Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/789317.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester, Bobby_Singer, Karen
      Singer, Jessica_Moore, OCs, Missouri_Moseley
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Not_Related, Alternate_Universe_-_Nothing
      Supernatural, Crossdressing, Minor_Character_Death, for_the_sake_of_plot,
      loving_and_caring_John_Winchester, because_I_said_so, not_really_gender
      issues, but_everyone_thinks_it_is, Sam_just_likes_wearing_women's_clothes
      sometimes, Jess_is_an_amazing_best_friend, Karen_Singer_is_a_matchmaker
      extraordinaire, and_Dean_is_himself_without_the_familyname, drama
      happens, And_love, and_Sam_desperately_tries_to_hide_his_boner_over_all
      the_food_porn, fluffy_with_a_bit_of_teenage_angst_on_top
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-08 Completed: 2013-05-12 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 25067
****** Secrets and the Scent of Jasmine ******
by Sijglind
Summary
     Sam is eleven when Mary dies.
     He's thirteen when he tries on one of her dresses for the first time.
     And he's fifteen when Dean shows up to complicate his life.
     'Well, hello there, gorgeous.' Dean smirks and gives Sam a shameless
     once-over, and Sam hopes he hasn't been staring too much, because
     that would just be awkward. But then he remembers that he just ran
     into the kitchen counter and barely avoided smacking his head into a
     cupboard doing so. It's a miracle he hasn't scared Dean away yet.
Notes
     As the tags say, the boys are not related in this fic, but Dean is
     still his ordinary womanizer self. Sam is also not transgender but
     crossdresses for other reasons, but you'll find out the details when
     you read on.
     I just went through this because I had some time on my hands and
     corrected a couple mistakes and did a few changes. Dean's family name
     is Milligan now, instead of Mitchell, and there is a scene in the
     second chapter that's been changed as well, but plot-wise everything
     is how it was.
     Now, enough of my rambling! Have fun reading and hopefully enjoy this
     little story of mine (and if you do, feel free to leave a comment ;).
***** You look good in that Dress, Son *****
When Mary dies, Sam is eleven.
Suddenly, he's all alone in the world apart from his Dad, but John is overseas
at the time, fighting in some desert for the American freedom, and Sam opens
the door to the grave looking policemen all by himself. Their expressions
soften slightly when they see him looking back at them, hazel eyes wide and
frightened beneath his bangs, and one of them crouches down to ask him
questions with their faces on the same level. If his dad is maybe at home?
Sam only shakes his head and clutches the door tighter, knuckles turning white.
Mom told him not to open the door to anyone, but surely to the police it's
okay. And he's only opened it as far as the chain allows and not further. He
still hopes Mom won't be angry that he talked to men he doesn't know. Even if
they're police officers.
Then maybe Sam could call someone to stay with him? There's been a car
accident, but someone should be with him when they tell him the details.
Sam tells them his mom would come home soon, she's just at the shop around the
corner, getting some milk and eggs for their breakfast tomorrow. He doesn't
understand why the officers exchange quick glances as if they know something
Sam doesn't. He doesn't like it, because adults always leave him out of their
conversations, tell him he's too young and he should go and play with his
cousin Jerry, and they don't care if Jerry steals Sam's Spiderman action figure
or calls him a girl because his hair is so long Mary ties it back when they
have dinner.
Maybe there's someone else Sam can call? His mom has surely left him a number
if something should happen. They'd just wait here on the front porch until Sam
has called an adult and they would come over to take care of him.
Sam considers that for a moment. His mom is supposed to be home soon, so maybe
they should wait for her. But mom has already been away for an hour and the
shop isn't that far away. All of a sudden, Sam is frightened, and he wants
nothing more than seeing his mom walking along the way at their front yard,
smiling at him, her golden blond hair tied into a kinda messy ponytail after a
long work day.
She doesn't. Instead, Missouri hurries down the sidewalk in sweatpants and
slippers, breathing heavily as if she's run the whole way from her house to
Sam's. There's a stain on her T-shirt and Sam has half a second to wonder if
it's tomato sauce before she storms onto the porch and starts to cuss out the
officers. He watches as the two men's shoulders start slumping and their eyes
drop to their feet as if they're ashamed, and maybe he would have laughed if he
wasn't still so scared and missed his mom.
“Open the door, honey,” she tells Sam softly after she's finished scolding the
officers, and Sam obeys. As soon as he opens the door fully, Missouri swipes
him up into her arms, presses him against her plump chest and rubs soothing
circles on his back. Normally, Sam would protest because he isn't a baby
anymore and he doesn't need to be cuddled, but today he lets her and buries his
face in the crook of her neck, takes in her warmth. It doesn't help chasing the
bad feeling in his stomach away.
After that, they all go inside and Sam finds out his mom will never come back.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam cries for days. He doesn't go to school. He doesn't eat, even when Missouri
takes him to her house and offers him a plate with a mountain of Mac'n'Cheese
on it. Sam doesn't want it. He wants his mom. Missouri is sad when she explains
him again that Mary's never coming back, and Sam knows that, knows what 'dead'
means since his hamster George died five years ago. He still wants her back.
                                        
Dad comes back four days later, and he smells of alcohol. Missouri wrinkles her
nose and clicks her tongue at him, but Sam doesn't care that his dad smells
like he showered with beer instead of water and looks like he hasn't slept in a
week, with purple rings under bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, greasy hair and
stubble that scratches on Sam's cheek. All that matters is that he's back and
Sam isn't so alone anymore.
John holds his son while they cry together.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam cries until he can't anymore.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Missouri helps Sam choose the clothes Mary is supposed to wear when she's
buried. Dad doesn't want to go into their bedroom. They decide on her favorite,
a white summer dress with lace on the seam of the skirt that looks like roses.
She often wore it when she played with Sam in the garden and there are some
grass stains that never quite came out; green, faded shadows of happier times.
Sam's eyes sting, but there are no tears welling up inside them. He has already
shed all he had.
 
Mary looks like an angel in her dress when Sam looks at the open coffin. People
sometimes say the dead look like they are asleep, but even with the makeup that
makes her cheeks rosy and covers the cuts on her face, Sam knows she isn't
sleeping. Her chest doesn't rise and fall with in- and exhales and her skin is
too cold and feels all wrong when he touches the back of her hand. He puts his
Spiderman action figure in the coffin with her. It's his favorite toy, and he
had to beg her for three months until she finally bought it for his birthday.
He tells her she can play with it in heaven and keep it safe until he goes
there as well.
Dad rubs the back of Sam's neck as they watch the coffin being lowered into the
ground. There are a lot of people at the funeral, telling them how sorry they
are, and what a wonderful person Mary was, and if they need anything they
shouldn't hesitate to ask. Sam doesn't really listen to them and doesn't react
when they touch his cheek and shoulders or ruffle his hair, he just stares at
the hole and the wooden cross that marks where her grave is until the headstone
arrives.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Dad gets drunk that night and passes out on the couch. Sam is silent when he
throws the empty bottles into the trash and wipes the spilled alcohol away
while Dad drools on the cushions.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam grows up fast after that. Dad is really sad, and there's barely a night
where he doesn't fall asleep in the living room, face smeared with sweat, tears
and snot, hugging a bottle to his chest, and Sam understands because he's sad
too. He knows from Billy Higgins in his class that people sometimes start
hitting others when they are drunk, but Dad never does that, he only cries, and
then Sam climbs onto his lap and wraps his arms around his neck until he stops
shaking with sobs and starts snoring. After that, Sam cleans up and goes to
bed.
Dad forgets to cook, so Sam does. He gets better with practice, sets the smoke
alarm off only four times, and when the bacon is a bit black, Dad doesn't say
it, only looks at him with grateful, guilty and sad eyes and eats. Sam learns
to cook pasta and sauce and potatoes and meat, and soon he doesn't even really
need the microwave anymore. Dad says he's proud of him. It makes Sam smile and
the hole in his chest get a little less.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
After half a year, they move away from Lawrence, Kansas, to Sioux Falls, South
Dakota. Dad has a friend there, Bobby, who has a scrap yard where he can work
at, but Sam knows that's not the only reason they leave. Dad hasn't slept in
their room since Mom died.
Missouri helps them pack, and Dad asks her to bring all of Mary's clothes to
welfare, even her wedding dress, and Sam doesn't like it. Together with
Missouri, he packs an extra bag with all of Mom's prettiest dresses and
clothes, wedding dress included, and puts it in the Impala's trunk without
telling Dad.
Missouri hugs him tight when they say goodbye and tells him he can call
whenever he wants. Sam nods and pretends he doesn't see the tears in her eyes.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Their new house is next to Bobby's at the outskirts of Sioux Falls, surrounded
by a forest. It's old and needs some things to be fixed; there's mold in the
upstairs bathroom and the stairs to the basement miss a step, but Sam likes it
nonetheless. His room is bigger than the one he had in Lawrence, and through
his window he can see the sun setting every night above the trees. He hides the
bag with Mom's clothes in the old wardrobe in his room that smells of dust and
mothballs.
“We're going to start over, Sammy,” Dad tells him when they have dinner on the
porch, looking at the overgrown garden. “Just you and me, kiddo.”
 
Bobby comes over a few days after they moved in to help Dad fix the house. He
looks grumpy with his scruffy beard and the baseball cap, and first Sam is a
bit scared, but he soon discovers that Bobby is really nice, although he swears
a lot. His wife Karen is with him, and she scolds him whenever he curses until
he says 'balls' one time too often after he let his hammer drop, and then Karen
takes Sam with her to their house.
Karen is even nicer than Bobby. She has blond hair, but it's darker than Mom's,
and she holds Sam's hand when they walk through the forest to Bobby's house.
Sam likes her voice, it's soft and kind, and she talks to him like to an adult
and doesn't use that stupid tone that some of the other adults use when they
talk to children.
She teaches him how to bake cherry pie, and later they bring it over to Dad and
Bobby, who smile. Dad burns his tongue because he tried eating it too soon.
When Sam tells him later that he'd helped Karen making it, Dad tells him it was
the best pie he's ever eaten.
 
After a few weeks, school starts for Sam, and Dad drives him there every
morning since their house is too far away to walk. The school bus would pick
Sam up, but Dad says he doesn't mind, and even if Sam won't admit it, he likes
to listen to Dad talk on their way there while AC/DC plays in the background.
The school and the teachers are alright, and on his first day there, Sam meets
Jess, a girl from his English class. She tells him everything he needs to
know—whom to avoid and which teachers are nicer than the others. Jess is nice,
and she laughs a lot and has Mom's hair color, a bright blond that almost looks
like it's dyed. At first it hurts a bit to look at it, but Jess makes Sam
laugh, and by the end of the day, it doesn't hurt that bad anymore.
On their way back from school, Sam tells Dad everything about Jess, and Dad
smiles.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam is nearly fourteen and the best of his grade. He knows a lot because he
likes to read, and the others ask him if he can help them with his homework.
Although Sam has a lot of friends now, Jess has become his best friend, and
they're always together, talking about school, their classmates, movies and
books while Sam cooks dinner after school at his place. Dad doesn't pick him up
from school anymore as long as the weather is good enough to go by bike, and
Sam wants to have dinner ready before Dad comes back from Bobby's scrap yard.
Jess has only asked him once about his mother, and Sam has told her with many
pauses and the help of a lot of tissues. After that, they never talked about it
again, and Sam only sometimes catches her looking a bit sad at him.
 
                                      ♂♀
 
One day, Missouri calls and asks how he's doing. They talk twice a month, so
it's not that unusual that she calls, however, they end up talking about
clothes this time, and Sam remembers the bag of his mom's clothes that's still
safely tucked away in the old wardrobe. He has only opened it once since they
moved to South Dakota, and they had still smelled like his Mom; of her jasmine
perfume, grass and cookies. He wants to smell it again.
Sam barges up the stairs and into his room to throw the closet open and drag
out the heavy bag of clothes. When he opens the zipper and buries his face in
the soft fabric, the smell is still there, soft but comforting and so familiar
it hurts. Shaking hands dig into the layers, and Sam pulls out a dress, knee-
long and made of cotton, grass green with stylized flowers decorating the skirt
in a flowing pattern. It's mended at the seam where it had ripped when it got
stuck in a rose bush on a garden party of one of Mom's friends when Sam was
six. Sam had thought it had been his fault since he had chased his Mom through
the garden and along the rose bushes, and he had cried when he had seen the
small hole in her beautiful dress. Mom had comforted him and laughed it away,
and in the evening, she taught him how to mend clothes. She'd even encouraged
him to do it on the green dress, and where he had done so, the stitches are
awkward and a bit crooked next to her neat ones. Mom had still praised him.
“See, it's easy. And next time you'll do it all on your own.”
He just wishes it would be that easy to do the same with the hole in his chest.
It's not really a conscious decision when he takes off his jeans and shirt to
slip into the dress. He just wants to feel closer to his mom. Surprisingly—Sam
guesses he has to thank his growth spurt—the dress fits. The skirt falls loose
around his knees and billows when he turns, the touch of fabric against skin a
soft caress that brings memories of sunshine and laughter.
He looks at himself in the mirror until the timer ringing downstairs tells him
the lasagna is ready.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam tells Jess, ears, cheeks and neck hot with embarrassment, that he tried on
one of his mom's dresses. She doesn't laugh, only smiles softly, and asks him
if he wants to do it again.
To his own surprise, Sam does.
Jess still doesn't laugh at him or calls him a freak when he stands in front of
her in his mom's clothes, and he realizes she's the best friend he'll ever
have. She even picks out other things for him to put on, and in the end, he's
wearing a black skirt and a dark green silk blouse, which, Jess swears,
accentuates his eyes. “You're beautiful,” she tells him, and it's the first
time someone else than his mom said that to him.
When she leaves, Sam gives her a long hug and whispers a choked thank you in
her ear, barely holding back the tears.
 
After that, Jess shows him how to shave his legs and put on makeup. He has some
problems putting on mascara and stabs the brush into his eyes several times
during the first attempts, but Sam is a fast learner, and soon he can put on
makeup without causing a mess or looking like a hooker—or like a five-year-old
who just discovered their mom's makeup collection. Jess even styles his hair,
and when he looks into the mirror, Sam sees a brown-haired girl his age with
pink lips and cute dimples, and not the lanky boy that's all elbows and knees
that usually blinks back at him. He's never been very sturdy, not like his Dad,
who's all bulky muscle and broad shoulders. Mary's genes are more prominent,
providing Sam with slim shoulders, a narrow waist and soft facial features. Sam
likes to look at himself in the mirror like this.
But when Jess asks him if he wants to be a girl, Sam shakes his head. “It's
like I'm closer to her like this,” he explains, and Jess knows who he's talking
about. She takes his hand and squeezes.
The next day, they buy Mary's perfume together.
 
John finds out about it two months later, after Sam turns fourteen. He comes
home early from the scrap yard because he bruised his finger in the hood of the
car they had been salvaging that day. Kurt Cobain singing Smells Like Teen
Spirit in Sam's room on nearly full volume drowns out his father's heavy
footsteps on the stairs, and Sam doesn't realize Dad is home until he sees
John's shocked expression in the mirror. He can only imagine what Dad must be
feeling when seeing his son dressed in his late wife's clothes, singing and
dancing along to Nirvana's song with closed eyes, the green dress swinging
around Sam's knees whenever he twirls in the middle of the room while he rubs
his lips together to spread the pink lip gloss.
In the long moment father and son stare at each other's reflection, Sam feels
his heart drop so much that he could swear it's halfway to China when Dad
finally closes the door.
Sam doesn't leave his room for the rest of the day.
 
