Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/117711.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_spn_j2_xmas, Underage_Sex, wee!cest, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-10 Words: 8486
****** Since I Let Myself Fall ******
by mistyzeo
Summary
     Dean has a crush, Sam has a date, and neither of them are happy about
     it.
     (minor underage: Sam is 17)
Notes
     written for locknkey for the spn_j2_xmas challenge.
     This fic is now (4/26/11) available_in_Russian, thanks to the
     tireless efforts of the lovely Purple Foxy!
Dean has a crush, Sam has a date, and neither of them are happy about it.
Note: Pinch-hit for in the , who wanted wee!cest, UST, first time, marking,
possessive boys, and sex/making out/kissing. These are the youngest I've
written the boys before, so there's that. Also, I wish I'd had more time to
draw out the UST on this one, because it would've been fun, but that's life. =P
I hope you are pleased, dear!
 
Dean isn't sure when Sammy-his-kid-brother became Sammy-this-huge-hulking-dude,
but he suspects it happened sometime between Sam turning fifteen in Fort Union,
New Mexico where Dad put a girl caught in a death waltz to rest, and Sam
turning seventeen three weeks ago in this rented house in Connecticut.  They
moved here at first because Dad got wind of a sighting of a black dog, but
they've stuck around for almost three months now.
Dean's getting restless, trapped in one place, working at a mechanic shop down
the street from their place, keeping an eye on Sammy.  But being stationary
seems to be doing Sam good: he seems happier, calmer, less likely to get into a
screaming match with John.  He's even being helpful, for once in his life,
cooking dinner before Dean gets home (and, okay, he sucks at it, but it's
better than nothing), doing laundry once his homework's done.  He even mowed
the lawn yesterday, and Dean found him sitting on the sagging back porch with a
beer in his hand, actually looking like he didn't want to murder anything.
But Dean would be fucking kidding himself if he thought that it was only being
pinned down for a couple of months that was getting under his skin.
Sam's out of school for the summer, finished his junior year, and normally Dad
would be up and out of there the minute the bell rang on the last day, but he's
been gone for two weeks now, on a job a few hours drive away, and Dean's not
sure when he's coming back.  So Dean works on cars and comes home to Sam
ruining microwave burritos, and they sit on the couch Dean found in a dumpster
and vehemently vacuumed and exorcised, and watch what TV they can get, and Sam
putters around the house and reads too many books and falls asleep with his
head on Dean's shoulder, and it's getting to be too much.
Dean needs to get out of there, move on, shake things up.
Because the poison in his mind is starting to act up, and he's starting to
think things he shouldn't, and Sam is too peaceful and content and amiable, and
it's too fucking perfect and easy.  It's too easy to imagine that this is his
home, and Sam is his to come home to.  It's too simple to think about coming up
behind Sam-- now taller than Dean, the little shit-- and wrapping his arms
around Sam's middle, pressing his face to Sam's warm, firm shoulder, breathing
in the smell of his brother.  In his imagination, Sam just smiles in fond
exasperation and shakes him off and says, "C'mon, man, I'm cooking."
And Dean would say, "You suck at it," and he would mean it, but Sam would put
down the wooden spoon or whatever and turn around, and back Dean up against the
kitchen table and kiss him breathless--
The fantasy always sort of ends there, because that is some fucked up shit, and
Dean does not want that completed thought to ever, ever, ever see the light of
day.
Because Dean is twenty-one now, and he has no fucking business lusting after
his little brother, even if his little brother put on thirty pounds of muscle
from a combination of playing soccer and lifting at the school gym and sparring
and running with Dean, almost without Dean even noticing.  Not that he ever had
any business lusting after his brother at all.  When Dad says "Keep an eye on
Sammy," he definitely does not mean "Sam's ass."
Shit.
Dean takes a deep breath and tries to refrain from rubbing his hand, coated
with grease and car oil, through his hair, as he mounts the steps to their
place.  He can smell something burning, but the overlying smell of what might
be pizza isn't that unappealing, and Dean's attention is removed from how
shitty it is that he's kind of a little bit got a crazy thing for his brother,
and redirected to his stomach.
"What the fuck did you do now?" he hollers, banging in the front door and
unzipping and dropping his coveralls in the living room, exactly where Sam
keeps telling him not to.
"I um," Sam says, poking his head out the kitchen, and it's so fucking adorable
Dean wants to die.  "Well, there was pineapple at the store.  And I found some
ham left over from when I was making lunch for school--"
"Gross, dude, stop right there," Dean says, pushing his way past his brother
and turning off the oven.  "I've got some cash, we'll order out."
Sam looks a little put out, and Dean almost misses the scowl that mars his
face, but Sam says, "I tried."
Dean rolls his eyes.  "I know you wanna be a housewife when you grow up, but
you're gonna need some more practice there, Betty Crocker."
The glare he gets in response is akin to the death stares Sam gives the back of
their dad's head when they're uprooting yet again, and Dean barely avoids
wincing.  Sam snorts and turns away, and Dean can hear him stomping through the
house and slamming the door to their room.  Dean stares after him, confused. 
He hadn't even thought up something all that good.  Normally a you're-a-girl
jab just got him a punch on the shoulder and a crack about the size of his
dick, but now he's lost.
Dean opens up the oven and, covering a hand with a towel from the sink, pulls
out the pan.  On it sits a rectangular, slightly burnt Hawaiian pizza that
looks fairly promising, and Dean sticks it back in the oven to sit in the heat
a little longer.  Maybe Sam will come back and finish it up if he disappears to
take a shower for long enough.
The pizza is still sitting in the oven, starting to cool, when Dean gets out of
the shower.  He checks it, frowning, and walks barefoot and swathed in a towel
back to the room he shares with Sam.
