his briefs down his long legs and
stepping out of them. He saw Dean's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Sam
slipped into his sleeping bag and rolled over onto his stomach. He licked his
forefinger and made sure Dean was watching as he started to spell out a word in
spit in the dust on the floorboards.
“Sammy,” Dean's voice was a warning.
Sam continued, tracing the letters with his his fingers in slow sweeps.
“No,” Dean said, but there was a waver to it.
“Please,” Sam whispered. “Job's over. I did everything you asked. You've been
teasing me for days.”
“Sam you know this isn't -”
“You started it! You owe me this, Dean!” Sam said, sounding like a bratty kid
to own ears. But it seemed to soften Dean's resolve.
“OK,” he whispered. “OK, Sammy. Watch me.”
Dean laid back and closed his eyes, cushioning his head on the crook of his
arm. He let his right hand stray down to his navel, pausing to pluck at his
nipples on the way down, pinching them hard and sensitive. He played with the
light dusting of hair on his belly and then dipped his fingers into his
underwear, started to stroke his swelling length.
“Wanna see it,” Sam said quietly.
Dean quirked his lips and drew his stiffening cock out, snugging the elastic of
his waistband under his balls. He spat in his palm and smeared it around the
head, moaning as he started to jack himself off. Sam stared hungrily at the
motion of his brother's hand as it worked slowly up and down his shaft, Dean's
deepening breaths and the slick sounds of skin on skin, eased by saliva and the
first dribbles of precome, the only sounds in the silence of the cabin.
Sam reached under himself and rearranged his hard dick so he could hump his
hips up and down against the padding of his sleeping back while he watched Dean
bring himself off. Dean paused to lick his hand and started to pump faster. He
started gulping little hiccuping breaths and tensing the muscles of his ass,
pushing his hips up into the air and fucking his fist.
“Dean?” Sam asked, rutting steadily against the floor. “You close?”
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean groaned. “Gonna come.”
“Good, do it,” Sam said, eyes going wide as a geyser of creamy come shot out,
arcing over Dean's wrist and landing in squiggles on the bunched muscles of his
stomach, the next few spurts covering his hand and making his final few jerks
sloppy wet.
Sam rocked, the pressure against his straining cock bruising and bordering on
painful, and moaned his relief as he shot a load into the warm folds of his
sleeping bag.
Dean licked at the jizz on the back of his hand, more for Sam's benefit than
anything, and chuckled when it earned him a whimper from his little brother.
“Now go to sleep...pervert.”
Dean wiped his hand on his discarded tee and turned over on his side.
Sam stayed where he was, listening to his own heartbeat slowing against his
ribs and the unyielding wood of the floor.
They had just put down a shtriga in Wisconsin when they were picked up by the
feds. They'd changed the plates on the Impala after their close call in
Missouri, but a diligent state trooper recognized the car and the description
of the Winchesters after discussing the murder of Wildwood resident, Delores
Matthews, with his cousin, a police officer in St. Louis.
Sam was bundled into an interview room, and cuffed to the table. He suspected
they would keep Dean on the other side of the building, if not at an entirely
different facility. A broad shouldered man entered the room and sat down
opposite Sam. He had the athletic build, neatly parted blond hair and twinkly
blue eyes of a college jock. The kind of guy Sam might have found himself
drinking a beer and watching a game with on a Friday night if his life had
taken a different path.
“Sam Winchester? I'm Agent Burrows.”
The man offered Sam a polite smile but didn't extend his hand. Sam wouldn't
have been able to take it anyway.
“You know why you're here?”
Sam kept his silence.
“OK, Sam. Why don't I fill you in.”
The guy produced a file from a case at his feet and spread it out on the table.
“We've been trailing you and your brother for a while now. All over the US in
fact. That's quite a body count you've racked up.”
Sam stared at the table top and bit the inside of his cheek. Sometimes the
ingratitude really got to him.
“Why don't you tell me about Peter Waring?”
The shtriga. Dean had burned his remains in a shallow grave a few hours before
they got picked up.
“No bells ringing?” Burrows coaxed. “OK, what about Delores Matthews?”
Sam's jaw set but he didn't raise his head. His fingers started to pick
restlessly at the cuffs. He wondered how long it would take to get them open,
and if he had a pick in any of his pockets.
“So, what's the deal, Sam? We know Waring wasn't exactly a saint. String of
child sex offenses as long as my arm. And Matthews? Well, she wasn't a popular
woman. No convictions, but plenty of bad feeling followed her about. Three
husbands dying under mysterious circumstances, leaving her as sole beneficiary
of their estates. People are bound to talk. So, that what this is, Sam? Huh?
Vigilante justice?”