In the morning, there's an open bottle of whiskey on the couch table, but
surprisingly enough, not much of the alcohol is missing, just enough to fill
two or three glasses. Sam suspects Dad has fled the house and is already on the
salvage yard to distract himself with work while Sam gets ready for school, but
when he steps onto the front porch, Dad is leaning against the Impala, head
tipped back to take in the sun on his face.
Sam freezes. He could go back in and slip out through the back door, grab his
bike and take the route through the forest. And after school, he could maybe go
to Jess, ask her if he can stay the night and delay the whole shit storm that's
coming his way for another day. But he has no such luck. Maybe his time as a
Marine is to be held responsible, maybe Dad has just incredible senses, but he
already heard Sam come out the door and turns to face his son who's still
holding the open door while debating if he should run or just throw himself
headfirst into the argument that's about to happen.
John takes the decision out of his hands by saying, “get in. I'll drive you to
school today.”
Reluctantly, Sam closes the door behind him and slips into the passenger seat
of the Impala, shoulders hunched and backpack hugged to his chest as if he
could avoid the conversation by making himself as small as possible.
They drive in silence for five minutes until Dad ventures, “there are
operations, you know.” Sam looks at him in shock, but Dad's staring at the road
in front of them as if his life depends on it, knuckles white where his hands
clutch the wheel.
“Sorry?” Dad doesn't make sense. He's supposed to be screaming, dammit, Sam has
already put together his arguments and answers.
“To change the,” Dad clears his throat and shifts awkwardly on his seat,
clearly as nervous as his son, “the gender of a person.”
“You mean... a sex change?” Sam can't believe his ears, can't believe they are
having this conversation all together. Dad slightly flinches at the word 'sex
change', but he holds his ground and nods severely, eyes still on the road. “If
that's what you want, son—uh, Sammy.”
Sam laughs. He laughs so hard he's shaking and doesn't see the shocked
expression on his father's face. The weight on his chest and the claws around
his heart break away suddenly, and he feels light even though there are tears
in his eyes. It takes him some time to calm down, and when he has brushed the
tears away, and is breathing in deeply, Dad looks at him, bemused. Sam leans in
and throws his arms around his father's neck, buries his head in the broad
shoulder. “I don't want a sex change, Dad.” He thinks he feels Dad taking a
deep, relieved breath, but he doesn't point it out. “I just... like it. To look
like a girl sometimes. It makes me feel closer to her.”
The last words are barely more than a whisper, and on top of that muffled by
Dad's shirt, but Sam knows he has heard when a strong hand comes up and ruffles
his hair affectionately.
Both smile when Dad tells Sam he will pick him up after school, and Sam isn't
even embarrassed when he gives his father a peck on the cheek in front of his
arriving classmates.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Three weeks later, Dad asks Sam if he wants to put on some of mom's clothes for
their weekly dinner at Bobby and Karen's.
When Sam shows up on their neighbors' doorstep wearing a blue summer dress,
Bobby awkwardly—but nevertheless genuinely—congratulates him on his hair and
Karen asks with a smile if he wants to try on some of her old clothes that
don't fit her anymore.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam mostly wears his other clothes when he's at home, over at Bobby and Karen's
or out with Jess. He's gotten accustomed to the whistles he gets when he's
wearing a skirt and makeup while walking through the city with Jess and ignores
them most of the time. Once or twice, someone has done the mistake to call him
a fag or freak while walking past them, but Jess, although only five feet
something tall, is a force of her own, and soon enough, people don't pay a mind
anymore to the fact that Sam Winchester sometimes wears dresses. John even
threatened someone with violence when he accompanied his son to a school event
and one of the parents had the nerve to ask him if he was sending Sam to
therapy to heal his condition. Sam had had to drag Dad away before he could go
through with his threat, but he'd done it with a smile.
Life goes on in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and soon enough, nobody feels like
bragging about Sam Winchester anymore.
For Sam himself, everything is fine, the hole in his chest is slowly but
steadily closing with every passing year and proud smile of his father. His
grades are outstanding, he has an awesome best friend, neighbors that are like
aunt and uncle to him, and a father that maybe not completely likes but still
accepts his son's habit of dressing up as a girl and even goes as far as
declaring personal vendettas on people who dare talking bad about said habit.
Life is good for Sam. Nearly perfect.
And then Dean shows up to turn the world upside down.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
It's a warm evening in late summer after he turned fifteen when Sam meets Dean
for the first time. Karen has asked him to come over and help her while she
prepares dinner since the son of a friend is staying with them for some time
and she want's to welcome him properly to her home. That means of course Karen
is making her famous pot roast and apple pie for dessert, and Sam is glad to
help. Due to the warm day, he sheds his pants and teeshirt at home in exchange
for a leaf green sateen dress that Jess picked out for him. The fabric is the
right thing for the weather, cool against his skin but not too thin, and the
slight A-line, knee-length skirt provides enough air circulation to not make
him sweat uncomfortably as he would in his pants. He doesn't bother much with
makeup, just puts on mascara and some subtle lip gloss before he inspects
himself in the mirror and wonders if his Mom would've liked the dress.
His hair has gotten long enough to tie it into a ponytail again, tips now
brushing gently against his neck and shoulders, tickling slightly when he
moves. The dress is pretty, almost subtly elegant, but not too much for the
occasion—it's not like Sam wants to impress the son of Bobby's friend anyway,
just make a good first impression. Well, maybe he shouldn't show up in a dress
then, a voice in the back of his mind pipes up, barging in doors with his
freakishness doesn't usually make for good first impressions. But then again,
Sam has nothing to hide, and he really can't be bothered to feel his pants
sticking to his skin just to humor some narrow-minded asshole. The dress it is,
then, and Sam puts on Mom's perfume before he walks through the forest to the
salvage yard.
 
It's four pm, and the pot roast is already in the oven when Sam walks into the
kitchen to be greeted by Karen with a peck on his cheek. Her face always lights
up when he comes over and she beams especially bright whenever he shows her a
new outfit and Sam enjoys the unconditional love she offers him. He feels at
home in her house as much as she does over at his own, and he hopes Mom can see
from wherever she is now how happy he and Dad have become here even though they
miss her every day.
Karen and Sam talk about his grades and future plans while he prepares the pie
and laugh when he accidentally brushes a flour covered hand over his cheek to
leave a white powdery trail behind. Bobby and Dad are busy in the yard, their
tools banging against metal with loud clonks that mix with the grumble of their
deep voices and laughter. Sometimes they start fighting over one thing or
another, but the two have become such good friends that the argument is over
after a few minutes and all hard feelings are washed away with the help of
shared beers.
Close to five pm, the two men leave for the Greyhound bus station in the city
to pick up their guest, a guy named Dean Milligan that is four years older than
Sam and apparently quite handy when it comes to cars. Dad comes in to wash his
hands before they go, smiles when he sees his son kneading the dough and
brushes a kiss to the top of his head in a wordless compliment. Sam smiles back
and continues with the pie while Karen tells him about Dean's struggles with
school; that he barely graduated High School and didn't care about college.
“It's not that he isn't intelligent, he's just not interested in grades and all
that, not as long as he can play around with the engine of some car and flirt
with the ladies.”
At her last words, Karen winks at Sam, and he playfully rolls his eyes. It's
not like he isn't interested in men—the opposite in fact, he's very
interested—but so far nothing happened apart from some awkward kissing and
fumbling with Jeremy Ross behind the bleachers. Up to now, no one has been
interesting enough, and when Sam is completely honest, he doesn't know if
anyone would stay when they find out about his... habit. It makes him sad,
sometimes, but he has decided he can live with it. He has great friends, a
great family, and a promising future ahead of him and it's not like his life
depends on finding someone and settling down at the age of fifteen. Karen, on
the other hand, has set her mind on finding someone for her little Sammy and
asks him one question after the other about the boys at school when he comes
over. It's endearing on the good days, awkward on the bad, but Sam still humors
her even then.
“Well, if he likes flirting with the ladies,” he stresses the last word and
raises a brow, “Bobby will have to watch out for his wife.”
Karen laughs, her cheeks flushing slightly pink, and she bumps her hip against
his. “As I see it, John will have to bring his shot gun over from now on
whenever you're coming and Dean is here.”
Sam grins when she levels a meaningful gaze at him. “Then you'd better warn
this Dean, before I have to abuse your pie to smuggle a file into prison.”
Both of them laugh at that, and the conversation turns to other things while
they continue cooking and wait for Dad, Bobby and their guest to come home.
 
Sam hears the tell-tale purring of the Impala's engine before he sees the
sleek, black car turn onto the drive way and roll onto the yard. He's setting
the table in the living room with his back to the yard and continues with it
while Karen hurries past him and out of the door to greet the newcomers,
telling himself he doesn't really care about this Dean guy or his charm and—if
Karen is a reliable source—stunningly good looks. And if he's checking his
dress for flour traces or other stains, it's only because Sam doesn't want to
look like he's clumsy. Honest.
Soon enough, the door opens, and Sam can't stop himself from throwing a quick
glance over his shoulder, but it's only Bobby carrying a duffel bag into the
house that no doubt belongs to Dean. “Need any help, Bobby?” Sam asks because
the thing looks heavy, and Bobby is not the youngest anymore, something that he
doesn't like to admit but that shows on long and hot days of work in the yard.
Karen comes in while Bobby grumbles that he 'ain't that old yet and can damn
well carry a bag up the stairs', but she interrupts and ushers him towards the
table while lecturing him about his blood pressure and Sam sneakily steals the
bag and hurries upstairs towards the guest bedroom. His motives, if he is
completely honest, aren't as altruistic as it might seem, because the guestroom
has a window that goes out onto the salvage yard, and if he's lucky he can
sneak a glance at Dean before the other notices him. And he is lucky.
Dad and Dean are inspecting the Impala, and Sam can even hear their
conversation drifting in through the open window. Apparently, Dean is a fan,
and the two of them are having a muscle car nerd-off or something, talking with
enthusiasm about engines and different car models and stuff Sam generally
doesn't understand like it's the greatest thing in the world. Knowing his dad,
it probably is and Dean has just catapulted himself into Dad's good books,
likely to stay there until hell freezes over.
Or he hits on Sam.
As far as Sam can make out, he wouldn't mind too much. Dean has broad
shoulders, nearly as broad as Dad's, and over all a body that looks like he
just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad, judging from the lines of muscle his
tight and sweat-soaked shirt is clinging to. He has bow legs, what's kinda
adorable, and a swagger to his steps that speaks of confidence. If what Karen
said is true, and he really looks like a Disney prince come to life, Dean has
all the reason to swagger, but then again Karen also describes Sam as adorable
and gorgeous, and Sam doesn't know if he completely qualifies for that.
His musings are interrupted when Karen calls him down to put the pie in the
oven and Sam takes the stairs two at a time, runs past a cursing Bobby, to
skitter to a halt in the kitchen just as the door to the porch opens and Dad
comes in with Dean in tow.
Why the hell are Sam's hands shaking?
He snatches the oven shut while Karen inquires about Dean's bus ride, andGod,
the guy's voice is made of velvet washed with high-class whiskey, low and a bit
husky, making a shudder run down Sam's spine, and he hasn't even seen him yet.
This crush is developing fast, and he suddenly regrets listening to anything
Karen has told him about Dean. There's no way he can face him yet, not before
he's calmed down and lost the blush he can feel on his cheeks, so Sam walks
over to the fridge and opens it to retrieve two bottles of beer for Dad and
Bobby and coke for the rest of them, letting the conversation in the living
room fade to a murmur. He's just contemplating if he should bring a third beer
for Dean, since the guy doesn't seem like someone who cares about the legal
drinking age, when there are heavy footsteps behind him and Sam shoots up and
whirls around so fast he loses his footing and stumbles into the kitchen
counter.
“Woah, easy there.” A low chuckle. “I know I can make women swoon, but we
haven't even been properly introduced yet.”
Sam's head snaps up involuntarily, and he finds himself lost in deep green eyes
with golden specks that make his heart stutter in his chest and his fingers
tighten around the edge of the counter. He's suddenly very happy he has
something to hold onto, because he doesn't know if he could have remained
upright if he would have ended up in the middle of the kitchen and too far away
from any supporting structure to take his weight should his knees give out.
Something that is very much likely, since 'handsome' isn't even enough to
describe the god that climbed down from his pantheon to stand in the Singers'
kitchen and give Sam a heart attack with his beauty. Dean has full lips that
beg to be kissed until they're red and bruised, stubble on his angular jaw and
eyes so intense Sam can't look at them for too long without blushing. And, oh
yeah, has he said that Dean's perfect yet?
Dean looks like he was chiseled by Michelangelo himself, with skin that looks
like fucking airbrushed marble, and the freckles on his nose and cheekbones are
such an adorable extra in the whole image, it's outright hot. His body is all
firm muscle that comes from hard work but doesn't look like it's overdone, and
Sam wants to touch where he can see the outlines of pecs pushing against the
white fabric of Dean's shirt.
“Well, hello there, gorgeous.” Dean smirks and gives Sam a shameless once-over,
and Sam hopes he hasn't been staring too much, because that would just be
awkward. But then he remembers that he just ran into the kitchen counter and
barely avoided smacking his head on a cupboard doing so, and he can feel the
blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. It's a miracle he hasn't scared
Dean away yet. “You're cute when you blush,” Dean tells him, smirk still in
place, and takes a step closer, making Sam's pulse sky-rocket, and really,
Karen should start lecturing him about high blood pressure, not Bobby. He
stares for a moment at the hand he's offered by Dean before he takes it. It's
warm and calloused from the work with heavy tools, the handshake firm. Sam has
big hands with long fingers that were made to play piano, or so Jess tells him,
but Dean's hands are even bigger, with thick fingers that Sam can't help but
describe as 'strong and manly' although that sounds cheesy and his English
teacher would no doubt cringe if he could read his mind and see the poor choice
of words, but Sam has lost all concept of speech apart from, “hey.”
“You're Sam?” Dean asks and he hasn't let go of Sam's hand yet, holding it in
mid air between them, taking another step closer until their body's are only
wide enough apart to leave room for their clasped hands without brushing them
against each others' stomachs. Sam only nods, throat dry and raw, words stuck
in his throat and held down by the barrier Dean has erected there unknowingly.
“Your dad told me about you. Thought I'd have to get to know someone who makes
John Winchester sound so proud.”
Sam, unsurprisingly, blushes more, hyper-aware of Dean's hand still holding
his. Shoulders hunching, he turns his head to the side and stares at the floor,
willing the whole thing to end and at the same time wishing Dean would never
stop showering him with his attention. Fingers press softly against Sam's chin,
making him look up and at the smug face in front of him. His eyes are entranced
by the movement of Dean's lips for a moment when he says, “c'mon sweetheart,
don't look away. Lemme see that adorable blush of yours.”
Sam's head is close to exploding. Someone really has to hate Sam up there,
because now Dean is winking at him, and he's praying that one of the others
comes in and please, please interrupts them before Sam does something highly
embarrassing like moaning or hyperventilating and scares Dean off forever. No
such luck.
“You got something on your cheek there,” he tells Sam and without asking,
raises his hand to gently brush a thumb over Sam's cheekbone where he'd left a
trail of flour on his skin while preparing the pie. Sam's going to die here.
But at least it will be a sweet death, embarrassment and all that aside.
“There, all done.”
With that, Dean steps away, giving Sam room to breathe again, but releasing his
hand slowly, dragging calloused fingertips over soft palms in a caress that
makes Sam's skin prickle from his hand up to his shoulder, and he has to close
his eyes for a second, hoping Dean doesn't see the goosebumps spreading up his
arm.
When he opens his eyes again, Dean looks back at him like the cat that just got
the cream, and he must be the only person capable to make a simple question
sound like a seduction, “care to pass me a beer, Sammy?”
Sam doesn't even have the strength to tell Dean that nobody but Dad and Karen
are allowed to call him that, and hands over the beer he's still holding in his
hand wordlessly.
 
