Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4805807.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Teenchesters, Weecest, well_kinda, Sam_is
      seventeen, Wincest_-_Freeform, Mild_Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick_Sam/_Caring
      Dean, Hurt_Dean/_Caring_Sam, Wet_Dream, First_Kiss, Masturbation,
      Frottage, Schmoop, Dean_POV, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-15 Words: 10327
****** Something I Need ******
by non_tiembo_mala
Summary
     Sam has been saying his brother's name a myriad of ways all of his
     life. It might just be Dean's favourite thing.
Notes
     I love it every single time the boys say each others' names in the
     show (thank you Jared and Jensen for making those moments so freakin'
     good). It was a given that eventually I was going to let that dictate
     a fic (or two).
     Endless gratitude to my amazing, patient, supportive, inspiring beta
     (and bestie) @Dancing_Adrift for all of her love and time, her keen
     eyes, and great ideas.
     The title is stolen from One Republic's song of the same name, which
     is stuck in my mind right now and without a doubt on my list of songs
     that belong to the Winchester brothers <3
Sam has been saying ‘Dean’ all of his life.
Dean can’t be sure but he has a sneaking suspicion that it might’ve been Sam’s
first word, stuttered from his baby mouth with a voice he was just testing out
as he tried to stretch the ‘De’ to finally connect with the ‘n’. Even if it
wasn’t his first word, it would’ve been close to it, and Dean was sure that Sam
said Dean before he ever said Dad, and didn’t that just about sum up their
family dynamic in one innocent word.
When Sam was three, he’d squeal and shriek Dean’s name when his big brother
would descend on him fingers first, poking and tickling the tender skin at his
ribs and under his arms. He’d scrunch himself up or his little limbs would go
flailing out, trying in vain to shove at Dean through his uncontrolled giggling
and twitching at Dean’s touch. Dean would leave him panting and red faced only
when the corners of his bright eyes were wet with happy tears and his mouth was
wide with a smile so genuine it soothed even the anxious feelings in Dean’s
stomach every time he watched their father’s back disappear out another door
into the darkness of the night beyond it.
When Sam was four, Dean would be pouring cans of soup or SpaghettiOs into
banged up pots on old stoves for their dinners and Sam would come over while he
was stirring. Sam would tug on the hem of his brother’s tee shirt, curling his
little kid fingers around the material and looking up through his lashes with a
quiet “Dean? Is it ready yet?” Dean would ruffle his free hand through his
brother’s hair and tell him to go sit, he’d know when it was ready. Sam would
more often than not stay glued to his brother’s side while he waited.
When Sam was small, his life revolved around a near constant litany of ‘Dean’
this and ‘Dean’ that. Dad didn’t leave them alone much, not yet, but he did
leave them with people they barely knew, or Bobby, or Pastor Jim. And while
Bobby’s felt more like home than anything else and Pastor Jim was of course
very kind, Sam was never as comfortable with them as he was when he was somehow
attached to his brother, trailing behind him or clutching at his hand, ready to
do whatever Dean asked him to do because it was Dean. Dean made sure he ate,
even when it was Bobby doing the cooking, and he tucked him in at bedtime, even
if Pastor Jim was standing in the doorway ready to do the same, and Dean's was
the name he called out in the night when he couldn’t sleep because he was
worried about a monster under the bed.
While Sam spent most of his waking moments as his big brother’s living shadow -
with ‘Dean’ as the very foundation of his ever-growing vocabulary - sleep
might’ve precluded his ability to say it but Dean was never too far away from
Sam to hear it, just in case. After a certain incident with a shtriga when Sam
was six, it would’ve been a challenge for even John Winchester himself to tear
Dean away from his little brother’s side. Whether it was curled up around Sam
in whatever sad looking bed they found themselves in for the night, or sitting
with his legs as a pillow for Sam’s head as he lay out on the Impala’s
backseat, Dean had his arms around his brother or his hands in his hair,
absentmindedly tracing circles on his skin or scritching his nails on the back
of his neck, reassuring him without words that anything coming after him would
have to get through Dean first. If he was close, Sam slept better, and Dean
preferred not to hear his name cried out and laced with panic in the middle of
the night if he could avoid it, so he slept better, too.