Sam stared straight ahead and wondered if Dean was getting the same BS
elsewhere in the building.
“'Cos you know, taking matters into your own hands makes you just as bad as
them, don't you Sammy?”
“Don't call me that!” It was out before Sam could stop himself. “Only he gets
to call me that.”
He could have bitten off his own tongue.
Burrow leant forward, something shifting behind his eyes. Sam could practically
hear the cogs turning.
“Your brother?”
Sam shook his bangs out of his face and willed his pulse to stop racing. He
knew he was giving away way too much. But Burrows had the bit between his teeth
now.
“Anything else only Dean is allowed to do, Sam?”
Sam closed his eyes and fought down the rush of blinding rage he felt
threatening to spill over. Burrows had no idea how close he was to breaking his
wrists to get out of these cuffs and get a hand around his throat.
“You know, your brother is a very disturbed individual, Sam. But what I don't
understand is why you choose to follow him down that road. You had a promising
future once. Pre-law wasn't it? Pretty girlfriend. What exactly is it he has
over you? Family loyalty is one thing but -”
“Shut up!” Sam said quietly, but with all the more menace in it for that. “You
have no idea what you're talking about, so do us both a favor and shut the fuck
up. I'm not saying another word until my attorney gets here.”
Burrow smiled, an unpleasant and knowing thing.
“So it's a Loeb and Leopold kind of deal, am I right? You help him on his quest
to rid the world of scumbags and he gives you a little somethin' somethin' in
return?”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists hard enough to leave red
crescents dug into his palms.
“It's alright, Sam. I get it. The guy's charismatic. He's all you've known. All
you got. Brought you up? I understand how these things become a
little...blurry. It's not your fault. Probably seemed kind of romantic at
first, right? You and him against the world - playing Mallory to his Mickey?
Living by your wits. Righting a few wrongs.”
Sam could taste something sweet and metallic in his throat. The blood was
pounding in his ears.
“But I'm telling you, Sam. These things never end well. No matter how much you
think someone has your back, when the shit finally hits the fan they will use
you as a goddamn human shield.”
Sam looked at the other man then and tried one of his brother's patented
smirks.
“Have it your way, Sam,” the agent said, standing, his chair legs scraping the
concrete floor. “We'll try this again later when you're feeling a little more
talkative.”
He left the room and Sam was left alone with his thoughts. That fed had no idea
what he was talking about, but he'd thought he'd got him and Dean all figured
out which really pissed Sam off. He'd looked at Sam the way a hundred people
had looked at him and Dean before: Appraising them, judging them. Drinking in
the way they took up too much of each other's space and mirrored each other's
gestures with unthinking grace. Snidely asking whether they wanted two beds or
just the one. They had no idea what it cost them, living like they did. A
thankless life, ridding the world of the monsters who would rip their loved
ones from them.

It's not like Sam didn't know his feelings for Dean were warped. Not like he
hadn't punished himself year on year for wanting his own brother. He'd tried to
make the break. College and Jess. He'd almost believed he could be that person
too, before Dean had broken in one night, like the worst kind of thief, and
tugged on the reins. Dean wouldn't let him go. Not ever. And he'd never really
wanted to be turned loose. He'd simply been waiting for the moment Dean would
come back to claim what was rightfully his. He understood that now. He'd wept
plenty for Jessica, and he'd been angry with Dean for so long after her death.
But it wasn't Dean's fault. She was doomed the first time she leant in and
kissed Sam, mouth soft and sticky with fruit-flavored gloss. Sam had killed her
just as surely as if he'd stabbed her and set that fire himself.
Sam was roused from his thoughts by the dry whisper of wings. He looked up and
saw the familiar trench-coated figure of Castiel.
“Cas! What're you doing here?”
“Hello, Sam. I've come to help.”
Sam's brow furrowed.
“How'd you find us?”
“I always know where you are, Sam.”
Sam nodded. He wasn't sure he trusted Castiel, even now. Not after everything
that had happened. The guy had pulled his brother out of Hell, and for that Sam
owed him a debt a gratitude. But Cas's connection with his brother still
twisted up Sam's guts with something which could only be jealousy, even though
he knew they no longer spoke.
“Dean can't know you're here.”
“As you wish.”
Dean's angel regarded him with limpid eyes which were too blue. Then he stepped
behind Sam's chair and bent to whisper in his ear.
“There's a paperclip caught in the seam of your left pocket.”
Sam wriggled in his seat until he managed to worm the fingers of his bound hand
into the tight denim pocket. Sure enough, when he got right into the stitching,
there it was. He felt the ghost of Cas' breath on the back of his neck, and
when he turned around to thank him, he was gone.
