Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1175608.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Hand_Jobs, Semi-Public_Sex, Guilt, Wincest_-_Freeform, sam
      knows_something's_wrong_with_him, Inspired_by_Fanart
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-09 Words: 2960
****** Reflections ******
by helena_s_renn
Summary
     Sam's demon nature, or simply puberty? Either or both, the changes in
     his body, his needs, and his brother's constant presence leads to a
     quick first encounter in the hot, hot summer.
Notes
     Sam is 14. No actual penetration. Also short appearances by John, and
     the Impala.
     Unbeta'd. Any mistakes are mine.
     Inspired by Badbastion's work. Anyone who knows her knows which one:
     http://badbastion.livejournal.com/6358.html.
August, 1997
It had to be 105 degrees in the shade that day. The Impala, classic though it
was, had cleared the factory with no A/C. Sam lay across the back seat, sliding
in his own sweat, just waiting for nightfall and some relief from the heat.
Dean was riding shotgun up front with Dad. From his angle, Sam could see his
brother’s ear, dark-blond spikes of his hair, the back curve of his strong
jawline. Dean had to shave every day, or rather, he had red-gold-flecked
stubble most of the time. Sam had gone past the peach fuzz phase on his upper
lip and there were a few bristles showing up on his chin like stray weeds; so
far, that was it on his face. His pubes and armpit hair had come in a couple
years before, stupid-thick and forever diffusing his scent. But he was already
as tall as Dean, arguably half an inch taller, and still growing.
He wondered how that translated to dick size. The subject was off limits, and
they never stayed anywhere long enough to make friends, much less ones he could
talk to about that. Sam had seen other guys’ dicks in Dean’s skin mags. Sure,
the girls were good for looking at, but eventually someone had to do something
with them. On a couple of the few occasions he’d had some privacy in whatever
motel room, Sam had stood in front of the inevitable mirror tacked to the wall
and stroked himself hard, just to see how he compared to those guys. Not bad,
he thought. Bigger than most of them, in fact. He’d assumed that they’d want
guys who were hung like water buffalo for dirty pictures, but maybe he’d been
wrong.
The first time, Sam had finished right then and there. The mag he’d filched was
already sticky, so a little more jizz on the pages wasn’t going to hurt it. The
idea of that tackiness being Dean’s from him touching himself did him in the
next time. He’d nearly been caught in the act earlier that week. Only turning
on his heel and making a mad dash for the bathroom had saved him from being
busted with his cock in hand. Dean’s knowing smirk when he’d returned to the
room freshly showered and having rubbed one out told Sam he wasn’t very sneaky
after all. In fact, about all he actually said on the matter was, “About time.”
The weird thing was, Sam had been listening to Dean jerk off for years.
Probably since his older brother was not quite twelve, so it stood to reason he
thought Sam was a late bloomer. It wasn’t that Dean was noisy. He just...
didn’t want to know. Not at first, certainly not before puberty hit him and he
finally understood the need. Sam sure as hell didn’t want to have that sort of
intimate information known about himself, especially by someone who could use
it to tease him ruthlessly. He wished it didn’t have to happen to him. It was
okay that Dean got hard, stroked himself off, went out and did it with girls -
that made Dean happy. Dean should have something like that. It didn’t make Sam
happy at all. His dick demanding attention, which he had to hide and sneak off
to deal with, made him more alone. More of a freak. He had to be, as strong and
frequent as it hit him.
In the interest of secrecy, Sam had learned to regulate his breathing pattern
to mimic REM sleep. At first, he did it so Dean would hurry the fuck up and
they could sleep for real. Later, when his body began to respond in kind, it
was more challenging. He’d lost track of the times he’d come in his pajamas,
or, if he was lucky, into his hand, all the while not a hitch in the steady
cadence of deep breaths giving him away while Dean grunted and panted and got
off in the other bed, the scent of his semen hitting Sam like a Mack truck
every time.