 
---
 
Sam was eight the first time Dean ran out of money for food. Now that Dean was
older, their father was more and more inclined to book into a cheap motel and
take off, leaving the boys all on their own without the safety net of Bobby or
Pastor Jim nearby. They’d eaten the last of their Lucky Charms that morning and
while there was a little milk left in the fridge there was nothing else. John
had said he’d be back but they hadn’t heard from him, and Dean had spent the
day pacing anxiously around the motel room because he couldn’t sit still. He
knew Sam could tell he was anxious, cautiously eyeing him from where he was
curled up with a blanket on the couch watching after-school cartoons through
the static on the crappy TV; Dean knew Sam was trying hard not to say anything
or ask questions, not wanting to bother him, but he knew, too, it was only a
matter of time. Eventually Sam’s voice, small and quiet, made its way to Dean’s
ears.
“Dean,” he almost whispered. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach
plummeted. It made his heart break to hear Sam say his name that way. He knew
what was coming and, taking a deep breath, he turned to look at his little
brother. “Dean, I’m hungry.”
Dean took in the sight of his little brother with tightness in his chest. Sam
looked so guilty for having uttered the words, and it made Dean ache all the
more.
“Yeah, Sammy. Okay,” Dean scrubbed a hand down over his face. “I’ll be back,
all right? I won’t be long. Promise. Fix up the salt line after you lock the
door, Sam.”
Sam nodded at him with eyes that glistened.
Dean closed the door behind him and listened to hear the sounds of Sam sliding
the bolt into place before he walked across the parking lot and into the gas
station on the corner. It was the first time Dean stole anything; it was the
first of many times to come. His heart raced as he checked the mirrors and the
distracted clerk behind the counter before tucking a chocolate bar and a small
bag of chips into his jacket, but by the end of that year with all the practice
he’d get and the sound of Sam’s voice in his head, it would get awfully easy
awfully fast.
When he got back to their room and tossed Sam the food, Sam’s smile and the
gratitude that was clear as anything on his face only made it easier for Dean
to do what he’d done again. When Sam’s brows knit together and he hesitated,
asking Dean why he wasn’t having some, Dean lied and told him he ate his on the
way back. He didn’t know when John would return and he could only lift so much
food at once. No way was he going to take that away from Sam.
 
---
 
Sam and Dean were alone in a cabin in upstate New York in the middle of
February when Sam got sick. He was eleven. Dean had looked after a sick Sam
before, the odd cold, or more commonly stomach aches, which was hardly
surprising considering the kind of food they ate while on the road so much.
This was different.
They’d spent the day tussling in the deep snow outside, balling it up and
chucking it at each other, even making a snowman. After however many hours
outside under the crisp, clear night sky, the boys went back inside a little
damp from the snow finally melting through all their layers. Dean beelined it
for the big brick hearth to get a fire going and sent Sam to the bathroom to
abandon his wet clothes and get warm in the shower. While Dean waited for Sam
to finish up, he stripped down, too, sitting in his boxers in front of the now
roaring fire, warming his hands and feet and humming Zeppelin to himself.
Considering there wasn’t much to do up there and they were pretty much trapped
at the cabin, it had been a good day.
Dean hadn’t been there too long before the door to the bathroom creaked open
but there were no sounds of Sam’s feet padding down the hallway to their room.
Dean turned around and craned his neck up in time to see his brother sway in
the doorway, throwing out the hand that wasn’t clutching the towel at his waist
to steady himself on the door jam.
“Sammy?” Dean leapt up and started toward his brother. Sam was pale, all the
colour drained from his face except for a sallow shadow around his eyes. Dean
could see Sam was trembling as he got closer.