Sam had to use more force than he would have liked to get to Dean, but it
couldn't be helped. Six men incapacitated. He'd left the female officer on the
front desk tied to her chair. She'd been pretty co-operative. Burrows was still
lying motionless on the floor when they fled, a trickle of blood leaking out of
his ear. It was possible Sam had hit him a little harder than necessary, and
that his skull was fractured, but Sam couldn't bring himself to feel remorse
with his taunts so fresh in his memory.
“We need to find my car,” Dean said.
“Dean!” Sam said, exasperated. “We need to get out of here. We'll take another
one. Every damn force in the country is probably looking out for a black '67
Chevy right now.”
Dean shot him a filthy glare, but Sam could tell he'd won this time.
“OK, but when the heat dies down, we're coming back for my car!”
Sam nodded.
They hot-wired an ugly-ass station wagon from the car park of a Gas-N-Sip on
the road out of town and drove in tense silence for a few miles. Finally, Dean
caved.
“Alright, Francis. What happened back there?”
Sam's eyebrows rocketed towards his hairline.
“Are you kidding me? We got sprung by the fucking FBI, Dean. That's what
happened. We made America's Most Wanted!”
“That's not what I mean, Sam. You practically bashed that fed's brains out.
What he say to you?”
Sam took a deep breath and shrugged, looked out of the window, shielding his
face from Dean's sideways glances.
“OK, have it your way, bitch.”
Dean reached for the radio dial and tweaked it until a strain of guitar bled
through the static noise. He fine tuned until he was satisfied and settled
back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
Sam resigned himself to a long drive and leaned his head against the cool glass
of the passenger window. He watched as fields and scrub streaked by, the odd
small-holding the only blip in the monotony of washed out greens and yellows.
The sky was grey, the light fading as the minutes and hours passed by. His
eyelids were just starting to feel heavy when he noticed the livestock grazing
in a paddock a little way from the road. Cows. They kept their heads down,
tails swishing contentedly as they chewed. In a separate, fenced off area was
the bull. Sam's mouth dried up as a deluge of sense memory washed over him. He
squirmed in his seat, suddenly and helplessly aroused. Dean must have noticed.
He looked over furtively and let a small snort escape when he saw the animals.
“Wow. Really? Still?”
“Shut up, Dean.”
“Dude -”
“I mean it, Dean,” Sam snapped. “You did this to me, so unless you wanna help
me out -”
“Sam!”
“Exactly! So just drop it.”
Dean bit his lip.
“OK.”
Sam re-adjusted himself and went back to staring out of the window.
He'd been five years old when he'd seen a stallion mount a mare. He was sitting
in the back of the Impala. Dad was driving, Dean was fidgeting on the seat next
to him. The windows were open but the air outside was just soupy as in the
confines of the car. The smell of dried grass was thick and Sam's nose was
itchy from the pollen. He'd laughed at first, thought the horses were trying to
play leap-frog or something. Then he'd seen the stallion's cock, huge,
unsheathed and lolling and his eyes widened. He'd smacked Dean on the arm to
get his attention and Dean had gasped, gawking, eyes nervously darting back to
the rear-view every few seconds, doubtless not wanting Dad to catch them
watching something they shouldn't be. Sam hadn't understood what was happening
then, but it made him feel funny in his belly. He whispered to Dean,
“What are they doing?”
Dean had shushed him, but later, when they were in the abandoned house they
were calling home for the night, Dean had pulled Sammy into his lap, picked up
a stone and scratched the letters out on the exposed brickwork of the draughty
bedroom they were sharing:
FUCK
Sam's cheeks had flushed the moment he saw it and his brother stifled a giggle
with his hand. He knew it was a dirty word. Knew that's what the horses had
been doing. Knew Dad would tan Dean's hide for writing it if he saw it. Sam
wriggled on Dean's thighs, feeling hot and strange. Dean scrubbed it out, but
it remained burned onto Sam's retinas. It beat a dull tattoo in his stiff,
little dick. It lay between them, Sam's new knowledge, a third presence in the
room.
Years passed, and he pretty much forgot all about it until they saw the bull.
He was fourteen, scrawny and coltish, growing out of his clothes faster than
Dean could provide them. Summer again, and Sam's tee stuck to his back with
sweat, skin clammy against the leather seat. Dean was driving this time, Dad
having drank his liver rotten the previous year. Sam had looked out of the
window to see a farmer leading the young animal towards a waiting heifer. He
wound down the window, smelled that country smell of hay and shit, heard the
she-cow lowing. She stayed perfectly still as the farmer slackened the rope he
was holding and let the bull heave himself up on her back. Sam could see the
pink, tapered length trying to find its mark, jabbing wildly until the farmer
got a hand around it and guided it home. Sam watched the bull hunch away with a
sense of nauseous excitement.