Before he can do the right thing and throw the door open without warning, he
hears Sam talking.
"He's just being a fucking dick, that's all."  Oh, awesome.  He is one hundred
percent talking about Dean, and that makes Dean feel just great.  He rests his
forehead against the door and sighs.  "Yeah, I know," Sam says, and then laughs
softly.  "Whatever.  I just... wanted to talk to you."  Dean straightens up. 
He's never dated anyone long enough to want to call them "just to talk," but
he's seen enough movies to know what the fuck that means.
Sam laughs again on the other side of the door, a low chuckle, and Dean curses
under his breath.  He's standing in the hallway in nothing but a towel, getting
hard at the sound of Sam's voice, and he is so screwed up.  He should have
jerked off in the shower like a normal person, and this wouldn't be a problem.
"So," Sam says, and Dean can hear him pacing, "do you wanna catch a movie
soon?  I don't know how long-- yeah, we might be out of here soon.  That's
us."  A pause.  "Yeah.  I can pick you up."  Fuck no, he can not, Dean thinks. 
Not in his car.  "Sure.  We could get something to eat first."  Dean pinches
the bridge of his nose with his fingers, takes a breath, and opens the door.
Sam looks up, surprised and a little annoyed, and says, "I gotta go.  I'll call
you later," and hangs up.  "What the fuck, dude?"
"I'm naked, here," Dean snarls, yanking open the dresser drawer that sticks. 
"I'm not going to stand outside all fucking day listening to you have phonesex
with your girlfriend."
"What?"  Sam sounds incredulous, and Dean doesn't look at him as he drops the
towel and pulls on a clean pair of boxers as fast as he can.  Sam makes a weird
choking noise behind him, mutters, "I wasn't having phonesex with my
girlfriend, jerk," and storms out of the room.
Whatever.  Sam's not the one half-hard and standing there freezing cold.  Dean
zips up his jeans and pulls on a t-shirt that's probably clean, judging by
which pile it's sitting in, and follows Sam back into the kitchen.
"It looks okay," he offers, coming in behind his brother, and Sam straightens
up.  His cheeks are pink and he avoids looking at Dean, but Dean is too busy
not looking at him, so he doesn't really notice when Sam bangs open the
cupboards for plates and shoves a pale blue "#1 Grandma" mug at Dean, all
without meeting his eyes.
They eat on the couch in the living room in quiet.  The pizza is not half-bad,
although it's slightly burnt and the weeks-old ham is suspicious, and Dean
nudges his brother with his elbow.  Sam jerks and spills his coke, and Dean
snorts with laughter.
"Dude, you're a spaz.  Chill out."
"Shut up," Sam grumbles, trying to wipe the soda off his lap and succeeding
only in soaking both his jeans and his shirt.  Dean just laughs.  Sam might be
stupidly hot and fucking with Dean's mind, but he's still a klutz with too many
limbs and not enough coordination.  Dean tries to ignore the way his blood is
pulsing slow and heavy in his groin, and focuses instead on teasing his brother
mercilessly.
The next morning, Sam catches Dean before he gets out the door to go to work.
"Can I have the car tonight?"
"Why?" Dean asks, smirking.  "Got a hot date?"
Sam blushes, and Dean's heart sinks.  "No," Sam says, but Dean knows that tone
of voice.
"Fine," he says.  "But don't park her where she'll get dinged, don't crash her,
don't spill shit on the seats, and don't fuck in her."
"Jesus, Dean," Sam hisses.  "Okay, first of all, it's not a date.  Second, you
fuck girls in the back of the car all the time!"
"Right," Dean says, grinning.  "My car, my rules."
He gets an epic bitchface for his troubles, so he throws the car keys at Sam's
head and leaves.
Dean is jittery all day.  He takes too long with an oil change, and gets
scolded for his clumsiness while he's under the hood of some sweet old
Charger.  He tosses the wrench in his toolbox and rubs grimy hands over his
face, and his boss, Tim, just laughs at him.
"You got a bug up your ass, Winchester?"
Dean rolls his eyes.  He wishes.  "No," he says.  "Just.  My brother's on
summer break and he won't get out of the damn house."  Except today, he doesn't
add, where he's taking some chick out on a date in Dean's car, and Dean can't
help the hot, ugly twisting in his gut.
"Bouncing off the walls?" Tim asks, and Dean shrugs half-heartedly. 
"I'm gonna take a break."
After work, Dean doesn't even bother going home.  Dad's due to call tomorrow,
check in, tell them he'll be another week or whatever, but that's tomorrow, and
this is tonight.
There's a bar down the street from the shop, and Tim and Steve and Joe drag him
along.  Not that he needs much dragging.  He's using his real ID, the one with
his real name and his real age, and it feels weird.  Tim and Joe steer them
towards a table and come back with beers, and Dean proceeds to get fairly drunk
fairly quickly.  The bar is warm and smokey, and Dean's eyeing a handful of
girls at the bar when Steve nudges him with his elbow.
"Hey," he says, "Think you could take two of 'em home?"
Dean flushes, heat running from his hands to his face to his dick.  He shakes
his head.  "Nah," he says, and he's not sure why.  "I gotta go home to Sammy
sometime."  Except, he doesn't, really, because Sammy could be out all right,
despite what Dad's always saying about curfew, and he doesn't need Dean hanging
around, looking after him all the fucking time, being his keeper.
Steve shrugs.  "Your loss, I guess.  Didn't think you would."
Dean narrows his eyes.  "Fifty bucks says I can get a kiss from all four of
those girls."
"Kisses are easy," Steve crows.  "I'll give you an hour.  If you can feel them
all up, I'll give you fifty."
"Fine," Dean says, pushing off the table.  "I'll be back soon for my money."