The Impala slowed, made a right turn and a left, and Sam sat up to see another
ubiquitous small town. They were pulling into a Shell station. Dad got out, got
the pump going, and disappeared around the side of the building. As soon as he
was gone, Dean looked back over the seat at Sam for a moment, like they’d only
just met. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Then Dean got out, stretching
languorously. In this heat he wore a muscle shirt and jeans. Cutting his eyes
to the side, Sam admired the purposefully exposed muscles in Dean’s shoulders
and arms, the band of pale skin around his waist where his shirt rode up,
tapering to narrow hips and... other attributes.
Sam blushed at himself and crawled out the other side of the car. Hardly an
hour went by that he didn’t stop himself from thinking about Dean ‘like that’.
He knew it was wrong. So wrong. His own brother. The demon blood made him want
to kiss, to touch, whatever else came after. It had to be that.
One night three years ago, they’d stayed a few days at Pastor Jim’s. He'd
stayed up too late, reading under the covers with his flashlight. Like so many
times before, he snuck out of the room he and Dean were sharing, along the
upstairs hallway to the edge of the landing till he could see the living room
below. His dad was pacing, on some tangent, more than half drunk by the
slurring. That was the first time he’d heard it, “demon blood”. Even before
John went into more detail, words like Mary and deal and yellow-eyes filtering
upwards, Sam somehow put two and two together, knew it had to be about him. And
it was. He was a creature, an abomination. Cursed and impure. Someday, sooner
or later, they’d have to put him down like a rabid dog and burn his bones.
As Sam mused all over again about all he’d heard that night, Dad appeared
again, and went into the store to pay, nodding at Sam to hang the gas pump
nozzle back up and flip the lever. One day, that same man who had raised him
would come for him with a gun or a knife or something... Over the sizzling roof
of the car, Dean flashed his teeth at him. Dean, who was his gateway drug into
wrong. All those thoughts, feelings, and fantasies, so dirty. Who but hellspawn
wanted sexual contact with their own brother? The only way to avoid it was to
remain untouched. By anyone. His own hand was bad enough, but sometimes it got
so bad, he just had to.
Typical of himself, Dean interrupted Sam’s reflections in the unsexiest way
possible. “Gotta drop a deuce, Sammy. Might be in there a while.”
Sam rolled his eyes; Dad, coming within hearing distance, shook his head. They
both knew that Dean like to ‘sit a spell,’ as he put it. But Sam had to piss so
he’d better go quick before any pyrotechnics started.
There was no key to retrieve. Since Dad had already been in there, just seconds
before, they wouldn’t need to clear the room. Sam darted around the Impala and
then around the side of the gas station. Behind him, Dean’s steel-toed boots
crunched on the cracked pavement. It was a typical men’s restroom – smelly and
none too clean, grimy sinks and trash strewn in the corners. Sam presented
himself at the last urinal in the row of three, and Dean took the middle one, a
breach of the unspoken code of restroom etiquette. He also looked, so Sam
glared at him and looked, too. It was stifling in there; he just wanted out and
to see if Dad had enough money left for a cold coke. Shaking, tucking, zipping,
Sam went to wash his hands - out of soap, of course – thinking Dean would make
for whatever stall was the least disgusting and do his business. It was kind of
strange, that he hadn’t already.
When Sam looked up, into the cracked mirror above the sink, Dean was right
behind him. Right. Behind. How had he not sensed that? Usually he knew exactly
what his brother’s proximity to him was. Before he could say anything, Dean
spoke. “I lied. But it should buy us ten, fifteen minutes.” He smirked, lips
turning up at the corners over Sam’s left shoulder. “Not that I think you’ll
need that much.”
“For what?”
“To watch yourself get off... watch me get you off. Watch me watching you get
off.”
Familiar hands snaked over Sam’s hips, undoing his button and zipper. The
indirect touches felt like something he needed, maybe even wanted. Sam’s dick
filled out, raised its head. He blushed. Maybe Dean was being deliberate, but
his own reaction was not.
“But... anyone could walk in here. Dad could walk in here.”