“Dean!” he said, awed.
Dean looked over and chuckled.
“Yup. Ain't that a sight.”
Sam swallowed thickly and Dean's eyes stayed on him, for a heartbeat too long
before he dragged his gaze back to the road.
“You ever?” he said quietly when he'd found the courage and the farmer and his
animals were shrinking shapes in the wing mirror.
“What?” Dean said, an edge of something in his voice.
“Fuck?” Sam said, the word exploding out of him like a bung from a pop bottle.
Dean smirked.
“Of course I have, Sammy!”
Sam knew that. Knew it from the way Dean came home smelling of perfume and
sweat something underlying he couldn't identify. But having his suspicions
confirmed out loud made him feel a hot flash of something dark and unfamiliar.
“Have you ever?” Dean asked, eyes flickering to Sam and back to the road.
“Fucked?”
Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes. Damn Dean. He knew full well he hadn't.
“What d'you think, Dean? Asshole.”
Dean laughed again and reached out a hand to ruffle Sam's damp hair.
“Don't sweat it, shrimp. Plenty of time.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was half hard. It was all kinds of
wrong that watching cattle going at it had got him all hot and bothered, but he
was fourteen and the memory of the bull, frantically and blindly thrusting that
red, wet-looking cock, desperate for release had him aching to bury his own in
something warm and slick.
Dean was watching him again.
“Watch the road, Dean,” he said, sounding whiny and pissed.
Dean just smiled again.
“Got a little problem there, Sammy?”
Sam's felt the blood rising to the surface, his face suddenly fever-hot. His
treacherous dick twitched in his pants.
“Shut up, Dean.”
“Got yourself a little farmyard fetish have you, bro?”
“I said, shut up!”
“Hey, it's OK. I get it. Little Sammy doesn't know the difference, right? Just
knows he's missing out.”
Sam held his tongue.
“But just so you know, if you get caught balls-deep in Bessie the cow one day,
I am not coming to bail your perverted ass out!”
Dean laughed and Sam felt tears start in his eyes. He knew he was being silly
and babyish but there were a hundred conflicting impulses jolting through his
body and none of them were rational. Somewhere inside him, that bestial
coupling was bound up with the horses and discovery. With the feeling of
something new. The dirty little thrill of the illicit. And he knew it had
something to do with his brother. He concentrated on the horizon and blinked
rapidly, but Dean went quiet and after a few minutes he pulled off the main
drag and down a dirt track. He killed the engine and blew out a breath.
“Look, Sam...I'm sorry OK. I didn't mean to...It's not a big deal. Really.
It'll happen when you're ready. Just don't...I mean, make sure it's 'cause you
want to and with someone you like. Otherwise, it can be...well, just trust me
OK?”
“Gee, Dean. Eloquent.”
Dean threw Sam a look.
“I'm trying to be serious here. You're still a kid. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Sam missed the undercurrent of pleading in Dean's voice. He wasn't to find out
until much later on that Dean's awkward attempts at reassuring him were colored
by his own bitter experience. That having been left only a car, a tattered
journal and fifty two bucks by John Winchester, Dean had inherited the dubious
task of providing for himself and his little brother and, being a resourceful
kid, he'd soon found out that his plush lips and soft, almost feminine features
could earn him a week's worth of groceries and gas money a damn sight quicker
than honest work or a night hustling pool.
“I'm not a kid, Dean. Stop treating me like a baby. You're not Dad. You're not
my mother. I'll do what I want, when I want, with whoever I want.”
Dean's eyes darkened a fraction.
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
Dean sniffed.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Dean swung the driver's door open and got out of the car. Sam watched him
disappear behind a tree, before a stream of piss arced out from the place he
was stood and splashed onto the baked earth. He re-appeared, zipping up as he
came, and Sam realized his dick was still throbbing. Dean got something out of
his pocket – his penknife – and started scratching something into the bark of
the tree. Sam looked on for a while, absently pressing his cock through his
jeans, before curiosity got the better of him and he got out of the car and
stalked over. Dean was carving the final line:
D.W.
Sam let him brush the scooped out flesh away with his hand, and took the knife
from Dean. Right next to Dean's effort, he etched:
S.W.
Dean smiled then, the anger between them dissipated. Sam looked into the earthy
green of his brother's irises, let his gaze fall down to his full lips, just as
Dean snaked out his tongue to moisten them. Sam's heart seemed to stutter and
his blood suddenly sounded loud in his ears. He lifted the knife again and
started to scratch again, in the space under their initials.
FUCK.