Steve ends up giving him a hundred dollars, because not only did he get each of
the four girls to let him touch their tits (please, child's play), but he
coaxes two of them off to the bathroom and ends up watching them make out
around his dick until he comes in the brunette's mouth (Jane?  Joanna?).
"Wow," Tim says when Steve regales him with the story, and Dean just smirks. 
Inside he feels sick, his stomach churning and his skin prickling uncomfortably
with sweat.  It was fine, the girls were hot, and he got off, but he feels
dirty.
"I need to go home," he says, hopefully firmly, and he gets out the door with
minimal incident.  The walk back to their rented house is longer than he
remembers it being, but it might be all the extra steps he's taking to stay
headed in one direction.
The Impala is sitting on the street when he gets there, and he slumps up
against her driver side door, petting her dark frame.
"Hey baby," he murmurs, sweet and low, "Sammy didn't fuck you up too bad?  You
been a good girl?  I'm sorry I let him take you out, gorgeous--"
He stops, catching sight of movement inside the car.  Oh fuck no.  Sam better
not be fucking his girlfriend in the back of the car right now.  Their house is
like, four steps away, and that's just ridiculous.
Dean wrenches open the door to the backseat, and Sam jerks his head up.  He's
alone.
"Oh fuck," Sam says, dropping his head back against the seats.  "Go 'way,
Dean."
He's drunk.  Sam, not Dean.  Although Dean is also drunk.  They're both drunk. 
He grins.  "Hey bitch."
"Fuck off," Sam mutters, "you smell like sex."
"This car smells like sex," Dean counters, frowning.  "You did fuck in here! 
Shit, man, I told you not to!"
It doesn't help that the car smelling like sex and Sam in the car gets put
together by his brain as the car smelling like Sam when he's having sex, and
Dean's cock twitches in his pants.  What the hell.
"It didn't work," Sam moans pitifully, curling away from Dean as Dean climbs
into the car with him.
"What?" Dean says.  "You didn't fuck her?  Yeah you did, I can tell."
"Yeah, I fucked her," Sam snaps, waving his hands at Dean, uncoordinated. 
Overlying the smell of sex is the smell of Jack, and Dean winces.  "I fucked
her, right there."  Sam points, and Dean winces again.
"Gross, dude."
"But it didn't work."  Sam shakes his head, staring at his lap, and then out
the window, speaking so low Dean thinks maybe he's forgotten Dean is even
there.
He looks so forlorn that Dean reaches over to touch his cheek.  Sam's face is
smooth and warm under his fingers.  Sam flinches away, bangs his head on the
window, and grunts.
"Ow, what the fuck."
"Were you a virgin?" Dean asks out of nowhere, and all of a sudden he has to
know.  Some part of him wanted Dean to be Sam's first, and his stomach gives a
sickening little twist of jealousy.
Sam's laugh surprises him, and he looks up to see Sam's eyes, glinting in the
dark.  "No," Sam says, "Jesus.  I'm seventeen, dude, plus I've got you for a
brother."  He looks like he's going to laugh again, but his face falls, and he
turns away.  "Yeah.  You for a brother."
Dean doesn't need to reminded.  He presses closer, sliding his arm around Sam's
shoulders, and Sam tries to shift away.  Dean puts his head on Sam's shoulder. 
"It's okay, Sammy," he murmurs.  "You don't have to be embarrassed."
Sam lets out an exasperated sigh and shrugs Dean's arm off, sliding forwards,
and Dean has to put his hand on the door to stay upright.
"So what didn't work about it?" Dean asks, leering.  "She not any good?  You
not any good?"
"Fuck you," Sam says, pushing his elbow.  Dean's arm buckles and he falls
sideways into the seat.  It's more comfortable lying down, and he squirms in
the seat, looking up at Sam's shadowed face.
"Come on," he prods, sneaking his hand up Sam's back.  He's feeling bold, all
the liquor in his blood making him crazy, reckless.  Sam looks pained, and he
turns his head away.  Dean hers the sloshing of liquid in a bottle, and lifts
his head to see Sam taking another slug of whiskey.
"I'm so fucked up," Sam whispers, and coughs around the burn.  "God damn, Dean,
just go away.  Let me be fucked up by myself."
"I'm fucked up, too," Dean says.  Why is Sam so upset about being drunk? he
wonders.  They've been drunk together before.  Maybe it's the way Dean is
getting all grabby and creepy.  Dean sits up, taking his hands as far away from
his brother as he can, and Sam sighs.
"It wasn't good," he admits, "because I wasn't into her.  I'm not into her." 
He sighs.  "She's nice and stuff, and cute, and she looks hot when she wears
these boots, and she's got really nice hair, and... and she's really good at
sucking dick--"
"Okay," Dean says, "too much info, dude."
Sam looks at his hands, twisting together in his lap.  "Dean--"
"Let's get you inside, cowboy," Dean interrupts, loudly.  He reaches across Sam
and opens the door, and Sam all but tumbles out onto the sidewalk.  Dean climbs
out after him, grabbing his brother by his coat and hauling him to his feet. 
"What were you doing in there anyway?  Besides, you know, drinking and
fucking."
"Smells like you," Sam murmurs, sagging into Dean.  Dean almost drops him.
"Dude, I don't smell like pussy all the time," he says.
"Ugh, shut up."  Sam manages to get the door open and they fall together into
the living room.  Sam makes it to the couch and Dean closes the door behind him
and stumbles to the kitchen.
He comes back with water, and Sam takes it gratefully and chugs it down.  Dean
tries very hard, valiantly even, not to watch his throat working as he
swallows, the drops of water that escape and run down his chin, and fails
miserably.
Sam's eyes are dark when he turns them on Dean again, and Dean swallows hard. 