Dinner goes well and Sam is spared more embarrassment, sticking to his food and
staring at his plate as if it's offering him the secret to the universe. Bobby,
Karen and Dad engage Dean in conversation about his family, his work and plans,
and Sam is ridiculously relieved that nobody asks him to join in. He doesn't
know if he would be able to bring out a complete, comprehensible sentence,
considering his heart is still going a mile a minute and the feel of Dean's
fingertips brushing over his palm lingers on his skin with the determination of
pox—just so much better.
Ever so often, Sam tries sneaking a glance at Dean, but whenever he lifts his
head to peek through his bangs, green eyes are looking right back at him,
crinkled at the corners with Dean's trademark smirk, and Sam's focus returns to
the pot roast in front of him with breathtaking speed. Either Dean is staring
at him the whole time—something that would be very rude but nevertheless makes
Sam shudder pleasantly—or the guy has a freaking radar in his head that alerts
him whenever Sam moves. And who had the idea to give him the seat opposite of
Dean anyway? Sam suspects Karen, judging from the way she glances from him to
Dean and back with that pleased smile on her lips. Sometimes he wishes he could
be able to hate her.
Sam is stabbing his meat absentmindedly, cursing the universe, God and life
itself, when Dean leans back in his chair and pats his stomach with a content
sigh in the universal gesture to praise food, failing to stifle a burp, what
earns him a scolding glare from Karen that is betrayed by the way the corners
of her lips twitch ever so lightly with the urge to tug up into a smile.
Dean smirks and raises his hands as if he couldn't help himself. “Gotta make
room for your famous pie, Karen,” he tells her, waggling his eyebrows, and
Karen rolls her eyes and swats her hand at him playfully. “No excuse to forget
your manners in female company, Dean. And not I made the pie, but Sammy here.”
“Oh?” His smirk changes to predatory when he turns to Sam, and Sam, if
possible, sinks even lower into his chair, throat dry, feeling like he's just
been reduced to a particularly tasty piece of meat, and that really shouldn't
feel as arousing as it does.
At that point, Dad chimes in, apparently oblivious to Sam's distress, and
ruffles a big hand through his son's chocolate brown hair. “Yeah, Sam loves
making pie. Isn't that so, Sammy?” Sam bats at his father's hands softly and
scoffs while Karen clears the plates from the table. Sensing his chance to get
away, he jumps up and all but runs into the kitchen where the pie is already
spreading its mouth-watering scent. It's still slightly warm when he cuts it
into generous slices and carries it over to the table to be served.
Dean gets his slice first and doesn't even wait until the others got theirs
before he digs in, stuffing a big piece into his mouth and making the most
obscene noises Sam has ever heard. It's like listening to a porno, and Sam is
thankful he's already sitting, because Dean's moans go straight to the area
between his thighs with the force of lightning bolts.
Jesus.
Someone have mercy.
Dean doesn't stop, only continues moaning and grins at Sam around a mouthful of
pie, and Sam just wants to be home and alone in his room to jerk off and get
rid of his boner, but instead he has to listen to the food porn going on in
front of him while praying nobody takes a glance at his lap.
Jesus.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
After dessert, Sam left with the lame excuse of having a headache and all but
ran home and into his room.
Now he's laying in his bed, breathing hard, clutching his sheets and curling
his toes with the shivers rippling over his skin. Every hair on his body stands
on end and his skin's too tight, too hot, too sensitive, every brush of fabric
a caress that sends electricity down his nerves and coaxes breathless moans
from his parted lips. He's just happy Dad isn't here yet and still over at
Bobby's, no doubt fanboying with Dean over muscle cars.
Fucking Dean.
Sam groans, but this time it's out of frustration. Every minute in Dean's
company costs him another nerve that snaps under the weight of Dean's smirks,
glances, all the promises made by lingering touches and the invasion of Sam's
personal space. Just his luck to crush on someone like Dean, all swagger and
sex and womanizer, who no doubt has a never-ending stream of women waiting for
him to crawl into their beds and drop them afterward like a used condom. He's
going to drop Sam as soon as he finds out there's a part to his body that's not
so feminine, and anyway, Dean was surely only playing, making fun of the shy
and innocent teenage girl dumb enough to fool herself into believing someone
like him could actually be interested in her. There's no fucking way Dean means
to go any further with Sam.
And that's fine. He can live with that, it's better than facing the disgust on
perfectly chiseled features when Dean finds out he's a freak that dresses up in
his Mom's clothes. Anyway, Sam isn't eager to become another tally on Dean's
list of conquests.
But that doesn't mean he can have a little fun alone, and Sam shuts his eyes.
Behind his closed lids, images of strong and big hands are conjured, stroking
over his body, drawing along every line of muscle and bone carved into bronze
skin, every pale scar he's attained over the years, deft and calloused fingers
worshiping every part of Sam's body, Sam's own hands only a lousy replacement
for now, creeping lower until long fingers close around silky skin and heat,
stroking, teasing, tugging, pumping, faster, harder, gasps, groans, jerking
hips pushing up, faster. Other hand, slick with lube, creeping lower, circling
his hole before pushing in to the first knuckle, then deeper, fingers curling,
brushing over a sensitive glans, making his back arch, toes curl. Pulling out,
pushing back in in perfect rhythm with the fist around his cock.
A name turns into a moan. Dean, Dean, Dean. A prayer. And feels so good, so
good.
Orgasm hits hard, comes with white hot bliss and trumpets sounding, toes
curling, back arching, hips bucking and that damn name on Sam's lips.
The last thing Sam thinks about when he drifts off into sleep, not caring about
the sticky mess on his stomach, is that he's complete and utterly fucked.
So fucked.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
The decision is made in the morning when he wakes to disgustingly sticky and
clammy sheets; Sam is going to avoid Dean until he goes back home or wherever,
and then everything will return to normal.
Easy, right?
Right.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Hah. There is a joke in there somewhere. At Sam's expanse. He must have
collected a serious amount of bad karma in his former life, because this, this,
is outright torture. All his good intentions of staying away from Dean have
been shattered when three days later Dad dragged his new colleague along when
coming from the salvage yard without warning, and Sam was forced to stumble up
the stairs and barrel into his room to change clothes quickly, stubbing at
least three toes in the process on all the corners he had to take on the way
from the kitchen to his room. Thank God he'd seen them approaching through the
window, too entangled in their conversation to notice Sam, giving him the
chance to turn into the Sam Dean got to know before the embarrassing revelation
could occur.
Sam comes down ten minutes later, hair ruffled, tugging his clothes into place
and desperately trying not to look like he just changed his clothes hastily.
He's decided on one of Mom's thin pullovers, red cotton with a nice pattern
stitched around the modest cleavage with black thread. The jeans he's wearing
are a bit tighter than the ones he wears to school, but not enough to give his
little secret away, and he hopes it will be enough.
Dean is sitting on the sofa, open beer in hand and his feet on the couch table,
looking like he owns the place while talking to John who's bustling around in
the kitchen when Sam hobbles into the room, tugging on the stuffed bra Jess
gave him since the cups got too small for her. Fortunately, Dean neither sees
nor hears him, and Sam walks past him into the kitchen with a mumbled, “hi.”
“Hey Sammy,” Dean drawls and pats the cushion next to him invitingly, trademark
smirk returned to his face. “Wanna join me?”
Yes. He'd like nothing better than sitting down next to Dean, feeling the
warmth of his body and maybe another thigh pressing against his own. But. “Feet
off the table.”
“Oh.” Dean cocks his head, not in the least offended by Sam's behavior or
confused by a voice that's a bit deeper than it should be for any girl, and
indeed takes his feet off the table. “You're a bossy one. I like 'em bossy.”
The eyebrow waggle returns.
Sam shoves his hands into his pockets, because that eyebrow waggle is doing
thinks to him it has no rights to. “Sure you do.” He stalks off into the
kitchen before there is any chance for a Freudian slip, and Dad greets him with
a kiss to his forehead.
“I invited Dean for dinner. He likes burgers.” Figures. It's Sam and Dad's
burger night, something they do once a month; stuffing their faces while Dad
screams at the baseball players on TV and Sam chuckles at his creative
swearwords. He even gets to drink one or two beers, but that's not the only
reason why Sam enjoys their monthly father-son-bonding session. Dad may accept
his son's crossdressing, and he loves Sam with all his heart, has proved it by
defending him in front of people who called him sick or a freak, however, Sam
also knows that Dad sometimes wishes, just sometimes, that Sam would prefer to
play baseball and spend hours talking about car engines while polishing the
Impala over dressing up in girl's clothes and put on makeup while chatting with
his best friend about boys. So Sam sits down on the couch with him and watches
the boring games, even comments on it, and it's always worth it when Dad smiles
at him like he's the happiest and proudest father in the whole universe.
With a pang in his chest, Sam realizes that Dean is the kind of son Dad wishes
for. He's popular with the ladies, touches women's clothes only to take them
off someone, likes baseball and muscle cars, and that he doesn't consider going
to college is not that bad since he's working at the salvage yard now. Dean's
only been here since three days and now Dad has invited him over to join in on
burger night. It hurts, and Sam turns the meat in the pan with more force than
necessary when he hears their laughter coming from the living room. But he has
to deal with it, has to deal with Dean being perfect and overall everything Sam
isn't—confident, gorgeous and manly. For Dad.
 