When he'd finished, he stepped back and looked at Dean. His brother was staring
at the tree, unmoving. Sam held his breath. Finally Dean said,
“Sam.”
And then his brother was fisting his tee shoving him back towards the car. It
felt like danger, but Sam somehow knew his brother wasn't going to hit him.
Dean backed him up against the Impala and roughly pulled Sam's shirt up over
his head, throwing it on the ground. His hands grabbed at his belt buckle and
pulled it open, thumbing the few buttons open quickly and shoving Sam's jeans
and underwear down to his knees.
“Dean!” Sam's voice was shaky and reedy. “What're you -”
“Shut up!”
Dean was trembling, staring down at Sam's swollen cock. They both stood panting
for a few seconds, then Dean reached out, closed his hand around Sam and
squeezed. Sam's knees buckled and Dean pushed him back against the Impala, held
him up with one large hand spread flat on his bony chest. Dean twisted his fist
and pulled, drawing a bead of clear fluid out of the tip, using his thumb to
smear it over the head, and Sam moaned long and low.
“You sound like that she-cow,” Dean said breathily. “That what you want, Sammy?
To get fucked?”
Sam's eyes went wide and the metallic taste of fear was cloying on his tongue.
He opened his mouth to protest, although his ass was spasming at the thought of
being filled, and Dean was on him, soft lips forcing his own further open, and
tongue big and slick against his, licking in deep and possessive.
Sam was vaguely aware of Dean fumbling between them, the clink of his belt
buckle and the sound of his zipper being lowered. Then Dean's hand stopped
tugging, and he felt Dean's own cock, warm and hard, nudge up against his own.
Dean's hands slid around to cup Sam's ass and pull him even closer in. Sam was
completely trapped; tacky skin of his back dragging across the Impala's
paintwork, Dean's large hands gripping him tight, his agile tongue fucking
Sam's mouth, his fattened cock riding the juncture of Sam's thigh and hip. It
was hard to breathe, especially since Sam's heart was racing and pounding so
hard he thought he might pass out.
Then, Dean pulled back, sucking at Sam's bottom lip on the way, a single thread
of spit stringing out between them until Dean licked and broke it. He was
flushed, his green eyes bright and glassy.
“Jesus, Sam.”
Dean looked down, took his own hard cock in hand and pressed the leaking tip
against Sam's. Sam looked down to see his hand working in a slow slide, up his
own length, over the crown, down Sam's to the root and then back again. His
hand made sticky sounds on their flesh as he found a rhythm and Sam started to
whimper on each stroke. He wasn't sure if he was about to cry or pee, the
muscles of his belly fluttering, his ass tightening and relaxing as his hips
pumped into Dean's fist without his brain's permission.
Sam hadn't understood what to do with his stiff little pole after the horses,
but he'd jerked off plenty over the last couple of years. It felt nothing like
this. His whole body seemed to be hurtling towards total meltdown. Like he
might simply fly apart and splatter all over Dean and the car, leave bloody
smears on the crushed grass under their feet.
“That's it, Sammy,” Dean panted. “Wanna see you shoot it. Come all over my
dick.”
And Sam did, mouth falling open, eyes scrunched shut, a strangled shout
breaking out of his parched throat. His body clenched up and released, abs and
ribs visible – too close to the surface – as he seized over and over.
Dean groaned and chanted,
“Yeah, yeah, that's it,” as Sam shuddered through the last of it, then he
swiped up the warm wad caught in the tangle of his pubic hair and used it to
lube up his still hard cock. It was red and wet-looking now, like the bull's,
and Sam was mesmerized, watching Dean stroke himself off lazily. He wasn't
prepared for Dean flipping him and shoving him face down over the hood of the
car. Dean's cleaner hand petted through his hair before snarling in it and
twisting Sam's head, holding it down against the warm metal.
“Dean?”
It was barely a whisper.
“Shh...it's OK, Sammy. You got me so wound up. Need to get inside. Need to fuck
you, Sam. I'll make it good. You'll like it, I swear. Big brother fucking your
tight little ass. You'll be begging for it by the time I'm finished with you.”
Sam tried to scramble upright, but Dean held him down fast and kicked his feet
as far apart as his bunched up jeans would allow. Sam was feeling loose and
drowsy, but he was terrified at the prospect of Dean's thick cock spearing him
open. He felt wet little kisses between his shoulder blades, then the fat,
blunt head of Dean's boner being forced into his opening.
“Ow! Dean, it hurts!”
“Shh,” Dean soothed. “Just relax, Sammy. It'll be so much easier if you let me
in.”
Sam took a deep breath and tried to relax around his brother's dick. But it
burned, red hot pain, and Sam was sure Dean must be tearing him up inside.