He feels a lot more sober than he did before, and at the same time a lot less
steady.  Sam reaches out and curls his fingers around the back of Dean's neck. 
It's uncomfortably intimate, and Dean can feel his hands shaking.  He's getting
hard again, too, and how he's managing that after a blowjob and way too much
alcohol, he's not sure.
"Didn't want her," Sam says.  "Took her home and came back and just sat in the
car."  He laughs, mirthless, and lets go of Dean's neck.  His runs both hands
through his hair instead, pushing it back from his face.  "Just sat in the
car."  He drops his hands and pushes his way off the couch, stumbling, and
heads for the bedroom. 
Dean follows him, not sure whether he should.  Sam is stripping off his shirt
and throwing it in the corner, and Dean's breath catches in his throat.  The
room is dark, but the light from the streetlamps shines in through the window,
and Sam is silhouetted against it.  The light highlights the mess of his hair,
the lines of his arms and torso, muscles flexing under his skin.  Dean can see
the long scar down his side, rough line on his smooth skin, and he swallows
convulsively.
Sam is muttering to himself as he tugs off his jeans, and Dean takes a step
into the room. 
"Fucking sick," Sam murmurs, "so fucking sick.  So fucked up.  Can't want,
can't have, not ever.  Not ever."
"Hey," Dean says, and Sam turns abruptly, catches himself on his bed.  "You
gonna be sick?"
Sam snorts.  "Already am.  Not gonna throw up, though, if that's what you
mean."
Dean steps closer, and he realizes before he knows it that his hands are
creeping towards Sam's.  He stops them, hovering awkwardly in the air, and
shoves them in his pockets.  "I know it's tough to have a girlfriend," he
says.  "What with us always on the move.  You've been doin' real good, though,
Sammy, makin' friends and stuff."  Sam starts to turn away, and Dean grabs his
shoulders.  "No, man, listen.  I'm sorry, okay?  I'm sorry it's gotta be like
this, but-- what Dad does, what we do, it's real important.  We'll go hunting,
all three of us, this summer, I promise.  Make you forget all this crap."
Sam takes a deep breath, huge palm covering his face, and stares at Dean
between his fingers.  "You think that's the problem?  I'm upset about not
getting to have a girlfriend?"
Dean drops his hands.  "Well, yeah.  Isn't it?"  Jealousy is starting to tangle
up his guts again, squeezing, and he's pretty sure the haze of alcohol isn't
helping.  The thought of Sam with a girl in his arms, kissing her, touching
her, fucking her, makes his chest hurt.  He imagines Sam in the back of the
Impala, hunched in the seat, the girl's legs spread over his thighs, his cock
hard and leaking, fucking into her, sliding into slippery heat.  He'd be
sweating, and the car windows would be all fogged up, and he'd kiss her while
he fucked her, and--
Sam is looking at him strangely, eyes narrowed, fists clenched.  Dean hopes
very much he didn't say any of that out loud, even as his face heats and his
cock swells. 
"I don't want a girlfriend," Sam hisses.
"Well what the fuck do you want?" Dean demands, taking a step back, defensive.
Sam's face crumples, and his anger drains suddenly into misery.  "You," he
says, voice a quiet whine, and slaps a hand over his mouth.  "Oh shit.  Oh
fuck, Dean, please, that wasn't."  His words are muffled by his hand.  "Oh god.
Dean stares at him.  Sam turns away, shoulders shaking, covering his face in
shock and shame.  Dean can't breathe, can't feel his fingers, can't think past
that word coming out of Sam's mouth.  He reaches out blindly, finds Sam's back,
bare and warm under his palm, and Sam jerks like he's been struck.
"Sam," he says, and Sam turns back to him.  His face is wet, in the weird light
coming in the window, and Dean realizes he's crying.  "Hey, Sammy, come on." 
He takes another step forwards and curls his hands around Sam's upper arms,
fingers flexing and digging into his biceps.  "Hey.  Shh, it's okay."
"It's not okay," Sam spits.  "Jesus, Dean, do you even-?"
"Yeah," Dean breathes, sliding one hand up Sam's shoulder to his neck, up the
back of his neck, cupping the back of his head.  Sam's little unconscious sigh
edges him on, and he curls his fingers in Sam's too-long hair.  "Come on,
Sammy."  This is the chance he didn't know he'd been waiting for.  This is so
insane, he thinks, rubbing the pads of his fingers gently over the base of
Sam's skull.  Sam's breathing is harsh and stilted, but he isn't pulling away,
and Dean eases in a little closer.  "What if-" he starts, and then Sam pulls
away.
"Don't fuck with me," he growls, and Dean catches him again.  This time he gets
both his hands in Sam's hair, and it's silky and unbearably soft between his
fingers, and he tugs Sam's damp face down to his.  He presses his forehead to
Sam's, breathing in the smell of liquor and salt and Sam.  Sam takes a hitching
breath and sighs, and his hands come up slowly to rest on Dean's ribs.
"M'not," Dean whispers.  "What if you could have me?" he asks.  "What if you
weren't the only one who's fucked up?"  He closes his eyes.  "Come on, baby
boy, what if?"
"God," Sam moans, barely audible, and Dean tilts his head up a fraction of an
inch.  Sam's lips are warm and soft and wet, and Dean kisses him tentatively. 
His elbows are resting on Sam's shoulders, cradling his head, and Sam's fingers
clench in the fabric of his shirt.  Dean kisses him again, soft and gentle and
way too slow, and Sam growls in his throat and hauls Dean up against him,
kissing him harder.