When Sam brings the finished burgers into the living room, they are already
watching the game, complaining loudly about the referee and accusing him of
being biased. It's a funny sight, both so entranced by the thing, and Sam
smiles softly until he notices that the only empty seat is—of course, because
Fortuna hates him—next to Dean on the couch. Dad is sprawled over the armchair,
and Sam considers asking him if he could snatch something from the kitchen and
steal his seat while he is gone, but that would be a dick move, so Sam sighs
defeated and puts the food down on the table before climbing onto the couch
with as much room between him and Dean as possible. Not that Dean notices, he's
having one of his food porn episodes again, moaning over every bite of his
burger like he's in a porn audition, desperate to get the main role.
And fuck, Sam should not think 'Dean' and 'porn' in one sentence, because
that's doing funny things to his body, and he already has problems looking at
the guy without thinking about what he'd done the night after he'd seen Dean
for the first time. And the night after that. And no doubt again in the one
coming.
He draws his legs up and hugs them against his chest, the armrest of the couch
digging into his back, with the attempt at staying away from Dean as far as the
small space allows and hiding his arousal at the same time. However, this
position brings Sam's feet closer to Dean, toes almost brushing against denim,
because there is only so much he can do with his lanky legs.
The sounds of the game fade into a blur as Sam tries to not concentrate on that
one inch of air separating his big toes from Dean's thigh and how easy it would
be to cross it, shove his feet between leg and couch cushion to revel in the
feel of the weight of another body pressing down on his toes and the heat of
Dean's body seeping through layers of clothing to be shared. Dean must notice
something too, because Sam can see how he shifts on his seat, edging just the
tiniest bit closer, casting quick glances at Sam accompanied by a grin before
he returns to looking at the TV. Even his complains about the players are
getting less, and soon Dad is the only one shouting at the TV, too engrossed by
the movement on the screen to notice how Dean's hand drops to his side, his
fingers softly but confidently stroking up Sam's foot to his ankle before
wrapping around it. Sam's breath hitches.
For a moment, he allows Dean's hand to stay where it is, the touch not
restraining but still able to make every muscle in his body tense, every nerve
twinge and all his hair stand on end.
Then Sam kicks out. It's not hard, only a warning, nothing that will leave a
bruise behind or even cause pain, just his means to deliver a message. Don't
touch me, it says, and Dean looks back at him for a moment, intense green eyes
holding Sam's gaze, and he straightens his shoulders, tells himself this is the
chance to end it before it goes down a path Sam is not willing to take.
Dean smirks and his eyes glint mischievously when he accepts a challenge Sam
hasn't even offered to him.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Word that there is a handsome man working at Singer's salvage yard spreads like
wildfire, and in the following weeks every unmarried woman in the radius of a
hundred miles around them between the age of sixteen and sixty shows up at the
scrap yard for one reason or another, suddenly very interested in the strange
noise their car sometimes makes.
Sam has seen this before when Dad came into town, and all of the middle-aged
single women residing in Sioux Falls streamed to their house to offer their
condolences, bring a pie, or ask for help in fixing a car or something else.
They had soon given up after it became clear that there would only ever be one
woman in John Winchester's life and that Mary had left an empty spot behind
nobody could ever fill.
But Dean, womanizer extraordinaire, enjoys the attention, flings compliments
and flirtations every which way, no matter the age or looks of those they are
addressed to.
And Sam, being the Singers's neighbor and therefore somewhat close to Dean,
turns from 'that guy with the good grades who sometimes wears skirts' to 'that
guy who lives next to Dean Milligan'. Suddenly every girl in school is Sam's
friend; there's a choir of “Hi, Sam”s every time he walks down the hall between
classes, the table he usually shares with Jess and his other, true friends is
already filled with girls waiting for him when he walks in during lunch break,
and it goes so far that Sam has to flee and hide beneath his hoody whenever he
leaves a room. The other boys, unsurprisingly, don't take it too well that he's
suddenly popular, and when he doesn't run from the girls, he sprints down
hallways to escape an angry mob of jocks who think he's messing around with
their not-yet-girlfriends. It kinda makes him hate Dean.
Even Kate Kennedy—who's not in any way related to the dead president, Sam has
asked—the self-proclaimed queen of his High School, awards him with her
presence, the group of her apprentices following silently. Jess warns him too
late, and even though he tries to hide behind one of his text books in the
school library, Kate finds him and Jess slips away before he can protest. That
she looks at him apologetically while walking out of the door is only a small
comfort, because then Kate's standing in front of him and Sam repeats what he's
already said about a hundred times to various others without waiting for a
greeting, “pretty girls, porn, beer and whiskey, baseball, burgers, cheesy
horror movies, Star Wars, muscle cars, bikes—the motorized kind—and engines.”
He doesn't even look up from his book while he rattles down the list of Things
Dean Milligan likes and Sam Winchester unfortunately knows, and judging from
the silence he receives as an answer, Kate, who likes the sound of her voice
more than her reflection in the mirror, is confused. Closing the book with a
dramatic sigh, Sam looks up at her and explains, “you're here to ask what Dean
likes. I spared us both the time spent on needless greetings and gave you what
you came for. What else?”
“How did you know?”
“Please, don't insult my intellect. It's not like I have any delusions as to
why every girl at this school suddenly wants to be my best friend.”
Kate nods at that and walks off without any goodbye, her entourage in tow, and
Sam looks after her. He has no doubt Dean will enjoy her company, because even
if her personality leaves a lot to be desired, she's pretty, with big doe eyes
and bleached blond hair that cascades in waves over her shoulders, athletic
body always wrapped in the latest designer clothes that accentuate her curves
just right. Ending up in Dean's bed will almost be too easy for her, and Sam
tries to squish the sudden twinge of jealousy with reason. It's not like he has
any chances to go further with Dean than some fumbling until he finds something
between his legs that's not supposed to be there, and the pleasure of a kiss
and his big hands on Sam's body is not worth the following embarrassment and
regrets. Better Kate gets discarded like a used condom in his place.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
There is another list in Sam's repertoire, titled Things Dean Milligan likes
and Sam Winchester fortunately knows but doesn't tell anyone about, and it only
has one thing on it: Dean loves pie, especially the one Sam knows how to bake
thanks to Karen.
***** You look even better out of that Dress, Baby *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Since Dean arrived, Sam only ever goes over to Karen and Bobby's for the weekly
dinner or when the salvage yard is closed and he knows for certain Dean isn't
there, and he feels bad about it. He doesn't want to neglect his foster aunt
and uncle like this, but he doesn't want to be subject to Deans straightforward
flirting, and if he would show up in his other clothes while some of his
schoolmates are there and witness him hitting on Sam, they'd maybe think he's
trying to seduce Sioux Falls's most popular piece of male ass, and that would
just end in needless drama.
He has considered leaving the bra at home and showing up in his 'normal'
clothes to scare Dean off once and for all, but in the end, he'd always put
even more time on picking his outfit and makeup. He's stupid like that.
Crushing on a guy that's so straight you could use him as a ruler and spending
every night jerking off to detailed sex fantasies featuring the only person who
could make Tony Stark look gay.
But he just can't help it, and Dean hasn't stopped flirting with him, getting
even bolder than before thanks to the personal challenge he has apparently set
himself; seducing Sam Winchester. Last weekend, he'd even pushed Sam up against
the kitchen counter while Karen had gone outside to bring refreshments to Dad
and Bobby while Sam went on with preparing dinner. One moment he was chopping
onions, the next he found himself pressing his dick painfully hard against the
edge of the counter while Dean's breath brushed against his neck, both of his
calloused hands propped up on the counter's surface, his body close to Sam's,
but not quite touching yet, and Sam had desperately tried to become one with
the hurdle in front of him while his body pleaded to just push back against
Dean and let it all happen, fuck the consequences and enjoy it while it lasted.
The scene would have fitted into a cheap porn movie with the title Not so
Innocent Girl with Dirty Little Secret gets Deflowered in the
Kitchen.Thankfully, Karen came back before Sam could lose the fight against his
body's urges and Dean vanished before she could've seen the compromising
position they'd been in. Would've spoiled dinner otherwise, but Dean still
continued to drag his foot up and down Sam's calf beneath the table until Sam
lost it and aimed a kick at his shin, satisfied when he'd hit his target. After
that Dean had stopped, but Sam had no delusions about what the glint in his
eyes meant.
The only thing is why. Why hasn't Dean given up yet? If Kate Kennedy's bragging
can be trusted, he'd already had some fun with other, willing girls who'd made
it their personal goal to get into Dean Milligan's bed at least once—and if not
there, then the alley behind a bar would do too. So why does Dean still try to
get into Sam's pants? It's a mystery, and Jess suggests that he'd maybe
unknowingly hurt Dean's pride by turning him down and now he has to prove his
manliness by conquering what was denied. Or he just likes a challenge. Sam's
getting a headache and when he keeps kneading like this, the cookie dough will
be the softest and best mixed in existence, but he has to let his frustration
out on something.
Jess only shoots him sympathetic glances from her perch on the kitchen counter,
the open cook book on her lap. They are making cookies for her brother
Michael's birthday, and Sam has spent the last hour rambling about Dean and the
unwanted-but-then-again-kinda-wanted attention he gives Sam.
It's Friday evening, and they plan on going out later to christen the new black
skirt and ruffled cerulean blouse Sam has bought under Jess' supervision.
But because nothing in Sam's life follows the plans he has set, the evening
becomes a lot more, and so much worse at that.
It all starts with a knock on the door, and Jess slips off the counter to open
it while Sam shapes the cookies to put them in the oven, paying no mind to the
muffled conversation drifting over from the front door until Jess walks back
into the kitchen with Dean in tow and Sam nearly lets the bowl with dough drop.
Three weeks of avoiding him, and Dean still hasn't given up yet. How much more
bad karma does Sam have to work off until he's finally left off the hook?
“What are you doing here?” he snaps and turns back to the cookies, the
combination of 'Dean Milligan' and 'kitchen' bringing all too vivid memories to
his mind and he closes his eyes to will the images away. Or Dean could just go
away, that would be fine too.
“Aw, sweetheart, you hurt my feelings,” Dean mocks, his playful tone belying
the words, and in the next moment he's leaning his hip against the counter next
to Sam and picks some dough out of the bowl, bringing it up to his mouth, a
pink tongue lapping the sweetness off the finger with seductive and obscene
movements. Damn the food porn. And damn Sam's dick. It's hard being a
crossdressing teenager in the vicinity of Dean Milligan. Sam levels a glower at
him because he can't direct it at his hormones, and Dean chuckles, a sound low
and velvety, that reminds him of a satisfied purring tomcat. “You should patent
those bitchfaces, Sammy, nobody can do them quite like you,” he tells him while
scooping up more dough on his finger, and Sam bats his hand away.
“The cookies aren't for you. And get off my back!” he exclaims and slides dough
and unfinished cookies out of Dean's reach. “But I'm not even on there yet,
sugar plum.”
If it was dark, Sam's cheeks would definitely give off enough light to
illuminate the kitchen.
“What do you want?” He swears he's gonna hit him if Dean has the nerve to
answer 'you'.
“Your Dad lent me the Impala. Thought I could take you for a ride.” He waggles
his eyebrows at the innuendo, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Jess and I have plans.”
“C'mon, Sammy, show me Sioux Falls or somethin'. We can even go to a museum if
you want.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I have plans for today.” Sam glances at Jess for help,
who's leaning against the door frame, staying out of the conversation but
listening attentively until Dean turns to her and offers the best impression of
a pout he has in his repertoire, full bottom lip pushing forward and green eyes
wide, looking like someone just kicked his puppy. It's ridiculous, really, but
apparently seals the deal, because Jess sighs, “it's alright, Sam. I have to
learn for Mr. Finnigan's biology test next week anyway. We can do it another
time and I'll just finish the cookies without you.”
Sam tries to protest, stricken that his friend could betray him like this, but
she talks right over him, shooing Dean out of the kitchen. “You go out and wait
at the Impala while I have a quick talk with Sammy here.”
Dean does as ordered with a satisfied grin and thanks Jess while he walks
outside, no doubt already fumbling the car or some shit.
“What are you doing?” Sam demands in a hiss and corners her, using the couple
extra inches he has at his side, however, Jess stands her ground unimpressed.
“Giving you a chance to clear this once and for all. Go out, have a good time,
and if he tries anything, tell him you're not as girly as you might look.”
“But...”
She shakes her head, and the expression on her face changes to soft and
understanding, her hands taking his to squeeze reassuringly. “He's not that
bad, Sam. You deserve some distraction. And even when he turns you down it's
better than not knowing if he would.” Taking a deep breath, Sam closes his eyes
and considers her words. It's highly likely this is going to end in tears, but
Jess, as so often, is right. When Dean leaves without finding out what Sam's
hiding, he'll mourn this lost chance for the rest of his life, because Dean
isn't someone you easily forget, all swagger and sex and piece of art with eyes
that promise a mind-blowing night, no strings attached. And Sam wants Dean,
wants him since that first night when he called him gorgeous in that sexy voice
of his, wants all his attention focused only on Sam, wants those strong hands
exploring his body, wants to feel Dean, hear him breathe dirty things into his
ear. If possible, for the rest of his existence.
So Sam steels himself and nods once.
“My makeup still where it's supposed to be?”
 