“So good, Sammy. Such a good boy for me. That's right. Take it.”
Sam gulped lungfuls of air and blew them out, trying to make himself lax and
pliant for his big brother. His cheek was wet with sweat and, he realized,
tears, and his own moist breath was being shunted back at him by the sun-warmed
metal. His hair tickled his forehead and obscured his vision.
“Oh, Dean,” he moaned. “Feels weird. Like I wanna push you out.”
“Yeah, I know, kiddo. It gets better. God, you're tight. Better than any pussy.
Better than anything. Just wanna pound your ass, Sammy. Think you can take me?”
Sam's chest puffed a little with a strange sense of pride. Dean thought he felt
better than all those girls he came home reeking of.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?”
The stinging was beginning to fade, and the thought that he was driving Dean so
crazy, the completely alien sensation of getting fucked, the wrongness of it,
all conspired to make Sam's dick start to fill again.
“Yeah,” Sam moaned, his voice cracked and dry.
Dean sank in all the way and stilled, huffing against Sam's shoulder, then he
pulled his hips back and snapped back in. Sam cried out and Dean clamped his
sticky hand over Sam's mouth. It smelled of jizz and the leather of the
steering wheel, and when Sam put his tongue out, he tasted salt. He thrust
again, and Sam moaned hard, his lips vibrating against Dean's palm, tickling
them both. Dean drove it in a third time, and hit something deep inside Sam
which made his cock jerk and swell. Dean seemed pleased with the sound he made
at that, and sped up, angling his thrusts so that Sam felt an intense pleasure
each time he was buried to the hilt, and bereft when he pulled nearly all the
way out.
“Yeah, Sammy. That's right. Take it.”
Sam tried to speak against Dean's hand, but it was muffled and garbled. Dean
took his hand away, and Sam tried again.
“Fuck me, Dean. Fuck me hard.”
Dean's legs seemed give way a little at that and he lost his stride for a few
seconds, muttering, “Jesus,” under his breath.
He set a punishing pace, Sam's sharp hips feeling bruised and sore where they
were repeatedly shunted against the bodywork. It only lasted a minute or so
before Dean was burying his face in the hair at Sam's nape, sounding for all
the world like he was crying, and Sam felt a warm trickle down between his
thighs as Dean pulled out and staggered backwards.
Sam was hard for it again, and stayed splayed over the hood, listening to
Dean's heavy breaths while he jacked himself. It took a few minutes, and when
he came it was just a couple of weak spurts, but the tight ache in his balls
had eased off. It was a long time before he dared stand and retrieve his pants,
trying not to let on how much discomfort he was in as Dean regarded him with a
blank expression while he tucked himself back in. Last time Sam had been
enrolled in school, he'd seen a kid break his arm badly and go into shock.
That's what Dean looked like. Traumatized.
They didn't mention it again for the longest time, but for days after, Dean's
knuckles were split and his forehead bumped and bruised where he'd punched and
butted a brick wall in a truck stop a few hours after. And Sam could swear he
smelt Dean's come every time he pulled down his pants.
“Sam? Sammy? You listening?”
Sam blinked and realized he'd been zoned out for a while.
“Sorry what?”
“I said, what about Bobby's? We could maybe stay with him until things cool
down a bit.”
“Uhm...you think that's a good idea? It's been years. He and Dad weren't on the
best of terms when Dad checked out. You really think he'd be happy to see us?”
Dean shrugged.
“Gotta be worth a try. We're running out of options. I mean, I hate to say it,
Sam, but I think we're really screwed this time.”
Sam was bone tired all of a sudden.
“OK. Sure. Let's find a phone book. See if he even still has the old salvage
yard.”
Sam called Bobby from a pay phone when they were a day's drive out from Singer
Salvage. The old man hadn't seemed thrilled to hear from him, but he grudgingly
invited them to come and stay. Bobby Singer and John Winchester had been
hunting buddies. Bobby was a widower, and for a few years after Mary
Winchester's death, he'd been like an uncle to the boys. John would leave them
with the scrap dealer every time he thought he had a lead on the sonofabitch
who'd killed his wife and nearly burnt his sons in their beds. But as time
passed, and John's quest for vengeance turned into an all consuming obsession,
the relationship between the two men became increasingly strained.
“You know, boys,” Bobby would say when John was away on one of his mysterious
trips, “ain't no such thing as monsters. Your eejit father is way outta line
filling your head with that stuff. There's evil true enough, but we all of us
got it inside us. You just can't let it win.”