Dean opens his mouth, and Sam takes the invitation for what it is and slides
his tongue in.  Dean groans, tilting his head and pressing himself more firmly
against his brother, finding a better angle.  Sam is still almost completely
undressed, and Dean is completely dressed, and Sam tugs at his shirt as they
kiss, sharing breath, licking at each other, biting.  Dean bites Sam's lip and
Sam hums and breaks the kiss the pull Dean's t-shirt over his head, throws it
aside, and starts to kiss him again, running his hands up and down Dean's back.
"C'mon," Dean says, pushing Sam to his bed and pulling the covers back.  Sam
gives him a confused look, one eyebrow raised, and Dean pushes him again.  Sam
sprawls on the bed-- it's too small for his frame, and it sure as fuck isn't
going to fit both of them, but Dean shucks off his jeans, stepping on the cuffs
to get his legs free, and crawls in on top of Sam.
"Dean," Sam whispers, framing his face with his hands, and Dean pulls the sheet
up and kisses him again.
"You're drunk," Dean murmurs, kissing him over and over.
"So're you," Sam replies, pulling Dean against him.  His chest is warm and
firm, his hands are steady on Dean's back, and he tucks his head under Dean's
chin, like he's a kid again.  His breath is damp on Dean's collarbone, and Dean
squeezes his eyes shut.  He's so horny, so wound up, and so confused.  He runs
a hand through Sam's hair, and Sam presses a kiss to his collarbone.
"Go to sleep, Sammy."
"Mm," says Sam.  "Dean?"
"Yeah?"  It's barely more than an exhalation into the dark of their room.  He
stares up at the ceiling, his brother in his arms, mind a confused swirl of
lust and booze and too hot in the summer.
"Love you so much," Sam says.  "So fucking much.  Sometimes I can't even
think.  Dean, do you even know?"  His words are slurred, sleep and alcohol
confusing them, twisting them together.  Dean's heart stops and starts again in
his chest, and he takes a shuddering breath.
"Yeah."
===
Dean wakes to the sound of his phone ringing.  The morning sunlight is
streaming in painfully, bright and fucking cheerful.  Dean lifts his head.  The
room is at the wrong angle, door too far away, window too close.  He blinks,
squeezing his eyes shut, and opens them.  Sam is asleep still, tucked into his
side, arm heavy over Dean's waist, his face pressed to Dean's shoulder.
Oh.  Oh shit.
The phone is still ringing.  Dean scrambles up and out of bed, jostling Sam
awake, and grabs his jeans.  He gets the phone out of the pocket just as it
stops ringing.
"Fuck!"
"What?" Sam asks, groggy, his hair all over the place.  He looks like a giant
dog, stupid and confused, and Dean's throat gets tight.
"Um," he says.  He's wearing his boxers, thank god, and so is Sam.  He can't
quite remember how last night ended, but he's mostly sure he didn't fuck his
little brother.  Mostly.
The phone starts to ring again, and Dean picks up immediately.  "Dad?  Dad,
hey."
John scolds him for not picking up the first time, sounding panicked.
"Sorry," Dean says quickly, "I couldn't find the phone.  Sorry dad."
"How's your brother?" John asks, voice small and far away.
"Good," Dean shrugs.  "You wanna talk to him?"
John pauses.  "No, that's okay.  He's doin' all right, though?"
"Yeah."  Dean turns his head to look at Sam, sitting in his bed, picking at a
hole in the sheet.  "Dad--"
"Listen, Dean.  I'm on my way back, but I found something near here,
poltergeist, I think, but after that I'll be there."
"Okay," Dean says.  There's no use in arguing.  At least Dad's planning on
coming back at all.
"You okay for money?  And the car's okay?"
"Yup.  They're kind of paying me under the table at the shop."
"Good," John says.  "Okay, well, great.  Glad you boys are all right.  I'll see
you soon."
"Take care, dad," Dean says.  "You need us for anything, you let us know,
okay?"
"Sure," John replies, but Dean knows he won't.  "I'll be home soon, then we'll
get out of Connecticut, find something for us all to do together.  You and Sam
keeping in shape?"
Dean has.  He's not sure what Sam is up to anymore.  But Dean goes running
every day, seven, eight miles, and on the weekends he makes Sam spar with him a
little and shoot cans off the back fence.  So he says, "Yes sir," and he can
hear John's sigh on the other end of the line.
"See you soon, Dean."
"Bye, dad."
Dean can hear derision in his brother's voice as he hangs up.  "So he didn't
want to talk to me, then."
"Sam--"
"It's fine.  Dean," he starts, and stops again.  "What I said.  Last night. 
I'm sorry, dude.  That was fucked up.  I was real drunk."
Dean turns around to look at him.  "So you didn't mean any of that-- that shit
you said."
Sam shakes his head.  "Like I said, fucked up."
There's a bite mark on Sam's neck, small but obvious, almost purple.  Dean
takes a deep breath.  "Where did that come from?" he asks, pointing.  Sam lifts
his hand to his throat, touching it.
"Oh."  He gives Dean an awkward half-smile.  "I mean, you know, Mandy, from
last--"
Dean's on the bed before he knows it, grabbing Sam's hand and pulling it away
from the hickey.  He glares at for another second, and Sam says, "Dude, what?"
before Dean leans in and fastens his mouth over the mark.
"Shit," Sam gasps, "Dean!"
Dean bites him, hard, sucking on the mark, changing it, making it bigger,
making it his.  He presses a palm to the center of Sam's chest and bears him
down onto the bed, sucking firmly on his neck.
"Oh fuck," Sam says, and then his hands are on Dean's shoulders.  "Dean, wait!"
Dean lets go with a wet 'pop' and drags his head up to meet Sam's eyes.  "Don't
fuck with me," Dean says.  "You meant everything you said; shit, man."  He
ducks his head again and finds a new place to bite, lick, suck another mark. 