Sam reluctantly slips onto the passenger seat, ignoring Dean's smug expression,
and makes himself as small as possible, pressing his side against the car door.
They discuss where they are going to go while Dean brings them out of the
driveway and onto the street, apparently not in the least concerned about speed
limits and the like. Led Zeppelin is coming from the speakers and he bobs his
head to the beat, drumming on the wheel. He's like a younger, skirt-chasing
version of John Winchester sometimes, and that thought is just wrong. Sam is so
disgusted by his own mind that he forgets to protest when Dean decides they are
going to watch a movie and steers Dad's baby onto the parking lot of the
theater.
The selection of movies is not broad; a romantic comedy, some historical
garbage and one of those splatter B-movies with bad actors and too much blood
and gore. Of course Dean decides they have to watch the latter and grabs Sam's
hand to drag him into the theater, coaxing the girl at the counter into letting
Sam in with the help of his disarming smile, because, hey, he's a responsible
adult, and his little cousin here loves those movies and begged him to come
with her for days. The girl hands him the tickets without sparing a glance at
Sam, cheeks hot and red with her blush, and Dean purrs his thanks while winking
at her.
Sam realizes he's still holding Dean's hand and lets go.
They buy popcorn and coke, and the showroom is nearly empty when they walk to
their seats two rows from the back—there's only a couple making out somewhere
in the front and a group of five teens in the middle, throwing popcorn at the
couple and giggling childishly. At least everybody is too distracted to see Sam
the Freak in Drag walking in with Dean the Sex God, but Sam precautionary sinks
as deep into his seat as the worn cushion allows until the room finally
darkens, just to be safe.
The movie is as bad as expected and one of those that seem to happen in an
alternate reality where absolutely nobody watches a horror movie, since the
college kids on the screen do all the stupid things anyone in their right mind
wouldn't do; entering a haunted house for example and not running away when
there are messages written in blood onto the walls. When they finally find one
of their friends decapitated somewhere in the house (and there is not that much
blood in a human body), it's too late to run and the group is chased through
the house by a guy with a mask. And is that a fucking scythe?
Dean starts groping Sam's knee fifteen minutes into the film, when onscreen the
stereotypical jock takes off the bra of his stereotypical hot cheerleader
girlfriend, and the only thing surprising Sam is that Dean resisted for so
long. As soon as he feels the warm, calloused hand settling on his knee, right
where the skirt's protective layer of cloth ends, Sam reaches out without
looking, takes Dean's hand and puts it on his own knee before demonstratively
leaning his legs towards the empty seat next to him.
There is a pause after that in which Dean seems to be forming new plans in his
head while stuffing his face with popcorn, too distracted to moan over his food
as he usually does. Sam is left in peace and can not-enjoy what is happening on
the screen for the next five minutes as the stereotypical group of college kids
meets up to debate which reckless stuff they are going to do next in their
summer break until they decide on breaking into the old, apparently haunted
mansion with the convenient urban legend about it. He doesn't even catch what
it's this time, but he bets it's either some guy who murdered his inbred family
or a doctor who was known for particularly disgusting experiments on humans.
Oh, they went for creepy adopted child with a scythe, however, it doesn't
matter anyway, because that's when Dean does the old stretch-and-wrap-an-arm-
around-the-girl trick, his left hand landing on Sam's shoulder and pulling him
tightly against Dean's side. Sam is shortly thrown off course by Dean's bold
confidence, but then again he's sitting next to the guy who's more or less
pressed him up against a kitchen counter before, and he really shouldn't be
surprised. Said guy is smirking at him, predatory and feral, his body way too
hot against Sam's, sending alarms off in his mind, but he's too distracted by
the way Dean smells. It's a mixture of sweat, the leather of his jacket, motor
oil and some tangy cologne, and Sam is getting high on the dangerous cocktail
that is Dean. He doesn't know how he does it, but he manages to raise his hand
and pinch the back of the hand resting on his shoulder, hard, making Dean's
finger twitch, but he doesn't back off. Instead, he presses Sam even closer to
his side until he has to shift in his seat and rest his head on Dean's shoulder
to remain comfortable. He makes a big show of it, rolling his eyes and elbowing
Dean's side not so accidentally, trying to bring across that he doesn't want
this, although he sorta kinda really does.
Dean doesn't try anything further, just holds Sam as he relaxes against his
side, head on the broad shoulder. After a few moments, Dean's thumb starts
drawing circles onto Sam's skin softly, and Sam lets him.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Tugging his jacket closer and hugging himself, Sam blinks up at the dark sky
when they exit the theater. It has gotten cold over the last few weeks, autumn
slowly but surely paving the way for winter, and soon there will be snow and
colorful lights blinking in every shop window while plastic Santas wave at
passersby and Christmas songs drift through the air.
But first there's Halloween in one week, and Sioux Falls has already prepared
itself by putting carved pumpkins in every free space available and looking
through the shop window next to the theatrer, Sam finds himself eye in empty
eye socket with a grinning plastic skeleton. Jess has invited him to a
Halloween party of a friend, and he's still considering if he should go there,
not too eager for the day of slutty costumes. The most he'll likely do is
standing in a corner anyway and sipping his beer while the others dance on
tables and make out around the room, guys like Dean shoving their hands up the
short skirt of a nurse, a cat, or a police woman.
“You goin' to a party on Halloween?” Dean asks when he follows Sam's gaze to
the shop window. “Already decided on the costume?”
“Haven't decided yet. But slutty anything isn't really my style, y'know.”
“Bet you'd make a hot nurse.” He winks, his hand laying heavy on the small of
Sam's back, and Sam rolls his eyes and takes a step to the side, immediately
missing the contact but unwilling to admit it. “Not your thing? How about hot
zombie?” Dean goes on while they start walking back to the car, his shoulder
brushing against Sam's every few steps.
“I don't even know if I'm gonna go. Not like it's gonna be fun watching a room
full of teenagers trying to shove their tongues down each other's throats and
their hands beneath clothes.”
“Aw, Sammy. But it is fun, I can show you.” Before Sam can respond to the
offer, a hand comes up and squeezes his ass, and Sam freezes so abruptly he
stumbles and his face nearly ends up getting up close and personal with the
sidewalk. “Dean!” he yelps as soon as he's caught himself against a wall—and
his ears are only red because it's cold, no other reason—but Dean has walked
on, chuckling softly at Sam over his shoulder, eyes glinting with amused
challenge.
“Nice ass, Sammy. You working out?”
He's gonna wipe that smirk off Dean's face one day with his fist, but for now
he has to wait until his knees stop being jelly, so he settles for, “fuck you.”
“You gonna help me with that?”
“Ha fucking ha, asshole.” His knees are still a bit wobbly, but he walks up to
Dean anyway, scowling, and stops short again, staring at the group of people
coming their way. This is exactly what he's tried to avoid, and his mind is
rattling down a litany of stupid, stupid, stupid, Sam!as Kate Kennedy walks up
to Dean with her entourage of loyal apprentices and says, “hey Dean.” She's
using that ridiculous sing-song voice that basically translates into I want
your dick inside me, and Sam has half the mind to cringe while looking at his
feet, praying for what it's worth that nobody's gonna recognize him beneath the
shield of his bangs if someone happens to tear their eyes off Dean and look his
way.
“Hey, uh...” Dean answers, her name clearly forgotten, and Sam bites his lips
to stifle a snort, unable to not feel malicious glee over him forgetting Kate
Kennedy's name.
“Kate,” she provides, her voice having dropped to a much colder level.
“Right, Kate. Hi.” Real smooth, Dean, Sam thinks and his jaw is trembling from
the way he presses his lips into a thin line to create a barrier against the
laughter bubbling up his airways. Kate would never forgive him for laughing at
her, and even though he doesn't in the least care about what she thinks of him,
pissing off the queen of his school is like picking a fight with every single
jock roaming the halls, and Sam wants to survive until he graduates, thanks.
“What are you doing here, Dean? I though you had a date tonight?” Kate pouts,
and Sam's head snaps up so fast he thinks he felt something pop in his neck,
but never mind, because what?Date?
Dean puffs himself up, grinning smugly. “Yeah, and I'm still on it.”
Both Sam's and Kate's jaws drop, because that can't be right. She voices out
loud what Sam only thinks, “You're kidding, right? On a date with Sam
Winchester?” The way she says his name makes it sound like an insult, and it
stings, but Sam has to clear this, because if Kate tells people Sam's trying to
seduce Dean then his life in Sioux Falls is fucking over, so he chimes in right
as Dean straightens up and glowers down at her, defending Sam loudly, what
creates a disharmony of protests.
“No, we're not on a date. No way!” Sam assures while Dean exclaims, “damn right
I'm on a date with Sammy! You got a problem with that?”
Sam palms his face.
And Kate? Kate outright laughs at Dean's face. “With that freak? You could have
me,” she gestures towards her body, that night wrapped into a tight and short
dress that barely covers her ass and sparkles softly in the street lights, “and
you decide on going out with... that?”
There's disgust in her voice and every word stabs into Sam like a knife, making
his throat clamp shut and his hands close to fists until he feels his blunt
nails digging into skin. Dean is staring at Kate, caught up in a mix of
confusion and anger, mouth opening to reply something Sam doesn't want to hear,
so he talks over him. He's had enough.
“You know what, Kate? I didn't even know he was dragging me on a date. It was
shitty anyway, so why don't you two go off and have some fun. I bet some back
alley will be enough for your standards.”
To underline his words, he gives Dean a hard push, and he staggers forward and
into Kate, caught off guard by Sam's outburst. Dean curses and calls Sam's
name, but he's already slipped through the row of people behind Kate and is
running down the street, floundering when he nearly loses one of his shoes.
From behind him high-pitched screeches reach his ear, and he thinks he can make
out Dean shouting something along the lines of 'get your hands off me, bitch',
but he doesn't care, just runs on, ignoring the tears stinging hot in his eyes.
He's not going to cry. Not over Dean. And not in the world over anything Kate
Kennedy has to say. Dean is following him, still calling Sam's name, and Sam
wishes he'd put on sneakers, because the sound of Dean's heavy biker boots on
the pavement draw closer and closer until a hand closes around him and he's
dragged into an alley and pressed against a brick wall.
“Get off me, Dean!” Sam struggles against the death grip Dean has on his wrists
to pin his hands to the wall, and he's satisfied to hear a pained curse when
his foot connects with Dean's shin. “Ow, fuck, Sammy, calm the fuck down!”
“Then let go!”
“And then what? You—ow—gonna run off again? Stop that!”
Sam is straining against the hands holding him in place, his knuckles scraping
over the bricks, stone tearing on skin, but he's too angry to care, too much
adrenaline in his system to feel the pain of his skin breaking, and he kicks
out at Deans shins, tries to stomp on his feet or knee his balls. Dean is
getting visibly frustrated, telling Sam to stop and calm down again and again,
but Sam's only spitting curses back at him, his vision blurry with unshed
tears.
Then Dean takes a step forward, and suddenly there's a wall of unmoving muscle
pressing down on Sam, covering his body and taking away his ability to struggle
and kick, and Dean's mouth is next to his ear, hot and damp breath brushing
over his skin when a calm and deep voice repeats, “Sam, stop.”
It's like someone cut the strings holding Sam up. His muscles relax
immediately, and he sags against Dean, his broad chest and strong arms the only
thing preventing Sam from collapsing in a heap to the dirty ground. The
calloused hands that had held him down just seconds ago are now sliding along
his arms and down his sides to his hips, thumbs rubbing soothingly through the
fabric along the outline of bones there, and Dean leans slightly back to look
Sam in the face, the smile on his lips so soft it's unfamiliar. “There, that's
better.”
Sam only huffs in defeat, mind focused on the up and down and up and down of
Dean's fingers, the sensation muffled by cloth but still there and incredible,
teasing, tickling, not enough and too much at the same time, setting his nerves
on fire and making his body beg for more, more, more. His breath is coming in
short, quick gasps, and he can feel Dean's heart beating as fast as his own
against his chest. There's a moment where the two of them are just staring at
each other, their breath mingling in the space between them, brushing over
Sam's skin, tickling his lips. Green eyes drop to Sam's mouth, and when they
look back up, Sam can see the pupils are dilated, two black holes surrounded by
a thin ring of deep green.
Dean leans in and presses his lips to Sam's.
It's the last straw, and all of his good intentions are thrown overboard with a
salute to his sinking mind. His reaction to the kiss is almost violent, hands
fisting into the back of Dean's jacket, trying to pull him closer although
there is no space left between them, head lifting off the wall and lips mashing
together hard, before Sam parts his with a gasp and Dean takes it as an
invitation, pushes his tongue between them and tangles it with Sam's, soft and
hot with a lingering taste of popcorn. Teeth clash and nip and even bite
everything they can reach. Dean's fingers tighten around Sam's hips so hard
there will be bruises tomorrow, marks in the form of his fingertips Sam can
look at, proof that all this isn't a dream, and he's here, really here, pressed
up against the wall of a back alley by Dean's body, Dean's mouth on his own,
Dean's hands sliding from his hips and around him to grip his ass, give it a
squeeze so firm it's edging on painful but in a good way, in a breathtaking
way, in a moremoremore way.
Dean breaks the kiss and Sam draws in a deep breath, already missing the touch
and the warmth. But then Dean starts nuzzling the crook of his neck, kiss-
bruised lips pressing a line of hot, wet kisses along his neck up to his ear,
softly nipping on the lobe before biting down harder, the sensation sending a
white hot jolt through Sam's body with an explosion of fireworks at his nerve
endings.
“You're mine, Sammy,” Dean rasps into his ear possessively, and Jesus, they
aren't even dating or something, but that's fucking hot, especially since Dean
slips his hands down to Sam's thighs and hoists his legs up to wrap them around
his hips, skirt riding up and exposing naked flesh to cold air and hot hands.
Alarm bells go off in Sam's mind but he can't remember why it's supposed to be
a bad idea to allow Dean to press their hips together when it feels so good,
his dick already—
“Well, well, well,” Dean drawls, smirk sharp and broad, but not in the least
surprised, “Sammy's got a dirty little secret!”
Fuck. Fucketyfuckingfuckfuck!
Sam starts struggling again. He's gotta get the fuck out of here, fast!
But Dean isn't letting him go, pressing their crotches together and holding him
in place, hands holding his legs tightly, and Dean knows, he found out, he felt
it, Sam's dick against his, rock hard and solid and undeniably there!
“Woah, Sammy, calm down, it's okay, it's alright, Sammy, hey,” he tries to
sooth, but fuck no, it's not alright! He's gonna laugh at him, he's gonna make
fun of him, he's gonna—
Dean lets go of Sam's legs and grabs his face instead, holding him in place and
then his lips are back on Sam's, but the hunger is gone, no more nipping and
intruding tongues, just an urgent press of lips forcing him to shut up and
grounding him until the kiss turns into something softer, almost languid,
before he leans back again, thumbs drawing idle patterns onto Sam's cheeks and
jaw. Sam is still breathing hard, his chest brushing against Dean's on every
deep inhale. Dean's eyes are soft seas of green and Sam is drawn in by them,
he's sinking, drowning, clinging to Dean's broad arms like he's his anchor, and
then Dean starts talking and Sam gets colder with every word.
“I already knew Sam, knew from the very beginning when I saw that cute, perky
ass in the green dress, and I just had to—”
Sam's head snaps forward, clashing foreheads together painfully, because he
can't hear Dean say it, can't bear the humiliation, and Dean staggers back,
hands leaving Sam in favor of rubbing the hurt skin above his eyebrows, and he
hisses in pain.
“Had to what, Dean? Had to fuck the little freak in skirts? Make me another
notch on the bed post, your very special conquest? A tally in fucking rainbow
colors on your list?”
He's screeching hysterically, tears hot on his cheeks, but he doesn't care,
he's had enough of Dean Milligan and his games. His arm draws back and the next
thing he feels is his fist connecting with Dean's brow, and it hurts but
creates a wonderful counterpoint to the pain inside him. Dean cries out and
stumbles against the wall, cursing loudly and colorfully. Sam doesn't listen
though, just turns and runs, out of the alley, down the street, Dean's
footsteps and shouts for him to fucking wait and listen following him, and he's
catching up again, dammit.
Sam sprints over a street, and the next thing he hears are car horns and
screeching tires, then shouting between two men, one of them Dean, followed by
a thump when someone slaps a flat hand onto the hood of a car.
He runs on, and Dean isn't following him anymore.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
He loses one of his shoes on the way home.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
The lights are still on in their house, and Sam can see Dad moving around in
the living room, watching some bullshit on TV. Fortunately, the driveway is
empty, so Dean hasn't come by yet and Sam is stupidly relieved. He walks up the
gravel driveway as silently as he can manage, grimacing when the stones push
unpleasantly into the sole of his naked foot and the smaller cuts he's already
got there from walking half the way home with only one shoe. Stupid ballerinas,
was a pain in the ass to find one in his size.
With hands shaking from the cold—at least that's what he tells himself—Sam
needs a moment to fumble the key into the lock, metal scratching over metal.
When he shoves the door open, Dad's already leaning against the doorway of the
living room, smile slipping from his face when he takes in his son, face
smeared with tears and snot, feet and calves sprayed with mud, one shoe
missing, naked foot leaving brown footprints mingled with blood. In a second,
Dad's in front of him, scooping him up into his broad arms and pressing him
against his chest, making Sam feel very small, yet impossibly safe and
protected.
“What happened, Sammy?” Dad asks, unable to keep the anger and worry from his
voice, but trying nonetheless, carrying Sam over to the couch. “Who did this?
Where's Dean, dammit?!”
“'S just my foot, Dad,” Sam mumbles and sinks deeper into the cushions and his
jacket, wrapping his arms around himself while Dad rummages in the bathroom,
pulling on drawers and slamming cupboard doors until he finds the first aid
kit. He cleans and bandages Sam's foot in silence, shooting glances at Sam
every once in a while. When he's finished, he slips onto the couch next to his
son and pulls him so that Sam's head rests on his legs, combing fingers through
tangled strands of hair. The sobbing starts only a few minutes later, and Sam
tries hiding his face in his hands, cringing when he moves the already swollen
knuckles of his right hand.
Dad grabs his wrist and pulls the hand up, inspecting the torn skin while it
turns blue and purple. “What happened?” The words are pressed through clenched
teeth, and Sam can feel Dad tensing with anger.
“Hit someone. Thanks for teaching me the tricks by the way,” he mumbles into
the denim of Dad's jeans, and Dad laughs in surprise. “Who'd you hit?”
“Doesn't matter. But I wish it was that bitch Kate.”
“The Kennedy girl?”
“Yeah. Bitch. With her high heels and short skirts and big boobs, and, and,
and...” He's cut off by the strangled sobs fighting their way up his throat and
out, and Dad holds him close while he shakes and cries into the broad shoulder,
drenching the gray shirt Dad's wearing.
They are interrupted by the rumble of the Impala pulling into their driveway,
making Sam stiffen, and Dad, curse the damn Marine reflexes, catches up on it,
is on his feet and out the door before Sam can stop him. He hobbles after the
seething form of his Dad and out onto the porch, freezing in shock when he sees
Dad grabbing the front of Dean's shirt, shouting right at his face, saliva
spraying. “What'd you do? You were supposed to watch out for him, Dean!”
He gives Dean a hard shake, and Dean lets him, isn't even looking at John and
instead at the ground next to him. “Only one condition to take him out on a
date, Dean, and you mess it up! He walked the whole way back, even lost his
goddamn shoe!”
“Dad! Dad, stop!” Although he knows it won't help, Sam tugs on Dad's arm,
because Dean is looking like a kicked puppy by now, hanging in Dad's grasp,
suddenly small and vulnerable, swagger and confidence gone. “It's not his
fault, Dad.”
“So why is he wearing a black eye with the name Sam Winchester on it?!”
“Okay, yes, I hit him, but that's it,” Sam exclaims, still tugging on Dad's
arm, and surprisingly, he lets go of Dean and takes a step back. “I solved it,
alright? It's not his fault I ran away. Now, just, go inside and let me handle
this.” Hands on Dad's chest, Sam ushers him back to the house, smiling as
reassuringly as he can manage. Dad nods, but remains standing in the doorway
anyway, looming over them with his arms crossed over his chest and a glare
firmly in place.
Sam and Dean just stare at each other for a time, until Dean rasps, “thanks,”
his smile wary and awkward, and Sam shakes his head.
“Didn't do it for you.” He walks over to the Impala, leans against her hood,
the surface still warm from the engine. “He likes you. My dad, I mean. The way
he talks one could think you're his son.” The gravel scrunches beneath Sam's
feet when he kicks out softly, following the small stones with his eyes as they
bounce off into the darkness.
“I'm gonna talk to him, tell him I freaked out because of Kate and you
unfortunately got in the way. It's gonna be alright again tomorrow.”
“Sam...” Dean begins, but doesn't go on, the word hanging in the silence
between them, heavy with all the things Dean doesn't want to say and Sam
doesn't want to hear. He looks sad, shoulders hunched and hands buried in his
pockets, digging the tip of his shoe into the ground.
“Save it, Dean,” Sam says, tired, and walks back into the house.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam spends the weekend on the couch in the living room with Jess, their
favorite movies, and enough food and chocolate to feed a family of five. They
talked about what happened, and Jess didn't stop to apologize until he told her
to leave it alone or he'll kick her out. After that it was business as usual.
 