“So? Makes things more interesting, don’t you think?”
He couldn’t fight it. He wanted it. But if Sam had demon blood running through
his veins and his heart making him rage sometimes with black anger, sometimes
like now with lust for his sibling, what was Dean’s excuse?
In the mirror, Dean’s eyes bored into Sam’s a second before he used the
reflection to view what he was doing. The heat and pressure of his body burned
into Sam’s back, his ass. Before them in the glass, the lurch of Sam’s body as
his knees buckled was captured in spotty detail. He managed to wedge himself
between his brother and the sink; Dean braced him from behind. Long and sun-
browned, Sam’s fingers clutched the edge of the cooler dirty-white porcelain.
He watched his own face: eyelids slid down half-mast, mouth gaped open slack,
nostrils flared. He watched Dean doing things to him he’d only imagined, while
he hung there helpless at his brother’s hands.
Eyes gleaming in the badly lit restroom, Dean tugged at Sam’s jeans till they
were open and lowered just enough. His fist closed around the rising erection,
thumb rubbing at the thin thread just under the head. The overall image was
obscene, Sam decided. "Young Man Accosted by Bother.” “Young Man Molested in
Restroom.” ...Young Virginal Man Being Touched by his Older Brother Dean’s
Experienced Hands, one reaching down, pushing in between his legs to cradle and
squeeze his balls just so, and his gun hand curled around the hilt of Sam’s
dick.
He watched his brother make similar, and yet totally different moves than his
own upon his stirring flesh: stroking, with his fingers tighter than Sam used
on himself, thumb extended to flick over the head. Sam caught his breath at the
sensation, and the sight of his dick being stroked by a freckled hand with
blunt fingers, one wearing a silver ring, tan but fairer than his, and calluses
worn at different angles. So hard, so good, Sam's hips jerked as he pushed into
that encirlcing fist.
“Why... are you doing this?” he whispered. There was no logical answer for it,
but he had to know.
“Because. You’re here, I’m here, we both need something. Know what you’ve been
up to. And you’ll never ask for help – about anything. So...” Dean pulled his
fist forward, so that the edge of his index finger was snugged under the
flaring ridge, and twisted his wrist.
“GAH!” Hips bucking, Sam tried to keep the pooling drool in his mouth in and
couldn’t. Dean’s answer was no answer at all; there was no answer, only want.
His body released a blurt of clear pre-cum and Dean grinned viciously. In the
mirror, Sam observed Dean nosing into the messy strands of his hair, those
impossible green eyes glittering unholy light. Not demonic: all too human.
“Sam.” A hard line of cock pushed against Sam’s bony ass cheek.
“Dean...” Thinking he was going to jump away, Sam found himself hung up between
the firm, fast jerking-off Dean started and the alarming erection humping at
him. He couldn’t help but push back... and forward... and back.
“So thick, Sammy – look at you!” Dean hissed. He sped faster. Unable to stop
himself, Sam dropped his head forward and hung onto the sink for dear life,
every muscle taut. The pleasure overwhelmed him. Trying to ignore the rank
stink of the place and the fear of being discovered that would have otherwise
held him back, Sam let it take him. “Go on, baby brother, come for me.” Dean’s
whisper against the side of his neck was what undid him. Hot breath fanned
against Sam’s sweaty skin and into his ear, making gooseflesh rise and his
nipples harden into tiny points so tight they stung. More than any time he’d
done himself, his balls contracted and sucked up against his body.
Chest heaving as he panted, oxygen-challenged, Sam watched his own orgasm in
his eyes, how his pupils blew wide open, his face morphed into dying, then
stoned. One shiny bead of sweat ran slowly down his temple, like a tear, then
dove past his cheekbone down his face and neck. Dean’s other hand slid
downwards from Sam’s hip. It trailed ticklish to his balls, palmed them, gave a
firm squeeze. If he’d not been scared of being heard, Sam’d have been moaning
his release from the bottom of his chest. Stifling it, he thrust once, twice.