Sam scrabbles at his shoulders, at his head, fingers in his hair, clenching
tight.  Dean's unsure whether he's trying to push him away or pull him closer,
and Sam is apparently equally confused.
He says Dean's name again, and Dean licks up his throat and sucks another mark
behind his ear.
Dean pulls away, resting on his hands above Sam.  Sam's eyes are wide, dark,
confused, afraid.  Dean can see the fear in the way his breath is coming short,
the way his gaze flicks over to the door and back to Dean, the way his hands
shift uncertainly on Dean's body.
Dean's done hiding.  He's done fucking around.  He says, "I want you, Sammy, I
want this," and Sam shudders, shifting, sliding his legs apart.  Dean settles
easily between them, pelvis pushed up against Sam's, and Sam bites his lip. 
"Oh shit," Dean mutters, and leans in to coax his lip from between his teeth. 
"Goddamn, Sammy, your fucking mouth," he says against Sam's lips.  Sam's mouth
opens in another quiet gasp, and Dean takes advantage of it.  He kisses Sam
forcefully, licking in, tasting sour sleep and stale liquor, and somehow he
can't stop.  Sam lets go of Dean's hair to slide his arms instead around Dean's
body, crushing him to his chest.  Sam is kissing back, letting go of all the
hesitation and uncertainty and licking at Dean's mouth, sucking his tongue,
inexpertly but with no lack of enthusiasm.
Dean starts to relax into the kiss, slowing it down, smoothing his thumb over
Sam's cheek and curling his fingers around Sam's neck to tilt his head up for a
better angle.  Sam moans with the shift, and Dean rocks against him.  His hard
cock is tenting his shots ridiculously, but Sam is hard too, rubbing against
him, and they fit together so uncomprehendingly well.
Sam suddenly shifts, dragging Dean and manhandling him until Sam is above him,
straddling Dean's hips.  Dean jerks up, grabbing the back of Sam's head and
slamming their mouths together again, and Sam groans, kissing and biting. 
Dean's whole body feels hot, skin too sensitive, every place where Sam is
touching him sending little shocks through him, down his spine, right to his
dick.  He's leaking in his shorts, sticky and damp, and Sam starts rolling his
hips down into him, aligning their cocks and rubbing with determination.
"Dean, fuck," Sam groans, breaking the kiss and throwing his head back.  Dean
lifts his head and gets his mouth on the beautiful column of Sam's throat
again, sucking another mark into the skin.  Sam shivers and grinds into him
again.  Dean gets an arm around his shoulder and pulls him down so he can lick
the bruises he made before, soothing them, worrying them.  Sam fumbles and
leans over on one elbow, the other hand sliding down Dean's side.
His fingers are rough and hot on Dean's skin, rubbing circles down his ribs and
over his abdomen, curling around his hip, sliding underneath the waist of his
shorts.  Dean starts, and Sam's hand jerks up and away, and he pulls away from
the assault of Dean's mouth.
Sam looks down at Dean with an intensity that makes Dean's stomach flip, and he
tilts his chin up to kiss his brother again, at the same time taking Sam's hand
in his and shoving into his boxers.  The first touch of his long, calloused
fingers on Dean's dick are like little spots of fire, and he twitches even
before Sam has a grip on him.  Pre-come leaks out the head of his cock, wet and
sticky, and Sam rubs his thumb in it before he curls his fingers around the
girth.  Dean moans into his mouth.  It's too much all at once, not enough, the
circle of Sam's hand too loose and overwhelming.
"Good?" Sam breathes, closing his hand and stroking experimentally, slicking
the movement with the wet spilling out with every beat of Dean's heart.  He can
feel his pulse in his dick, trapped in Sam's fingers, and he nods.
"Yeah, shit, Sammy-- feel so good, baby boy, god."
Sam strokes up Dean's shaft, twisting his wrist to give himself more room in
Dean's shorts, and looking down Dean's body to where his fist is moving.  Dean
drops his head back and pants, unable to breathe.  Sam ducks his head and
kisses Dean's throat, licking the crook of his neck, sucking a hickey into the
front of his shoulder, all the while fisting Dean's cock firmly.  Dean's hips
rise unconsciously, thrusting into Sam's fist, and Sam's pace increases.  He's
rubbing his dick against Dean's abs, gasping into his neck, and Dean gets his
brain in gear enough to grab Sam's hip and push his boxers down around his
thighs.
Sam's cock is big, hard, flushed, wet at the tip, and Dean's mouth waters.
"Wanna suck you," he blurts, and Sam blinks.
"Huh?"
A laugh escapes from Dean's throat, and he rolls his eyes at his brother. 
"Your dick, my mouth.  Keep up, Sammy."
"Fuck, yeah," Sam murmurs, and he lets go of Dean's cock.  Dean swears, but Sam
is already pushing his shorts off and climbing up to straddle Dean's waist.
Dean takes a hold of his hips and urges him up until he's got a knee on either
side of Dean's head.  His face is flushed, and Dean can't tell if he's blushing
or seriously turned on, but the hard cock in his face is leading him to one
conclusion rather than the other.  Sam braces his hands on the wall above the
headboard and screws his eyes shut.  He's got his face tilted down so Dean can
watch him, watch the way his mouth drops open when Dean sticks his tongue out
to lick the head of his cock, the way he bites his lip when Dean takes it in
his mouth. 
Sam tastes salty and clean, and Dean rubs his tongue under his head.  Sam's hip
jerk in an aborted thrust forwards, and Sam groans, and Dean's hands fit on his
hips perfectly, thumbs in the grooves of his thighs, fingers digging into the
flesh of his ass.  He pulls Sam's hips towards his face, lifting his head and
opening his throat, and Sam slides all the way in so Dean's got his nose
pressed to Sam's taut abdomen.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck, Dean, jesus," Sam says, "what the fuck, dude, oh my god,
yes."