Until the damn phone rings on Sunday. Sam and Jess are watching Star Wars,
yelling at Leia and Han Solo to finally kiss and make up, because there is
totally something going on between them, they shouldn't even start denying it,
when Dad picks up the phone. After a minute, a glass shatters in the kitchen.
“Dad?” Sam calls out over his shoulder, but there is no answer. He's on his
feet and in the kitchen in a second, looking at Dad, who's leaned over the
sink, the phone discarded beside it, glass shards all over the floor. “Dad?”
Sam tries again, his voice wavering with concern, and he carefully steps
through the shards, his hands coming up to Dad's back, rubbing circles between
his shoulder blades.
“Jimmy Marcus died this morning,” Dad answers and reaches into the cupboard to
retrieve the bottle of whiskey stored there.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
James 'Jimmy' Marcus was nineteen years old when he hit a woman while driving
home from a party. Drunk as he was, he had not thought of putting on a seat
belt, what resulted in him being thrown out of his car through the window when
he drove into a concrete wall after running over Mary Winchester.
Mary died at the scene.
Jimmy fell into coma.
And now, years later, they turned off the machines that kept him breathing.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam finds a note when he comes home from school, telling him that Dad's running
an errand for Bobby and is getting groceries on the way, so he'll be home
later. Like for the past five days, Sam climbs up the stairs and goes into his
room, lays down in bed and wraps the covers tightly around himself.
He's cold, and nothing helps.
This is all too much. Too fucking much. First the whole shit with Dean, now
this. The guy who killed his mom is never going to jail. Of course, he's dead,
and he spent the last few years in a coma, people can say that was justice
enough, however, Jimmy never realized he took a woman's life. He never got to
know Sam and John Winchester, never found out what happened to their lives, how
they hurt, how they grieved, only because he couldn't stand keeping his hands
off alcohol and his car keys.
For Sam, the world had stopped spinning the night he was sitting in the living
room in Lawrence, pressing up against Missouri's chest for comfort, silently
sobbing into her teeshirt while the police men told him his mom was never
coming back. It had taken the world years to start moving again.
The hole in Sam's chest had closed, stitched together by every good thing that
happened to him, by every person who loved him, every year going by making the
hole less and less, until it turned into a pink scar, healed, but still there,
sometimes itching slightly, but not hurting that much anymore.
Now it was deep red and hurting again, flayed at the edges, so painful.
Sam pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and stares at
the photo on his nightstand, Mom's face smiling back at him.
 
There is a hesitant knock on his door after some time. Sam doesn't know how
long he's been staring at the photo, and he sighs. “Yeah?” His throat is
slightly raspy from not being used in a bit, so maybe it's been hours.
“Sammy? It's me, Dean.”
Sam buries his head in the pillow and groans. He doesn't have the energy for
this. “Go away.”
Dean pauses, shuffling his feet, biker boots scrubbing over carpet, then the
door opens and the bed dips under Dean's weight. When Sam looks at him over his
shoulder, Dean has his back to him, head lowered.
“I said go away,” Sam mumbles and lies back down.
“Didn't understand it the first time.”
Dean doesn't move to leave, just sits there, the silence between them only
occasionally interrupted by the scratch of stubble on skin when he rubs a hand
over his jaw.
“What do you want, Dean?”
“What do you need?” He turns around to look at Sam, green eyes dull and tired,
lacking the mischievous glint he has become so used to seeing in them. It's
confusing.
“I need you to go.” Scooting to the very edge of his bed, Sam turns to the
photo again. He can't stand to look at Dean any longer. The weight on his
mattress shifts, and for a moment, he thinks Dean is about to leave, and cold
fingers wrap around his insides. Stupid. He doesn't want to be alone now,
desperate for company, even if it's Dean's. No, that's wrong. He's desperate
for Dean's company, after everything that's happened, he's still longing for
his smug smile, the blazing green eyes, the touch of calloused hands. So much
he's disgusted by himself. His hands flex, clutching the sheets hard while his
eyes squint shut against the tears threatening to come.
Dean's hand is hesitant, almost gentle, when it lays down on his shoulder and
rolls Sam onto his back. Suddenly, there's that face again, sad but still
beautiful, hanging above Sam's in the air, smile resigned and unhappy. He leans
in without warning, and Sam's head isn't fast enough to react, too mesmerized
by Dean's face getting closer and closer, until there is no space anymore and
his eyes have to cross to keep it in his vision.
The kiss is chaste and over before it properly began, just a brush of chapped
and dry lips, and Dean's face vanishes, leaving Sam to stare at the crack in
the ceiling Dad hasn't fixed yet, his lungs burning with the breath he's
holding.
“Your dad's worried about you, Sammy. Karen, too. We all are.”
And then Dean is gone, the only thing staying the tingling on Sam's mouth, and
he slips his tongue over his lips, taking in the taste of Dean.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
The weekend comes and goes featuring crappy horror movies on TV for Halloween.
Jess calls and asks if Sam really doesn't want to come to Emily's party. It
could take his mind off things maybe. A bit of fun wouldn't hurt, right?
Sam only tells her to enjoy herself and slips back onto the couch next to Dad
while Jason Voorhees chases teenagers over the screen.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
He's going crazy, Sam decides when he walks out of school on Monday. It's
either him or Dean, and, considering his mental scarring, he's clearly the more
likely option, because there is no way Dean Milligan is really standing over
there, leaned against a Harley while waving at Sam with the most dorky smile on
his face. At Sam's side, Jess hesitates, her head jerking slightly back in
surprise, so Sam isn't going crazy, yet he glances over at Kate Kennedy for
ultimate proof, who throws him a nasty glare and then stalks off to her group
of fans to polish up her self esteem with the help of their leers and wolf
whistles.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean calls out when Sam still hasn't moved, successfully drawing
the attention of every last person on the school grounds to them, and Sam just
wants to sink into the ground and never come up again. Ever. When he looks to
his side for reassurance, Jess's lips are twitching as she tries to win a
battle against her smile, and she nudges him softly in the side, nodding
towards Dean.
With a long-suffering sigh, Sam steels himself and walks over to Dean and the
Harley, trying to ignore the way his lips tingle with the memory of a short,
stolen kiss. Dean is still grinning broadly when Sam comes to a halt in front
of him, keeping his distance. “What are you doing here, Dean?” He's tried to
make it sound annoyed, but it comes out more tired than anything else.
“Picking you up from school on my new baby,” Dean responds and pats the leather
of the seat almost fondly. The bike is an old Harley Davidson Hummer who's
clearly seen better days, blue paint already peeling, yet the engine looks
newer, undoubtedly Dean's doing, and Sam eyes the machine suspiciously,
especially the smaller leather cushion above the rear wheel. “There's no way
I'm gonna sit on that,” Sam says and points at what has to be his seat, but
Dean only grins, throwing him a black half helmet.
“You bet your sweet little ass you gonna, Sammy. I hid your math textbooks, and
I'm not giving them back until you gave it a try at least once.” His grin is
positively smug when he pulls his own helmet over his head, closing it with a
click while Sam fumes with rage, gripping the helmet in his hands tightly and
grinding out, “you didn't.”
Dean just shrugs and swings one leg over the bike, sitting down and kicking the
stand back. The engine springs to life with a twist of the key, rumbling loudly
in a way newer engines don't do anymore, deep and pleasant with power, a sound
that reminds Sam a lot of the Impala. “Good luck with that test next week,”
Dean shouts over the noise and lets the engine growl, threatening to take off,
and Sam shoves the helmet quickly over his head and climbs onto the bike,
wearing his anger and annoyance openly on his face while Dean throws his head
back and laughs. Sam reluctantly snakes his arms around his waist and holds on,
face pressing into the leather jacket, every breath he takes tinged with the
smell of Dean. For a heartbeat, he allows himself to sink into the moment, the
bike rumbling beneath him, vibrations chasing up his spine, Dean's stomach
rising and falling against his hands with every breath.
“Don't strangle me, alright, sweetheart.” Dean says softly, his words nearly
getting lost in the rumbling of the engine, and Sam nods against his back. He
doesn't want to forgive Dean, but when he finds himself sitting on the Harley,
clinging to his waist, senses full of Dean, the wind whipping his face while
they speed down the streets, it's hard not to consider it at least.
 
They're halfway to the Winchester home when Sam remembers his math books are in
his backpack, and he smiles.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam cuffs Dean in his arm when he climbs off the bike, staggering slightly.
Dean only laughs, knowing he's been found out. “Took you long enough, Sammy.
For someone with a brain like yours you sure as hell can be a bit slow
sometimes.”
“You're a manipulative asshole,” Sam informs him, deadpan, and hands the helmet
back, determined to punish Dean with the silent treatment for that little stunt
from now on, but his mind is derailed when calloused and warm fingers close
around his wrist and he's pulled forward, hands fumbling for something to hold
onto and finding Dean's forearms. Then there's a another hand on the back of
his neck, holding him in place while a familiar pair of lips presses against
his own.
The kiss isn't that chaste this time, but not as wild as their first, lips
moving slowly against each other for a couple moments, and Sam should really
not be doing this, because now Dean is nipping softly on his bottom lip, hot
tongue slipping out and licking, just for a second, before drawing back in. It
feels way too good, and his body is saying it's not enough while his mind is
screaming it's too much, his nerves burning with the sensations, but then
Dean's lips are gone again, cold breeze brushing over now heated skin, leaving
Sam to stare unmoving.
A slap on his ass jolts him out of the stupor violently, and Dean chuckles and
winks at him while he rolls out of the driveway, unfazed by the glower Sam is
sending his way as he rubs the sensitive flesh of his butt.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
The next morning, Dean and the Harley are waiting in the driveway for Sam, and
he gets on without a word. It's the same in the afternoon, when Dean picks him
up again from school. He doesn't want to admit it, but he waits for a kiss that
day when he gets off the bike at home, but it never comes. Slightly
disappointed, and hating himself all the more for it, Sam shuffles inside,
listening to the rumble of the engine fading away.
 
He finds Dean waiting for him the rest of the week and the one after that.
Sometimes, there's a kiss, and Sam's heart pounds against his ribcage every
time they pull into the driveway, his body longing for the touch of lips
against his. More often than not, he's left to stand on the gravel, hands empty
and body begging while Dean drives off without so much as a smile as goodbye.
But when they kiss, it's breathtaking, every new kiss more fervent than the
last one, step by step turning from chaste and short to hungry and passionate,
with teeth nipping and tongues battling. Dean's hands, however, always stay
above Sam's clothes, holding on to his shoulders, his waist and hip or cupping
his cheeks.
Sam doesn't know what to make of it.
 