Sam knew there was truth in that. It didn't help that Dean became more and more
wayward as he grew. Sam was sent to stay with Bobby a couple of times while
Dean did time at juvenile detention centers. Once the liver cirrhosis got John,
Dean went completely off the rails. He took risks. A list of convictions for
petty larceny, underage drinking and soliciting eventually saw him saw him put
away for long stretch. Sam had been on the verge of being taken into state care
when Bobby stepped in.
Dean did not do well in prison. He was way too pretty and and had no sense of
self-preservation. It nearly killed him on more than one occasion. Dean's
salvation came in the rumpled form of Jimmy Novak. Jimmy was his parole
officer. Sam had liked the guy well enough with his trench coat which he wore
no matter what the season, his scruffy black hair and guileless blue eyes. The
man was a fully paid up servant of God, goodness oozing out of every pore. He
had come to speak to Sam's brother a few months into his sentence, and told him
he would get him out. It was a Thursday. Dean had taken to him instantly,
telling him he was his guardian angel. He liked that. The man who would
liberate him from this Hellish place and send him back to Sammy. Dean said
Jimmy was no sort of name for such a righteous man. He dubbed him Castiel,
Angel of Thursday, a name he'd got from the books on religious lore in the
prison library which he'd taken to reading voraciously, and then shortened it
to Cas.

Sam unfolded his legs and shifted in the passenger seat as Dean drove to South
Dakota. He lifted his eyes to the rear view and saw Cas sitting in the back
seat. He closed his eyes, willing the angel away, but when he opened them
again, Castiel was still there, staring at him with a serene expression on his
face.
“Going to Bobby's, Sam?”
Sam shot a glance at Dean who was concentrating on the road ahead. Then he
nodded tightly.
“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
Sam raised his eyebrows in question.
“You know why, Sam. Bobby's no fool. He may be a recluse, but news travels
fast. You and your brother are all over the papers and in the news. He may have
a fondness for you and Dean, but he's not blood. He sees through you. How can
you be sure he won't turn you in?”
Sam had no answer for that. The fact was, he wasn't sure at all.
“Turn back, Sam. While you still can.”
“And go where?”
Dean turned to Sam and looked at him quizzically?
“What are you talking about, Sammy?”
Sam cleared his throat.
“Sorry, Dean. I must have been half asleep.”
Dean whuffed a bemused laugh.
“Freak.”
Sam looked back to Cas who was looking at him sadly.
“I just want to help. I forgive you, Sam.”
Sam felt his eyes welling.
“I know how you feel about him. I get it.”
Sam remembered walking into that hotel room in Nebraska. Dean had sent him out
to see a movie under the pretense of having invited some girl back to their
room. But the local theater had been closed for refurbishment and it was
bitterly cold. Sam had gone for coffee and pie instead, and after a reasonable
period, or so he figured, he headed back. Dean's knuckles were white on the
bedhead which was being knocked steadily into the wall, his legs slung over
Cas's shoulders, heels jouncing on his back. Sam had watched, dumbstruck for a
few moments before he muttered an apology and staggered away from the room.
He'd thrown up in a bush on the other side of the parking lot before he got
into Impala and sped off.
“I know it, Sam. But it's going to be the death of you. You know that, right?”
Sam tried to ignore the quiet, gravelly words from the back seat. Cas had
always been so quiet. Even when Sam slipped the knife in between the slats of
his ribs and punctured his lung good and deep. It made Sam wonder if Cas really
was an angel, the way he went so gracefully and peacefully as he started to
drown in his own blood. But now he was just another ghost. He'd apologized as
the light went out of Cas's eyes.
“I'm sorry,” he'd said. “You gave him back to me. You raised him from
perdition. I'm grateful. I am. But you have to know. It's just me and him.
You're a good man. You couldn't begin to understand the things we've done -
what we are.”
Dean was mad when Cas stopped returning his calls. He tried to pretend it was
no big deal, but Sam saw the bewilderment in his eyes as he tried for the
umpteenth time and got the disconnected tone. Cas was his. His savior. And then
his toy. When Dean couldn't shift the stain on his own soul, breaking Cas had
made him feel less lonely, Sam supposed. Misery loves company. Maybe Dean even
resented him for getting him out. Maybe deep down he'd wanted to be locked away
from his baby brother. The blackness of desire which weighed so heavily on him,
an albatross around his neck.
Sam never told Dean about Cas' finding their father's journal, with Dean's
notes scrawled in the margins and his sketches which filled the pages John had
left blank. That he was on the verge of discovering the things they'd done. He
may have fished Dean out of that hopeless place, but he could've thrown him
back just as fast, and Sam couldn't risk that. So Sam did what he had to.
Dean had gotten over it eventually. Even crawled into bed with Sam one night
and made all kinds of promises in the dark. Let Sam pin him to the mattress and
shove inside him, too rough and too dry but so achingly good. Told him it would
always just be them from now on in. There should never have been anyone else.