“Dean,” he croaked out weakly, the sound of it ramping up the feelings of panic
flooding Dean’s system. “D-don’t feel good.”
Dean could only hear him because at this point he’d crowded into Sam’s space,
got his hands on him to help steady him, and felt the oh-this-can’t-be-good
burning of his little brother’s skin. Sam’s teeth chattered furiously as he
leaned forward into Dean’s shoulder, letting his brother take his weight.
“So c-cold,” Sam mumbled against the skin of Dean’s chest where his mouth was
momentarily pressed before he turned his head and let his cheek settle there, a
scorching hot contrast to Dean’s skin which was still cool from their time
outside.
“Shit, Sammy, you’re burning up. C’mere,” Dean slid his arm around his
brother’s slim waist and let him lean on him while he lead him to the couch. He
wrapped Sam tightly in both the blankets they had and pushed the sofa closer to
the fireplace.
It took seven long hours for the fever to finally break. Dean kept vigil at his
brother’s side the whole time, replacing cool, wet cloths on his forehead and
behind his neck while he tried not to lose his mind with worry. Sam was
delirious for while, shaking and talking incoherently to himself or in his
sleep, if it could be called it that. It didn’t look restful to Dean, and he
watched his brother with concern creasing his forehead, doing his best to shush
and soothe him every time a weak ‘Dean’ escaped his drying lips. The sound of
his name, sometimes frantic and others gentle - either way desperate - cut
right through Dean like needles to his heart, and the hand he kept on his
brother’s arm would tighten on it without conscious thought. By the time Sam’s
eyes opened and he started to kick his way out of the blanket cocoon Dean had
put him in, Dean was more than a little strung out.
“God, Dean, it’s hot as Hell in here,” Sam whined, panting a little and rolling
the blanket down to get some air. His colour was better and his voice was
stronger, though a bit rough, and he licked at his lips and smacked them
together, wincing at the dryness. Dean had never been so happy to hear his name
in Sam’s annoyed little brother voice. His relief was almost so overwhelming
for a moment that he didn’t trust himself to say anything, instead getting up
to fetch Sam a tall glass of water and some clean clothes, which he hadn’t
quite made it into after his shower. When he was hydrated and dressed, Sam
moved to the bed they shared in the room down the hall and Dean followed,
calmer and able to take real breaths for the first time since Sam had weakly
uttered his name from the threshold of the bathroom. He gave Sam lots of space
but it wasn’t long before he’d wiggled his way to Dean’s side and Dean’s
fingers were thoughtlessly carding through Sam’s sweat-damp hair.
“You’re feeling better, Sammy?” Dean asked quietly, looking down at top of his
brother’s head where it was cradled under his arm. Sam nodded into him.
“Yeah, Dean,” he answered sleepily. “You always take such good care of me.” He
spoke into Dean’s side, breath warm and the sound muffled. Dean’s heart ached
with something different then, filled with love for his brother and pride that
yeah, he did take good care of him, and of course he always would. It was his
job, always had been. Take care of Sammy. It was everything, etched into his
very being, defining who he was more than anything else ever would.
 
---
 
The next time Dean heard Sam say his name in his sleep there was no fever or
delirium. Sam was thirteen. Dean had a part-time job at the mechanic shop down
the street. After his shift, he met up with one of the other guy’s sisters who
had come by the shop that day - a pretty blonde who hadn’t been able to keep
her eyes or hands off of him.  By the time Dean drove her home and rolled the
Impala into the parking spot outside their motel room, it was going on one in
the morning. He knew Sam would be sleeping, so he was extra quiet when he
slipped in the door, gently closing it behind him. It was dark except for a
light on over the sink in the kitchenette, which illuminated enough that he
didn’t need to turn on any more lights to navigate to the bathroom and back.