Then the weather gets too bad, and Dean doesn't pick him up with the bike
anymore. He tells himself he doesn't care, but he knows it's a lie.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
They go over to Karen and Bobby's for Thanksgiving, and Sam helps with the
turkey while Dad, Bobby and Dean are sitting in front of the TV, watching the
game and sipping on their beers between comments on this player or that one.
It's surprisingly peaceful to listen to their low murmur and deep laughter
while preparing dinner, and Karen and Sam speak as little as possible, small
smiles on their lips.
At one point Karen leaves for the bathroom, and Sam is left alone,
concentrating on the cranberry sauce as Dean saunters in, drawling, “look at
this. Little Sammy is definitely a keeper, aren't ya?”
“Ha ha.” Sam tries for nonchalance, fails horribly, and settles for refraining
from blushing instead, but considering how hot his face already feels, he
assumes it's already taken on the color of his burgundy dress. Grinning smugly,
Dean walks over to him, pressing up against his back and resting his chin on
Sam's shoulder to look at the sauce, one hand absentmindedly stroking his hip.
Dean is warm and solid, and although Sam is already 5' 9'', he still feels
small next to Dean. Surprisingly, it doesn't bother him, and he leans back into
the touch, a sense of protection and comfort taking over and making him relax.
It's nice, he thinks, and, Deanis nice.
They stand like this for a moment, and Sam relishes the warmth of the body
behind him, the smell, the slight scratch of stubble against his shoulder where
the fabric of his dress is thin and the small hairs poke through it. The words
are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Why are you doing this?”
Dean slightly tenses, and Sam curses inwardly, already mourning the moment.
“Doing what?” Dean's voice sounds cautious, as if he's sending the words
through a mine field, fearing to set one off if he goes too far, asks too much.
“This.” Sam turns around to face him, already missing the touch but determined
to get some answers. Dean has been acting strange around him, doing all these
considerate and sweet things, like picking Sam up from school, bringing him a
cup of coffee when he's sitting in the library to study, and keeping his hands
above Sam's skirts. Of course, Dean does it with a teasing remark about Sam
being a nerd and a slap on his ass, but there's a softness hidden behind all
these gestures that Sam can't help but notice. He hadn't thought it possible
that Dean, who was all predatory smirks and lewd humor, could actually do
things that would fit better into a chick-flick than into real life. Nights
have gone by with Sam rolling around in his bed, the moments with Dean playing
on repeat in his head while he analyzes every second, every gesture, every
look. His first guess was that this was all another plan to get into Sam's
pants, but he couldn't really see Dean, womanizer extraordinaire, trying so
hard to get some when there are women who are only a wink away from throwing
their panties at him. However, the other option is something Sam doesn't even
want to think about.
Dean looks at him for a long moment, lids heavy and face blank before a small
and soft smile starts playing around his lips. “Maybe not everything you
thought about me is actually true.”
“Maybe.”
Sam bites his lip, and after a second of debating with himself, leans in. The
kiss is slow and almost chaste, lacking tongue and burning passion, but it's
still good, even though Sam is a bit hesitant. It's special, at least to him,
because it's the first kiss Sam started. Before, it was always Dean, leaning
in, pulling Sam down, gripping him, pressing up against him, and in the back of
his mind, a small voice whispers he's just done a mistake, that he should stop
and forget Dean and everything that happened, but Sam knows it's too late. Has
been for a very long time.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Sam says when he breaks the kiss, voice breathless and
barely more than a whisper.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Dean answers and winks, slapping Sam's butt as his grin
returns to being predatory, and Sam rolls his eyes.
However, this time he does it in a playful way.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
This was bound to happen, Sam thinks as he runs down the dark street, slipping
on the thin layer of snow and stumbling on, breath forming white clouds in
front of his mouth. Behind him, Kyle Williams calls, “where's your boyfriend
now, Winchester?”, drawing a choir of snickers from his jock friends as their
footsteps come steadily closer. If Kyle were alone, Sam could take him on, no
doubt. Sure, he would have to take some hits, but Dad's lessons in self-defense
have been thorough and long, taught under the motto: 'blood in training spares
blood in a real fight'. Kyle might have an advantage in muscle and bulk, but
even that can't make up a well-aimed hit to his solar plexus or throat.
However, as things are, he didn't come unprepared, bringing three of his
friends along to ambush Sam on his way out of the library, and the first punch
caught him straight in the jaw, throwing his head back and splitting his lip.
Sam hadn't even bothered trying to counter-attack when he saw the group of
boys, had just turned on his heels and run like hell, the others following him
with taunts on their lips and bursts of laughter echoing through the streets.
Now, Sam's whole head is pounding, neck stinging, jaw throbbing. His mouth
tastes of copper and when he spits out, there's a small red spot on the white
snow.
“Hey Winchester, I thought guys like you like a bit of a gang bang,” Kyle
yells, and Sam staggers into the next alley he can find, which turns out to be
one of his worst decisions so far, since he finds himself facing a brick wall,
and he curses, looking around frantically for an escape, anything.
His eyes find a fire escape, ladder pulled up, but if he climbs on the garbage
container next to it, he can maybe jump up and pull it down. It's his only
other way out, if he doesn't want to get intimate with Kyle and his friends's
fists, and Sam scrambles onto the container, prepares himself for the jump,
and—
Hands close around his ankles and pull him back. The world is rushing towards
him, face connecting with the container's metal surface painfully, sending a
jolt of white hot pain through his nose and forehead and he gasps, air supply
cut off. The hands continue to drag him down and off the container, regardless
of Sam's hands trying to hold on, and the air is forced from his lungs when he
tumbles to the pavement in a heap of bruised limps and strained muscles. A foot
presses into his side and he's rolled onto his back, body aching. Kyle crouches
down next to him, grinning while he shoves his ugly mug into Sam's line of
vision, vile smirk stretching his lips and baring his teeth. “Little freak,” he
snarls, “seducing good men.”
Sam spits out, leaving a trail of saliva and blood on Kyle's face, and he grins
satisfied. “Says the guy who showers with ten other guys.” Kyle's face is a
grimace of disgust and anger when he wipes the spit and blood off his face, and
his voice is dangerously low when he goes on, “you're gonna pay for this,
Winchester. Let's find out if your boyfriend will still look at you when you
have a broken nose.”
Sam only laughs because the other option would be crying, and he's not gonna
give them that. Kyle stands and draws his foot back, and Sam sees an opening,
punches the side of the other knee, the one Kyle has all his weight on
currently, and watches with glee when the answer is a yelp of pain and the jock
goes to the ground, clutching the hurt joint. But he doesn't have long to enjoy
his little victory, because then Kyle's friends are on him, two of them holding
his arms and legs while the third kicks him in the ribs, yelling that Sam's a
disgusting fag and should be locked up in the loony bin with the others of his
kind. Sam tries to curl up on himself to protect his torso, but the two guys
hold on tightly, not giving him an inch, no matter how hard he struggles. On
the third kick there's a crack and sharp pain that makes his head spin so much
he nearly doesn't hear the shout of, “hey!”
The kicking stops, but his limbs are still restrained, however, all of them are
looking at the man standing in the mouth of the alley, hands in his pockets and
bow legs spread. Sam feels relieved and insane laughter clawing up his airways,
but it comes out weak and gurgling from the blood pooling in his throat.
Figures that Dean would be his Knight in shining Armor, fulfilling the cliché.
Dean's voice is calm but icy cold when he speaks. “Wouldn't do that if I were
you.”
Kyle, who's climbed to his feet again, rubbing his hurt knee absently, sneers
and spits out. “What? You gonna stop us?”
There's a pause in which Dean seems to be considering, tilting his head back
and taking a step closer, his gait nonchalant. “Don't think I can. I mean
you're two more than us, and Sammy doesn't look like he can do much by now.
But,” he adds when Kyle opens his mouth for a retort, “I know John Winchester.
Makes me wonder if they'll find your bodies in one piece. Ifthey ever find
anything, of course.”
It's funny how quickly the color drains away from Kyle's face, because
everybody knows of John Winchester since three years ago when Dad got into a
fight with three low-life thugs who threatened a woman for her purse. The guys
ended up in hospital with broken fingers, ribs and noses, their black eyes
refusing to fade for weeks, and Dad hadn't gotten more than a split lip and
bloody knuckles, what resulted in rumors cursing about his time with the
Marines. Some had even been convinced Dad is a retired CIA agent or some
bullshit, and everybody had refrained from doing more than threatening bodily
harm against his freak son. Kate must've been quite convincing to talk Kyle
into this. Maybe she'd promised him a blow job or something.
Dean's smirk is positively evil, and he looks after them when the jocks run
past him and out of the alley, shoving each other out of the way as if they're
running from the Devil himself. When they're gone, Dean's mask of confidence
falls, and he's at Sam's side in a second, patting along his ribs for broken
bones and bruises, mumbling, “you alright, Sammy?”
“Yeah, 'm fine.” Sam coughs and sits up with Dean's help, arms shaking with the
weight of his tired body. He just wants to go home.
“You good to stand up?” Dean's voice sounds so concerned, eyes flickering over
the wounds in Sam's face, the cuts and bruises and the small trickle of blood
still running from his nose to his lips, painting them in an angry shade of
red. He only shrugs as answer, tongue too heavy to form words properly, and
Dean pushes his hands under Sam's shoulder to pull him up, holding him steady
against his side when Sam staggers, knees giving out slightly. “Assholes got
you good, huh? John's gonna kill somebody.”
“Don't tell him, okay?”
Dean looks at him for a long moment, eyebrows raised, and Sam smiles weakly,
explaining, “visiting hours in jail are a bitch.”
Dean laughs and nods, walking Sam out on the street, one of his arms slung over
Dean's broad shoulders. “Alright, don't even know their names. But I'm not so
sure your Dad's not gonna find 'em anyway.”
The Impala is parked not far away, and Sam feels relief flooding through him.
He'd dreaded he'd have to walk the whole way home. “What are you doing here
anyway?”
“Your dad asked me to pick you up from the library. Said something about shitty
bus hours and all that. Saw those dicks kicking someone on the ground when I
drove by. Didn't even know it was you until I walked up to them.” Dean's voice
gets angrier with every word and his body tenses, his left hand curling around
Sam's side protectively. Small muscles in his jaw twitch when Sam turns to look
at his profile, and he can't help the smile slipping onto his lips as he sees
how upset Dean is by Sam being hurt. It makes something warm spread in his
stomach, and he would like to kiss Dean again, close the gap between their
faces and press their lips together until they can't breath anymore and longer
even. But his face is covered in blood, so he settles for leaning his forehead
against Dean's temple, and the hard lines in the perfect face soften, eyes
closing for a moment.
“Thank you,” Sam whispers, and Dean shrugs, cheeks slightly pink.
“Just wish I'd been here sooner. C'mon, I'll get you home.”
 
Sam nods off on the way home, and Dean softly shakes him, muttering something
that sounds like 'concussion' and 'those assholes gonna pay for this', but
Sam's too tired to really care.
Dad comes running out of the house when he sees the two of them staggering over
the gravel, scooping Sam up in his arms like he weights nothing and demands of
Dean to tell him who did this, barely keeping himself from yelling. As Sam is
getting patched up on the couch, Dean cleaning his face with a wet cloth and
Dad checking his ribs for fractures, Dean recounts what happened, only
hesitating when John asks for names.
“Don't know 'em,” Dean answers truthfully, softly wiping the cloth over Sam's
nose. “But Sammy got one in the knee from what I saw. Fucker had to limp away.”
Dad nods, frowning in concentration, oblivious to the way Sam's eyes narrow at
Dean, who shrugs helplessly. “He'll find them anyway from the way they skitter
away like cockroaches when he comes near,” he says with a grin, and Sam snorts,
imagining Kyle's head on the body of a cockroach, fleeing under a cupboard from
Dad's feet.
When Dad's finished, he sends Dean home, thanking him for his help with an
awkward slap on the shoulder before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. Dean
wheezes and nods, rubbing his ribs when he tells John to call him if he needs
more help, saying goodbye to Sam with fingers ruffling through the shaggy
strands of hair.
Dad tries asking for the names again when he returns to the couch, sitting down
and letting his son put his head onto his lap, but Sam refuses to say anything,
just curls up on himself and falls asleep.
 
In the morning, he wakes up to Dad snoring, his head tipped back over the back
of the couch in a way that will doubtlessly cause him pain later, and Sam wakes
him up with a cup of coffee at the ready and a smile on his lips.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
A few days later, Kyle is making a beeline for the doors, eyes sticking to the
ground, whenever Sam enters a room or they walk past each other in the hallway.
When he asks his Dad about it later, John laughs but quickly settles for a
mocked innocent expression.
“I didn't do anything, Sammy. Just told them I'm considering teaching you some
tricks I learned as a Marine. How to easily break someone's arm for example.”
He winks conspiratorially, and Sam cuffs his shoulder playfully, rolling his
eyes.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Christmas is coming closer and brings blizzards along for the ride. Sam is over
at the Singers's when one hits and from the looks of it, it won't stop anytime
soon, so Karen tells him he can stay the night and sits him down on the couch
with a hot chocolate, marshmallows swimming around on the surface. A fire is
crackling in the hearth when Dean barges in, covered in snow, jacket and jeans
drenched, shivering from the cold.
“Where have you been?” Sam asks and sips on his drink, chocolaty sweetness
exploding on the tip of his tongue, focusing on the book in his lap when Dean
starts peeling off his drenched clothes.
“Locking up my baby in the shed.” His jaw is chattering, and oh god, he's only
wearing boxers and a teeshirt by now. Sam swallows, eyes flickering to the
exposed flesh of Dean's thighs, drinking in the outlines of muscles and the
dark blond dusting of hair he sees there. When he looks up again, Dean is
smirking at him, all sharp teeth and lewd intent, growling, “you know you could
help me getting warm again.” He waggles his eyebrows and walks over to the
couch, slipping past Sam as closely as he can, providing him with a good eye-
full of black boxer briefs, and Sam is suddenly very concerned the book might
slide off his lap.
Sam sighs and scoots over to the edge of the couch as Dean sits down on the
other end, wrapping himself into a blanket. “Why don't you ask Kate or one of
your other booty calls to do that?” Sam draws his knees up to his chest and
hugs them close, resting his chin on them while he stares at the fire dancing
in the hearth. There is a moment of heavy silence between them, and Sam looks
over to find Dean staring back at him, almost sadly, lips pressed into a thin
line. Dean looks to the side, laughing short and dry, a sound that hits Sam
like a whiplash, tearing into his gut with a blade of ice.
“You really think I'm such an asshole, don't you, Sammy.” It's not a question.
He sounds so... hurt with all that resignation in his voice, and Sam suddenly
feels like a dick. But why? He's not the one who played Dean—okay, he pretended
to be a girl with a deep voice all this time, but it was necessary,
right?—instead Dean acted like he didn't know about Sam's little secret,
pushing him up against kitchen counters and brick walls while trying to get
into his pants. And anyway, it's not like what Sam hinted at isn't true. There
are several girls claiming to have had a night with Dean, all drooling after
his butt like it's the Holy Grail of Asses, and Dean has done nothing so far to
disprove the rumors, flirting with every woman that comes near him like it's
his last night before the end of the world. It's like Dean read his mind,
because now he says, “guess I deserve it, huh? Flirtin' with all these girls
an' all.” He's still not looking at Sam.
“Dean...”
“Nah, 's alright Sam, I get it. You hear them talking about me, saying they got
me into their bed and all, and you don't even think of asking me yourself. You
just assume it's the truth, because it fits. 'Cause you think just because
there are a handful of pretty girls trailing me everywhere I go I'm not
interested in a guy dressing up like a girl when he misses his dead mom.”
Now Dean looks at him, and Sam can't stand it, can't bear how he looks right
through his defenses, reads his mind like an open book and drags all his doubts
to the surface. So Sam looks away, at the marine blue sweater he's wearing, and
it's one of Mom's, the one she often wore in winter when she baked cookies and
the whole house smelled of it for days.
“Dean.” It's a sob, and there should be more words following, but they are
stuck in his throat, edges digging into his tubes to only let out the strangled
gasps slipping through the cracks between them. Dean is at his side in an
instant, mumbling softly and urgent while he drags Sam onto his lap, hands
rubbing over his back and shoulders, pressing his head down and into the crook
of Dean's neck where the skin is slowly warming up again, “woah, hey, easy
Sammy. I've got you, baby. I'm sorry. Don't cry, baby. I've got you.”
Sam laughs, breathless and sad, hiccuping inbetween. This is all so ridiculous
and wrong. Heshould be the one to apologize, not Dean. He hadn't listened,
hadn't asked if all the girls said was true. And Dean had been so sweet over
the last couple weeks, in his own way at least. Even then Sam had thought he
was just playing with him, still trying to get into his pants, get his very
special notch on the bedpost, not willing to even consider Dean felt something
like genuine affection towards him.
“'M sorry, Dean,” Sam finally chokes out through his tears, clinging to Dean
like his life depends on it, hands clutching the back of the teeshirt. Dean
only grips him tighter, hands slipping up and down his back soothingly, leaving
a trail of heat along Sam's spine. Dry lips press against his neck and
shoulder, putting small kisses there, and Sam shivers, something warm pooling
in his chest and spreading from there through the rest of his body, making his
fingertips prickle, and suddenly it's not the crying anymore that makes Sam
breathless.
His heart speeds up, drumming an erratic rhythm against the cage of his chest.
His nerves are tingling where Dean presses his lips to the quickly heating
skin, and Sam wants. Wants this. Wants more. Wants so hard it hurts. Body tense
as a bow string, his breath comes in shallow, quick gasps, every movement of
Dean sending fireworks through his body, and those deft fingers draw patterns
down his back and slide to his hips, down to his ass, squeezing softly.
Dean pulls Sam's head back by his hair, gently, and when Sam looks at his face,
he sees it like he's only ever seen it in his dreams; cheeks red, lips parted
and slightly wet from kissing, pupils blown wide, eyes heavy lidded and dark
with arousal.
“Dean,” Sam says again, and it's the only word he knows. It's a name, a plea
and a prayer all at once. It's all he wants.
Dean's voice is deliciously husky, brushing against Sam's lip in a hot rush of
air. “Let's go upstairs.”
 