Dean pushes on his hips, sliding Sam's dick out of his mouth, and takes a
breath before pulling him back in, tongue sliding along the underside.  The
head of Sam's cock rubs the roof of Dean's mouth and he almost chokes, but Sam
feels it and pulls back enough.  Dean's eyes are watering, and that makes it
hard to watch Sam's face as he fucks Dean's mouth.  Dean lets go of one hip to
wipe his eyes, and Sam flushes further and tries to pull away.
"I'm hurting you, Dean, shit."
Dean shakes his head as much as he can while still keeping his lips around the
thick head of Sam's cock, and says, "Uh uh."
Sam takes a shaky breath.  "Dean-"
Dean drops his head back onto Sam's pillow and licks around the head of Sam's
cock, looking up at him, waiting for him to continue.  It's not exactly fair
play, but he wants this so bad he can feel it thumping in his chest.
"Want you to fuck me," Sam says finally, eyes closed, fingers sliding uselessly
against the wall.  "Please, Dean, gotta have you, want it so bad."
"How bad?" Dean asks, not taking his mouth off Sam's dick.
"So bad," Sam babbles, "wanted it for so fucking long, dude, I don't even know-
-"
"Okay, Sammy, okay, yeah, wanna fuck you," Dean admits, sliding his hands up
Sam's body, caressing, touching every inch he never thought he'd be allowed to,
skimming over his abdomen and over his ribcage and around his nipples.  Sam
shivers and nods and curls up impossibly to kiss Dean, licking the taste of
himself out of Dean's mouth.  Dean groans and pushes Sam off him, muttering,
"Stay here."
Sam flops back on the bed and Dean can feel his eyes on him as he clambers out
of Sam's bed, across the room to his own.  He digs under his mattress and comes
back, shucking his boxers, and climbs back into Sam's bed, with Sam, over Sam. 
Sam immediately gets his hands back on Dean, moaning, and Dean leans down to
catch his mouth.
"C'mon," Dean mutters, "Shift up."
Sam obeys, for once in his life, and scoots up the bed, spreading his legs. 
Dean breaks the kiss to bite the lube open and spits the cap on the floor. 
Lube spills everywhere, all over Sam's thighs and Dean's hands, and Sam grabs
the tube from him.
"Think that'll be enough?" Sam asks dryly, and Dean tries to glare that wry
smirk right off his face.
"Yeah, bitch, I think that'll be enough."  Dean ducks down and sucks Sam's cock
back into his mouth at the same time that he presses a finger relentlessly into
Sam's ass, and Sam arches up and grunts in surprise.
Oh god.  Dean is completely going to die before he gets his dick into Sam.  Sam
is tight, squeezing his finger, and hot as a furnace.  Dean slides his finger
out and in experimentally, and Sam's cock twitches in his mouth, leaking.
"I can take it," Sam says, pushing on Dean's head-- which, rude-- and Dean
frowns and adds another finger.  Sam squirms and thrusts his hips, and Dean's
fingers sink deeper into him.  Sam whispers, "Fuck yeah, right there," panting,
and Dean pretty much sees red.
"You done this before?" he growls, letting Sam's cock out of his mouth, and
Sam's blush spreads down his chest.
"Only--" he gasps, closing his eyes and riding Dean's two fingers with little
rolls of his hips, circling.  Dean shoves in hard, rubbing over that spot he's
looking for, and Sam goes rigid.  "Fuck!  Only, christ, only to myself.  Jesus,
Dean.  Do that again."
Dean does, if only because he's satisfied with Sam's admission.  He'd better be
the first one, god damn it.  Sam is his.  His to touch, and his to fuck, and
his to love.
Just to prove it, Dean adds another finger and sucks a hickey into the hollow
of Sam's hip.
Sam's writhing on the bed, spreading his knees as far apart as he can manage,
hands clenching on Dean's shoulder, in his short hair, in the crumpled sheets,
as Dean fingerfucks him.  Dean lowers his mouth to Sam's taut sac, licking one
of his balls into his mouth, and then the other, and Sam curses loudly, cock
jerking and leaking sticky on his belly.
"Dean you gotta stop," Sam moans.  "I'm gonna come, man, come on, fuck me."
Well.  Dean isn't one to refuse an invitation that obvious, so he sits back on
his heels and pulls his fingers slowly out of Sam's ass.  Sam sighs with the
loss and stares up at Dean.  His hair is all messy and stupid and everywhere,
and his eyes are huge and dark, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth
again.  He's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen, all warm and pink and
lean and gorgeous.  He might spend a little too long just staring, because Sam
starts to fidget, getting nervous again.
"Dean?"
"Shh," Dean says, running his clean hand up Sam's thigh from knee to hip,
rubbing the hair the wrong way.  "You look so good, Sammy, spread out for me." 
He turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of Sam's knee.  "So fucking
hot."
Sam throws a condom at him, and it hits him on the shoulder and gets lost in
the sheets.  Sam laughs while Dean scrambles to find it, light and easy, and
Dean can almost feel his heart break with how much he loves and wants his
brother.  He finds the corner of the foil and he tears it open, and Sam grabs
the condom out of his hands and rolls it down over his cock.  Dean's dick jerks
in his hand, and he sucks in a breath as Sam guides him firmly to his entrance.
He starts to push in, and Sam's hands fly up to his shoulders, gripping tight. 
Dean braces himself with one hand beside Sam's head, the other holding Sam's
hip to keep him still as Dean sinks into him.  Sam's eyes flutter closed, a
pained sigh escaping him, and Dean leans in to kiss his soft mouth, bottoming
out at the same time.  Sam squirms, kissing back, holding Dean's head, and Dean
pulls out halfway and slides back in.  Sam's hips shift while he gasps into
Dean's mouth, and Dean hears him say, "Yeah, I'm okay Dean, gimmie more."