Sammy and D against the world. Sam kissed his brother and tried not to picture
Cas or the hundred faceless men who'd done this to him before for a handful of
crumpled bills.
But in the harsh light of day, Dean only felt disgust, vowed never to lay a
hand on his little brother like that again, and Sam decided he had to get out
for good. He was a smart boy, and he knew college was a shoe-in if he could
just stay in one place long enough to apply himself.
It had almost worked. He'd probably have gone through with it and married Jess.
But Dean had found him. Dean came back swinging, with his smirks and his rough-
housing and all his possessive ire. He was the siren, and the rocks, and the
raging sea, but Jess thought herself the lighthouse. Sam had pleaded with her
to let him go. Tried to warn her that his past wasn't a sleeping dog she wanted
to poke. But she was nothing if not gutsy, it was the reason Sam loved her, and
it was her downfall. Sam had got back one night after drinking in a campus bar
with his brother. Jess had been sat at the kitchen table, poring over a stack
of papers and newspaper cuttings. Sam knew from her tear-streaked face that
she'd put two and two together. She'd even found out about Jimmy Novak's
disappearance, although she assumed it was Dean who'd had the hand in it.
Sam ran back out of the apartment and caught up with Dean who was walking back
to his motel. He told him he needed to leave, that he'd speak with Jess. Make
it right.
“Not without you, Sam. Never again. I can't do this alone.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Yeah, well maybe I don't want to.”
Sam pulled him in and kissed him fierce. He clung to Dean when started off for
Jessica, and begged him to just come away, but Dean wouldn't listen. An eye for
an eye, he thought as he watched him go. He should've known. Sam waited until
he saw a plume of smoke rising above the roofs of his street, and Dean's
silhouette came sprinting towards him. They collected the Impala, and once they
were back on the highway, Sam asked if she'd suffered and Dean said,
“No, Sammy. Of course not. I made it quick.”
They were a few miles from Singer's Salvage when Sam saw Jessica standing by
the roadside, white nightdress billowing around her.
“Pull over!”
Dean sighed and started to mumble something about how he could just wait 'til
they got there to drain the snake.
“I mean it, Dean. You need to pull over, right the fuck now.”
Dean did.
“What's got into you?”
“We can't go to Bobby's.”
“Why not? We're practically there now!”
“Dean, listen to me. If we go to Bobby's, it's the end of the road.”
“Sam -”
“Dean! We need to vanish. We're out of our depth.”
“But Sam I -”
“No more, Dean. I'm tired of monsters. I'm tired of ghosts. What're we even
fighting for now?”
“We save people. We help them.”
“Even if that's true,” said Sam sadly, “who says we have to? Why is that on
us?”
“What about Mom?” said Dean. “Dad never gave up looking for her killer.”
“And look where it got him,” Sam said. “He was a delusional, paranoid drunk.
Truth is, Mom made a mistake. She befriended the wrong person. It got her
killed.”
“He was a monster,” Dean growled, jaw set.
Sam closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he willed Jess to stop scratching at
the window.
“We're monsters Dean. Dress it up any way you want, but you know I'm right.”
“Are you saying we should just let them all get away with it?”
Sam sighed.
“I'm saying maybe we're lost. It scares me, how far I'll go. The things I'm
willing to do for you. Have done for you. This is going to end bad, Dean. If we
go the last few miles, it's over. They'll throw away the key. Best case
scenario. And I won't live without you. I won't. I'd rather die.”
Dean leant his forehead against Sam's, and brought a hand up to cup his face.
Sam tipped his head and brushed his lips against his brother's.
“I won't keep begging for scraps, Dean. I won't keep going along with your
fantasies. I'm starting to believe them.”
Jessica's pale face stared in at him through the glass. He closed his eyes and
opened them again. She was gone.
“I need to know what's real. The world is dark and fucked up, but we're the
darkest and most fucked up of all. And I'm tired, Dean. Either we go now and
start over, and you let me in, or this ends today. I end today.”
Dean looked up at his brother, and Sam saw for the first time just how broken
he was. Years of mourning, running, killing, selling himself piece by piece to
provide for a kid brother he was sworn to protect but had molded and twisted
with desire and rage.
Sam watched Dean consider his options.
“You really think we could do it, Sammy? Be reborn?”
His face was different. Not strange and beatific like in jail when Jimmy Novak
had told him to put his faith in Christ. Just a little hopeful. Sam smiled
then, dimples studding his cheeks. It was a moment of clarity. The first in as
long as he could remember. They were together. Anything was possible.
“Yeah. I do. Come on, big brother. It's a beautiful day to die.”
 
 
 
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