When he opened the bathroom door, teeth brushed and ready for bed, he could
hear Sam tossing in his bed, the one farthest from the door, like always. He
didn’t make anything of it until he took a couple quiet steps in the direction
of the beds and heard his brother’s breath catching, the rise and fall a little
erratic and louder than normal. Dean only felt the fingers of worry brush the
edges of his heart for a moment, thinking his brother was having a nightmare,
when instead Sam let out a long sigh that sounded a lot like something else.
Sam made a few small noises as Dean stood at the end of his bed, and they were
content and decidedly not nightmarish.
“Shit,” Dean laughed a little under his breath. He debated for just a moment
going back to the bathroom, maybe having a shower so he wouldn’t have to
overhear the rest of whatever Sam was dreaming about, but it was already late
and he had to open the shop early. Instead he decided there were worse things
and climbed into his bed anyway. Lying on his back and looking up ceiling, he
settled in comfortably and shut his eyes. Sam was practically whimpering
quietly in the bed two feet away and Dean doubted he’d be able to fall asleep
if he was going to be carrying on like that. He sighed and kept his eyes closed
regardless, just in case he might be lucky enough to sleep through it. Then the
kid full-on moaned and Dean’s eyes opened at the sound, unable to resist the
impulse to look over at his brother. Sam had rolled onto his side facing Dean,
and even in the darkness Dean could see his face was flushed and his eyes were
squeezed shut. His hips were moving minutely under the covers and Dean cleared
his throat a little.
“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean muttered to himself. He made a mental note to tease it out
of his brother what girl at school was keeping him up at night when-
“Dean...”
Dean’s whole body froze. Sam’s lips were puffy and parted and he panted out the
sound just barely, but Dean was sure he heard his name escape his brother’s
mouth. He was mostly sure. No, he had to have heard wrong. Lots of things
sounded like Dean, right? It’s not like he’d spent the majority of his life
listening to his little brother say it a million ways from Sunday - just not
quite that way. It could’ve been anything. Besides, Dean had a few beers
floating around his system, so who the hell knew if he was even hearing-
“Dean!” The shattering sound of his name interrupted his thoughts and he
couldn’t tear his eyes from his brother’s face as Sam inhaled sharply and his
eyes pinched more tightly closed, his body arching in on itself as he very
clearly came in his sleep like the thirteen-year-old he was. Waves of
shimmering heat swept through Dean’s body and his cheeks were suddenly on fire.
There was no mistaking what he heard, and his mind was running in frantic
circles to process it. Sam was coming down just out of arm's reach, his breath
calming as he burrowed into his pillow still shivering through the aftershocks,
still facing Dean, who instead was finding it a little hard to breathe and
trying to ignore how that crackling heat was pooling low in his stomach and
filling him up. He shut his eyes tightly and lay flat on his back, counted his
breath in and counted it out, trying not to listen to the echo of how beautiful
his name had sounded just moments before and squeezing his hands in tight fists
at his side to keep them from doing anything else.
“Jesus, fuck.” Dean cursed and stared up at the ceiling a little desperately.
He was fairly certain he had one foot in the gate when he decided not to leave
the room when he realized what was going on with his brother, but now he knew
for sure that he was going straight to Hell, getting harder, faster, looking at
his little brother than he had with his boss’ sister all night. And what about
Sam?! What the fuck was he doing moaning Dean’s name in his sleep?! Dean did
not want to follow that trail of thinking down whatever rabbit hole it might
take him. He very seriously just wanted to shut his eyes, turn off his brain
and sleep it off. It wasn’t like Sam would have any clue in the morning, and
Dean wasn’t about to let on. If he was lucky, he’d sleep deeply and maybe he
wouldn’t even remember. He rolled over to face away from Sam and forced his
eyes closed again.