Dean carries him up the stairs, Sam's legs wrapped around his waist, large
hands holding him up. They just look at each other, eyes flickering to one
another's mouths, breath mingling between them. It's an eternity and only a
second until they're in Dean's room, door kicked closed behind them, soft
mattress giving in when Sam is placed onto it, shortly followed by Dean
climbing between his legs and on top of him, pinning him down with the weight
of his body, hard muscle pressing against Sam's lean frame.
“So pretty,” he breathes against Sam's lips. “So fucking pretty with your
dimples and eyes that can't decide which color they're.”
Dean closes the gap between them, bringing their lips together.
It's overwhelming, their hundredth and first kiss at the same time, and it
starts out slow, lips moving together gently, then a tongue ventures, licking
over Sam's bottom lip, asking to be let in, and Sam opens his mouth, greets it
with his own. From there it spirals into passionate, fervent, hot—teeth nipping
and biting, lips sucking, tongues pushing and sliding against each other. Sam's
breath starts shortening again, hot, quick bursts of air brushing against
Dean's cheek, and he moans into the mouth covering his while Dean's hands
finally, finally, slip beneath his sweater, fingertips brushing over his skin,
his sides, following the line of his hipbones, the waistband of his jeans,
before pushing the top up inch by inch, baring naked skin to be shortly after
covered by wandering hands.
Sam has expected it to be urgent and wild, resulting in torn clothes and bodies
covered in bruises and bite marks, but this is so much better, gentle and slow,
and almost loving. Dean takes his time with him, exploring every outline of
bone and muscle with his hands and then his mouth, brushing his lips against
hot skin, closing his teeth around hardening nipples gingerly to send a sharp
sensation through Sam that makes him jolt, back arching, before it gets kissed
better again. Hands with long fingers that are made to play piano, shake when
they lift off the bed, letting go of the sheets they have been clinging to for
dear life, in favor to touch. Sam pushes his hands under Dean's shirt, dragging
them along the muscles he feels moving there, coaxing a moan from Dean's lips
that is breathed against the crook of Sam's neck, making shivers run down his
spine, but he doesn't stop touching, doesn't deny himself any longer what he
has been longing for since Dean swaggered into his life and threw the world off
course.
Sam wants this.
He needs this.
His fingertips drag over Dean's shoulder blades and back down again, taking a
hold of the teeshirt to pull it up and off Dean, ruffling his dark blond hair
on the way and making it stand up every which way, begging for Sam to drag his
fingers through it, smoothing the strands before disheveling them all over.
Dean pulls Sam up into a sitting position, making it easier to get the thick
sweater out of the way, pressing their heaving chests together while they kiss
again, Dean's mouth so hot it burns against Sam's, and he wants more, more
heat, more touch, more everything.
“Dean,” he whimpers when they break the kiss, laying back down, and it says all
he can't, making Dean growl deep in his throat while his hands slide down to
Sam's crotch, palming the erection that's pressing against the denim there,
desperate to be touched. Button and zipper are opened with quick movements and
Dean hooks his fingers in the waistband of jeans and boxer briefs to pull both
off at the same time, leaving Sam completely naked and writhing under his heavy
and hot gaze. “So fucking gorgeous,” Dean rambles as his eyes wander over the
lanky boy beneath him, skin glinstening with the sheen of sweat already there.
“Beautiful Sammy, all hot and desperate.”
Sam tugs helplessly on Dean's boxer briefs, begging for friction and more naked
skin, mind too occupied to be embarrassed by Dean's words. Dean complies and
then they're both naked, Dean leaning in and pushing their hips together, their
cocks sliding against each other, sending jolts of electricity rippling along
Sam's spine, fireworks going off in his head until his back arches and his eyes
roll back, teeth tearing on his bottom lip. Dean licks and nuzzles his chest
while he rolls his hips into Sam's in a steady rhythm, whispering words into
the skin there Sam can't understand, but he doesn't care for now because it
feels all so good, every drag of skin on skin making his body tingle, waves of
pleasure clashing over him and ebbing away before it starts all over again. His
mind is so caught up in the sea of ecstasy that he doesn't register Dean
producing lube from somewhere until a slick finger slips between his asscheeks,
startling a loud gasp from his lips and his eyes snap open.
“Shh, it's alright, Sammy, I've got you, baby,” Dean murmurs soothingly as his
finger circles Sam's hole before pushing in. “I've got you.”
Sam's had his own fingers up there already countless times (pretty recently,
actually), and he's dreamed of this exactly—being spread open by Dean's thick
fingers, teasing with the promise of what's to follow—but even when he's
imagined that not his but Dean's fingers were pushing inside him, it's never
felt as good as this. Dean's fingers are so much thicker and more skilled than
Sam's, and the knowledge of who's touching him alone makes Sam fear he's gonna
pass out if he doesn't watch out. With every movement of Dean's finger, sparks
travel through Sam's spine and dick, and when Dean brushes over Sam's
prostrate, he fears he's gonna lose it. Dean's other hand is rubbing soothing
circles into Sam's stomach, only interrupting them sometimes to trail
fingertips over Sam's straining cock, and Dean's whispering huskily, “gonna
make you feel so good, Sammy. Wanna fuck you until you pass out 'cause it feels
so good,” and Sam can do nothing else but nod and ramble a mixture of 'yes,
please' and 'more'.
Dean's finger is pushing deeper inside until Sam can feel Dean's knuckles
against his ass, and Dean draws back again, pushing in and out slowly to coax
his body into loosening up for him. Sam's mantra of 'Dean, Dean, Dean' is
interrupted by moans and gasps, the burn of the stretch fading away gradually
until it's renewed when another finger is pushed inside and pain has to be
turned into pleasure again. He loses all feeling of time while Dean works him
open, whispering sweetly into his ear and placing kisses all over his over-
sensitive body. For all he knows it could've been years when Dean draws his
fingers out and his hips are lifted off the mattress, a pillow shoved benath
the small of his back. And then there's something else, something incredibly
hot and thick pressing into him, the generously applied lube not enough to
douse the burning of the stretch, muscles clenching to fight the intrusion. Sam
bites his lip and grunts while Dean pushes further in, pausing again and again
to coax him into relaxing before he goes on until he bottoms out. Then Dean
stills, taking deep breaths while his fingers fist into the sheets and his eyes
are firmly shut.
“Feels so perfect, Sammy. So tight,” Dean moans and it looks like it costs all
his willpower to hold still and give Sam all the time he needs to get adjusted
to the new sensation.
Sam is overwhelmed by the feel of Dean inside him, and he wants to make this
good, make it perfect, for the both of them, so he moves his hips, carefully,
drawing a startled gasp from Dean and ignoring the spike of pain. Unable to
resist any longer, Dean starts moving, pulling out until only the head of his
cock is still inside Sam, then pushing back in, speeding up on each thrust,
every moan and gasp dropping from the lush and kiss-bruised lips beneath him
spurring him on, and Sam arches his back, legs wrapped around Dean's waist in
the desperate attempt to get more, deeper, harder. Dean snaps his hips forward,
speeding up even more, hands on Sam's hips tightening and pulling him in on
each thrust in, balancing a line between gentle and hard.
“So good, baby, so good,” Dean whispers breathlessly, right as he hits the
bundle of nerves inside Sam and his whole body jerks, a cry breaking loose from
his lips to be cut off by Dean's mouth on his.
Sam's dick is rubbing over Dean's stomach, twin sensations of pleasure making
his body tremble, every thrust bringing him closer to the edge, hands clawing
into Dean's back to leave red streaks there, and Dean angles himself just
right, brushing over Sam's sweet spot again and again and again, until there
are spots dancing in his vision and his cock is throbbing with the plea for
sweet release.
“Come for me, baby boy," Dean Says and sits up on his haunches, one hand
wrapping around Sam's cock, jerking it in rhythm to his thrusts, and it's all
Sam needs. He topples over the edge with another cry that is caught by Dean's
lips on his own, eyes rolling up and back arching, every part of his body
clenching down, and thus dragging Dean along with another two or three thrusts
into the tight heat.
When Sam comes down from his high, his body is still shaking, and Dean lies on
his chest, stubbly cheek pressed against him, eyes closed. The pain returns
slowly, but it's muffled by the pleasure still washing through him when he
combs his hands through Dean's hair, something that's answered by a content
sigh.
Sam smiles tiredly and lets his eyes fall closed.
Everything is good.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Karen is sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the living room,
humming softly to herself while she knits, paying no attention to what's
happening on the flickering TV screen, the wind blowing outside their house and
pressing snow against the windows.
There's a cut off cry from upstairs, and Karen looks at the ceiling, a pleased
and mischievous smile on her lips when she reaches for the remote and turns the
volume up.
Her husband comes trudging up the stairs from the basement shortly after,
scrubbing a hand over his beard and looking through the room for something.
“Where's Dean?” he asks, and walks over to his wife to place a peck on the
crown of her hair.
“Upstairs,” Karen answers, nimble fingers going on with the knitting. There's a
glint in her eyes that Bobby can't quite place, but he dismissess it to have
something to do with Sam or Dean. “I need him to help me,” he informs her and
turns towards the stairs, but she holds him back by his arm.
“It can wait.” Her voice allows no objection. Bobby tries nonetheless.
“Whatever the boy's doing up there, I don't care. He can damn well get down
here and—“
Another cut off cry comes from upstairs, and Karen's smile widens into a grin,
one of her brows raising as Bobby's ears turn pink.
“It can wait,” he says, and Karen turns the TV louder, patting her husband's
knee comfortingly when he sinks into the cushions next to her with a heavy
sigh.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Sam wakes the next morning to his body being sore, every muscle groaning when
he dares moving them, but he doesn't care, because Dean is pressed against his
back, every deep breath tickling Sam's neck and he allows himself to close his
eyes again and doze a bit more. Eventually, he gets up and throws on one of
Dean's shirts, inhaling the scent deeply before he slips into his boxer briefs,
wincing when he notices how sticky his butt and thighs are. He definitely needs
a shower. With one last glance at Dean's sleeping form he leaves the room and
shuffles sleepily into the bathroom, turning the shower on and stepping under
the spray, hot water helping his muscles at least a bit to relax. He only
remembers that the lock in the upstairs bathroom doesn't work when the shower
curtain is shoved to the side, and he nearly slips and tumbles out of the tub
with the attempt to hide his nakedness. A hand snaps forward and steadies him.
“Easy, sweetheart. Don't want you to hurt your pretty head.”
It's Dean, standing there in only his boxer briefs, grinning smugly and giving
Sam a once-over with blunt lust in his eyes, making a blush creep up Sam's
neck. “Jesus, Dean, don't scare me like that.”
“Not my fault you're fantasizing about last night and didn't hear me come in.”
Dean winks and climbs into the tub, wrapping his broad arms around Sam,
pressing them tightly together. Sam sighs and lets his head drop back onto
Dean's shoulder, enjoying the warmth against his back while Dean draws pattern
onto his sides. “How you feelin'? Not hurting too bad?” There's definitely a
bit of concern in Dean's voice, and Sam chuckles, it's just too adorable.
“What? You scared you fucked me too hard?” Sam retorts to chase the worry away,
and Dean laughs, slightly relieved. “Oh, that mouth on you. Didn't know you had
it in you, baby.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me,” Sam tells him while Dean starts
nuzzling into the crook of his neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin
there.
“For example?”
“That I know how to give amazing blow jobs. In theory.”
Dean laughs against Sam's skin, digging his fingers into Sam's hips as he
presses closer, grinding his hard dick against Sam's ass to tell him what he
thinks of the mental image, and Sam moans softly. “Yeah? Why don't you show
me?”
“I—ah—I have school, Dean.”
“Too bad. You little nerd.” Dean bites into Sam's neck, sucking softly on his
skin, letting his hand wander to Sam's crotch and closing his fingers around
the throbbing erection he finds there.
 
When they come downstairs a bit later, Sam wearing one of Dean's hoodies, Karen
has pancakes, eggs and bacon ready for them. She doesn't comment on the change
in Sam's clothes or the fact that Sam didn't sleep on the couch as planned, and
Sam hopes that maybe, she hasn't noticed anything. But when he kisses her
goodbye, she holds him in place by his shoulder, whispers, “nice hickey,
Sammy,” and winks.
Sam blushes with the heat of a Supernova and slaps a hand to the side of his
neck, glaring at Dean who smirks back at him.
 
Dean asks Bobby for his truck to drive Sam to school after they stopped to pick
up his backpack from home, and Sam is a bit nervous as to how he should react
when they say goodbye until later. Is he allowed to kiss Dean in front of that
many people or does Dean want to keep whatever they have behind closed doors?
Karen, Bobby and Dad knowing is one thing, but what about the homophobic
pricks? Maybe Dean would feel uncomfortable with the constant glances and
sneers. The thought hurts, but Sam understands. Dean has seen first hand what
happened to Sam when Kyle thought it was a good idea to ambush him with a
couple friends. He can't really be angry at Dean for not wanting that to happen
to himself...
By the time they pull up to the curb in front of Sam's school, Sam has a
headache from thinking too much, and his bottom lip is tender from worrying it
for the whole way. He still doesn't know what to do, so he simply slips out of
Bobby's truck with a mumbled, “see you later, Dean,” throwing his backpack over
one shoulder. He's already taken a few steps when he hears the other door of
the truck being thrown shut and Dean calls after him, “hey Sammy, wait up!”
Sam turns and Dean is jogging up to him, smiling reassuringly, before reaching
one hand out, giving Sam enough time to sidestep if he doesn't want to let his
whole school know. He's sometimes considerate like that. Grinning broadly,
suddenly very happy with the world, Sam lets himself be dragged against Dean's
chest and into a searing kiss, only yelping slightly when Dean tips him back in
a full-on Hollywood-style kiss. Wrapping his arms around Dean's neck for
support, Sam ignores the barrage of cat calls and wolf whistles erupting around
them, drowning out the quieter boos. He thinks he can hear Jess whooping the
loudest.
“Have a nice day at school, nerd,” Dean says when he's put Sam back on his feet
and lets go, smirking predatory. Sam pulls his backpack back up onto his
shoulder and straightens his jacket, blush hot on his cheeks.
“Jerk!” he calls after him, and Dean grins.
“Bitch.”
Sam nearly leaps up the stairs to where Jess is standing, beaming so broadly
he's rivaling the sun.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
Life is good. Sam's grades are outstanding, he has an awesome best friend,
neighbors that are like aunt and uncle to him, and a father that loves him. He
has a place he calls home.
And now, he has a boyfriend. A boyfriend with a predatory smirk who likes to
waggle his eyebrows at him and make lewd comments, if they fit the situation or
not. A boyfriend who presses him up against the kitchen counter and whispers
dirty things into his ear while the rest of their patchwork family is sitting
in the next room. A boyfriend who calls him a nerd when he's sitting in the
library, but still brings him coffee over while he looks through stacks of
books, continually rambling about how boring libraries are, however, staying
with him until Sam leaves.
A boyfriend who claims he doesn't do chick-flick moments, yet does all these
sweet things for Sam.
Life is perfect, and Sam hopes Mom can see how happy they all are from wherever
she is now.
 
                                      ♂♀
                                        
For Christmas, Dean buys Sam red lace panties, and Sam blushes hard when he
opens the present in front of his Dad and foster aunt and uncle.
“Dean!” he exclaims and chases him through the house while Dad sinks as deep
into the cushions of the couch as he can manage, face bright red, accepting the
glass of eggnog from Bobby without comment but a thankful look that is answered
by a sympathetic one, and Karen laughs. When Sam finally catches up with Dean,
he's hoisted up over the broad shoulder in a fireman's lift and carried back
into the living room, struggling and switching between laughter and demanding
loudly to be let down, the lace panties clutched in his fist. Dean throws him
onto the couch and leans over him to give him a long and promising kiss that
leaves Sam breathless and wanting more, but then Dean produces another wrapped
present from somewhere, grinning broadly and satisfied when Sam's eyes widen in
surprise.
It's a perfume, the bottle green and shaped like an apple, and when Sam opens
it to spray some of it on his arm and neck, it smells of lemongrass, cinnamon
and Granny Smith apples. He inhales deeply as Dean climbs onto the couch behind
him, pulling Sam to his chest and nuzzling his neck. “Smells good,” he
comments, and Sam hums in agreement.
 
When he gets home, he puts Dean's second present next to his mom's perfume
before slipping into bed with Dean, who sleeps over now more often than not
(turns out it's very easy to climb over the back porch's railing onto its roof
and from there through Sam's window). Sam is nearly drifting off to sleep with
the help of Dean stroking tenderly over his back, as Dean whispers, “you gonna
wear the panties sometime for me, baby?” smug grin audible in his voice.
Chuckling, Sam punches his arm softly.
“Only if you do it first.”
They both laugh and fall asleep with their legs tangled and arms wrapped around
each other.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading!
     This was my very first Wincest (well, kinda, not much incest in here)
     fanfic (at least the one I posted) and I finally found the time to go
     through it again and correct a couple mistakes. There are a few minor
     changes like Dean's family name being Milligan now, and their first
     time, but nothing that in any way alters the plot.
     Hope you enjoyed the emotional rollercoaster and the smut. Feel free
     to leave feedback. Ta.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!