His little slit, as it appeared and disappeared and reappeared centered in the
red-purple head of his dick between Dean’s fingers and thumb, yawned wide and
spit streaky white juice in blurts and runnels all over the mirror, the sink,
and Dean’s hand.
“God, Sam... you have so much!” Dean stroked it through to the end. The
pressure of his thumb running up the shaft milked more, if just ooze and
droplets. Even then, he held on to Sam's dick longer than strictly necessary,
as if comforting him, arm around his waist to keep Sam from toppling. Green-
glass eyes dipped to the drizzle on his hand. Instead of washing it off, Dean
raised his cum-splashed fingers to his mouth and licked.
“Been three days,” admitted Sam. He glanced at the slowly running stripes
decorating the mirror. Dean was still right there, plastered against him, still
hard. Shit. Suddenly nervous, he brought his hands together in front of
himself.
Dean snorted. “Yeah. Me, too. So, Sam. You gonna help me out?”
“Uh...”
“You don’t have to do anything, don’t have to touch me, just...”
A second later, Sam was facedown over the sink, ass bared. “Dean...!” If he was
being honest, Sam knew he’d whacked off to thoughts of guys, and to Dean. Not
like this, though. Not like so... filthy.
Behind him, Dean was undoing his fly one-handedly while he held Sam down with
the other. His belt buckle jangled; the distinct zzzzzzp! of his zipper being
pulled invaded Sam’s brain. It wasn’t that he objected to doing things with
Dean. Hell, he’d always known there was something special about his brother.
Just... now? With no warning, no foreplay, in a place like this? Just then, Sam
felt the first touch of Dean’s bare erection against the exposed skin of his
ass. “No....” He fought the hold, struggling to get away.
“I’m not gonna fuck you, Sammy.” It was a whisper. “Just hold still... let
me...”
It started then, Dean’s will upon him. His dick upon him. Dean thrust...
against, not in. He slid against one cheek. Then the crease. He clamped his
fingers around Sam’s hipbones, rutting against his brother, low grunts of needy
excitement. It wasn’t long, less than a minute. Sam held still, so still.
Little smudges of Dean’s pre-ejaculate painted his overheated skin. Round and
blunt, the tip of Dean’s cock nudged Sam’s hole and he flinched. “Ssshh...
almost...”
Behind and over him, Dean was quickly stroking himself, slap, slap of spit-
wetted skin so obvious. Shuddery gasps told Sam that he was close. Wait,
what...?! The thing Sam had just considered, happened. Semen exploded like
creamy lava against his tiny pucker, buttering him, spurting up the crack,
dripping down the back of his sac.
“Gross, Dean!” Only it wasn’t. He’d have knelt and let Dean cum in his mouth,
in his hair, anything, if he could clean up after.
“Shut up, Sam, that was hot!”
“It’s worse than cumming in my pants. Your jizz is all over my ass.”
“Quit your bitching. I’ll clean you.”
“Hurry up, man!” Now that he wasn’t dying to get off, Sam was worried. Near-
frantic with it. Seriously, if their dad found them like this, Sam feared for
their collective balls. Something told him John wasn’t open to them doing this.
Dean pushed Sam’s shirt up higher, thumb tracing up his spine then rubbing
against the back of his neck. “I’d lick it off you, but it’s a sauna out there
and you’re all sweated up. Some other time.”
The suggestion alone made Sam’s dick struggle to rise again. His balls hurt.
Without a word, Dean grabbed a wad of paper towels and soaked them under the
faucet, squeezing them between his hands to stop them from dripping. Cool water
tickled his crack, right, left, center. The uncontrollable clench-release of
his hole wouldn’t stop. “Sam...” Dean warned.
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t be. It’s sexy. Little and pink.”
Sam bowed his head down again and let Dean work uninterrupted. He doubted that
Dean could be dissuaded. It seemed fitting to him that the one who’d taken some
measure of his innocence should be the one to clean him - on the outside,
anyway. If not for whatever dirtied up Sam inside, there’d be no need.
 
Fin.
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