Dean starts to fuck him, slowly at first, in and out, long and deep, and Sam's
breath evens out until he's moaning quietly with each thrust.  His body is
relaxed and warm under Dean's, his chest damp with sweat, and Dean presses a
kiss to his temple, his forehead, anything he can reach, tasting the sweat. 
Sam mouths at his neck, hands slipping down Dean's back as Dean fucks into him,
hips rising slightly, pressing his cock against Dean's stomach.
"Hey," Sam gasps, tilting his head back and pressing Dean's face into his
throat.  "Bite me again."  His voice is little more than a whisper, and Dean
realizes he's embarrassed.  He's getting fucked in the ass by his brother, for
christ's sake, and he's embarrassed about having enjoyed that.  Dean obliges
him instead of making a fuss, and starts sucking and biting marks into Sam's
neck and chest again.
Sam spasms, groaning through clenched teeth, and Dean fucks him harder as he
presses kisses to Sam's collarbone and Adam's apple.  "Mine," he murmurs, "all
mine, Sammy, you're all mine."
"Yeah," Sam agrees, "fuck yeah, Dean, please."  He's shaking, sweating, arching
up into Dean's mouth and bearing down on Dean's cock, and he lets go of Dean's
shoulder to slide his hand between them.  "Oh god, I'm so close," he says.
"Come on," Dean says, lifting his head from Sam's neck.  Sam is hot and tight,
squeezing him so hard, and Dean can feel his orgasm starting in the base of his
spine, balls drawing up tight and full, and he can feel Sam's hand working his
cock between them.  He's stroking it with determination, thumb slipping over
the head with each pass, and he's staring up at Dean and fucking grinning. 
Fuck, Dean's done for: his whole body goes tight, head back, shoulders
straining, and he starts to come in long, body-wracking shudders. 
Sam gasps and comes too, spilling over his hand and stomach, and Dean presses
his forehead to Sam's shoulder and rides out the pleasure as his hips thrust
short and sharp into Sam.  Sam pants and sighs and goes slack, and Dean
collapses on top of him.  Sam pulls his hand free and wipes it on the sheet,
and then he curls his arms around Dean's shoulders, and they breathe in silence
for what might be several long minutes.
Finally Dean raises his head, and Sam opens his eyes, and he looks up at Dean
with a kind of simple happiness and pure adoration on his face. 
Dean feels sick.  He shouldn't have let this happen, should have been stronger,
shouldn't have let a drunken admission make all the fucking difference, should
have--
"Dean," Sam says, firmly.  Dean's vision clears, and Sam's expression has
changed to something more dangerous and stubborn.  "This is it," Sam says. 
"For me.  You're it for me.  Don't pretend to give me this and then take it
away, man, I can't handle it."
Dean shakes his head slowly.  "No," he says, and Sam pales.  "No, I mean-" he
goes on quickly, "you're right.  I'm not pretending.  You're mine, baby boy,
always have been."  Sam blushes, color rushing back into his face, and Dean
grins.  He shifts and pulls out of Sam, and Sam makes a quiet noise.  Dean
wrinkles his nose and turns away to throw out the condom.
"First shower!" Sam yells and pushes Dean off him and runs out of the room,
ass-naked.  Dean swears and goes after him.  The bathroom door is already
closed, but not locked, and Dean barges in and catches Sam around the waist. 
The water sputters on uncertainly, and Sam shrieks as Dean shoves him into the
cold spray.  Dean just laughs and gets in after him, and swears.  It is fucking
cold.  He manhandles Sam until Sam is the one under the onslaught, and Sam
shivers and curses and glares daggers at Dean, until the water starts to warm
up, and then he relaxes and fucking purrs, tilts his head back and gets his
hair wet, and doesn't let Dean get any of it.
But then he relents and pulls Dean against him so the water running over his
shoulders slides between them, and Dean folds himself into his brother's warm
embrace.  He should feel silly or something, but he just feels slow and sated
and content with Sam against him.
Later, they're sitting on the couch eating a breakfast that might count as
lunch, and Sam straightens up suddenly. "I didn't fuck Mandy," he says.
"Huh?" Dean's mouth is full, and he swallows while he raises an eyebrow at his
brother.
Sam blushes furiously and avoids Dean's eyes. "I said, I didn't fuck her."
"But--"
"I took her home after the movie, and then... the car smelled like you, so I
got in the back and jerked off, and then you fucking turned up like five
minutes later."
Dean stares at him. "What-- why would you-- dude, don't fucking do that in my
car!"
Sam laughs, relieved, and Dean knocks over his cup as he pulls Sam into a rough
hug that turns into them making out for half an hour on the too-small couch.
And a week later when Dad gets back, and they pack up and move out, Sam puts up
only a fraction of his token protest, yelling and stomping for only about an
hour, and then he sulks in the passenger seat of the Impala for about an hour
more as they follow John's truck out of town.  Dean lets him be all emo in
peace, until he gets bored of it and puts on Zeppelin, and Sam starts to smile.
They have to be real careful, but whenever John leaves them alone for more than
an hour, Dean will grab Sam and pull him onto the bed and fuck him stupid, or
Sam will push Dean against the wall and go to his knees, and it works.  Dean
sucks new marks into Sam's throat, even if they haven't fucked recently, and
Sam gets all shivery and pliant, smiling up at Dean with quiet satisfaction.
Dean loves him so much. They bicker and snipe like brothers, because they are,
and Dean can't take sides when Sam and John fight, but in the end he knows he
and Sam are everything for each other, and they'll survive it together. And
that's enough for him.
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