Dean put all his energy into not thinking, which of course meant that his mind
raced all the more. Mostly, it was furiously reminding him of the problem still
throbbing hot and heavy between his legs and completely unimpressed that his
hands were still in tight fists at his pillow. Dean struggled to think about
the most unsexy things he could imagine and couldn’t lock down the pathetic
whimper he made even when thinking about their father as angry as he’d ever
seen him couldn’t shame his dick into submission. He was absolutely aching now,
his skin everywhere betraying him, uncomfortable and hypersensitive even to the
rough sheets where they touched him. If he managed to quiet his own breathing
for a moment, he could hear the steady in-and-out of his little brother's in
the bed behind him and the sound of it sent sparks rippling through him,
fluttering in his stomach and making him shake with want. He was never going to
fall asleep like this and he was only human, after all, even if at the moment
he was questioning his very sanity. He knew as his resistance crumbled that he
should have the decency to get up and go to the bathroom but he wasn’t going
to, already having held out longer than he thought possible, and given what he
was about to do, really,what decency? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry he
thought as he finally gave in and took himself in hand, his own touch wrenching
out a pained sigh he couldn’t have kept in if someone had paid him. He came
embarrassingly fast. It was just this side of too rough - even with the
substantial amount of precome that he’d been leaking steadily since he’d first
come to attention - and it was so intense, near blinding and wracking his body
completely. He barely had the brain cells available to think to muffle his moan
with his pillow, the cotton getting damp where it filled his open mouth and he
tried to stifle his cries into it as each wave hit him, his baby brother’s
blissed out face in front of his eyes and the fucking perfect sound of his name
in his brother’s broken voice ringing in his ears.
It took him a few minutes to fully come down, the intensity of his orgasm still
somehow not enough to fully deflate him and release his body’s hold on his
breathing. He eventually took it back, finding his natural rhythm and relaxing
somewhat. His hands had stopped trembling so he gingerly wiggled out of his
pajama pants, using clean portions to wipe himself off before tossing them on
the floor in crinkled heap. He sighed and felt a knot forming in his stomach
while he slung an arm up over his eyes in defeat. As he finally drifted off, he
tried not to think about his reserved-indefinitely, VIP ticket straight to
Hell.
Every time Sam said his name for at least the next week, Dean had to swallow
hard and ignore the shiver that went through him at the memory.
 
---
 
“Oh, Dean. Quick question. How do you talk to girls?”
The question came out of left field. One minute, they were talking about how to
kill a kitsune and the next, Sam threw this at him and left it hanging in the
dead space on the phone. Dean only stuttered internally for a moment, blinking
once or twice, before he snapped to it and turned on his usual charm, letting
out a gentle laugh.
“Well, Sammy…”
Seemingly all in one breath Sam gave him the gist of the pretty girl at the
library - because of course if his nerdy brother was ever going to pick up a
girl, that’s where he’d be - and Dean gave him some ideas about what to say,
what not to say, and some encouraging words.
“You’ve hunted werewolves, Sam. Pretty sure you can handle a girl. You got
this, kiddo.”
He heard his brother chuckle a little on the other end.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Dean.”
Sam disconnected and Dean was grinning when he flipped his phone shut and
tapped it thoughtfully on his chin. As he shoved the phone back into his pocket
though, his stomach felt a little off and his chest was a bit tight. He wanted
to hold on to the feelings of pride he had that his kid brother was going after
a girl and, maybe more so, that he had wanted Dean’s advice, but instead he was
feeling hot and kind of uncomfortable.
“Dean!” John’s voice cut through the nauseating fog that was thickening around
him. He could tell from the tone it was not the first time his father had tried
to get his attention.
“Yeah, sorry. What?”
John gave him a questioning look as he put down their duffle bags and unzipped
one to start digging in it.
“Well? Did Sam find anything?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Stab it in the heart.” Dean was staring past his father as he
answered. There was a moment of quiet before John continued.
“Dean, you all right? You look… you don’t look good.”
Dean contemplated his father before answering, the swirling, heavy feeling in
his stomach only more unsettling than it had been when he first hung up with
Sam.
“Yeah. No, I mean, I don’t… Not feelin’ good. I’m gonna, yeah.” Dean gestured
towards the bathroom and then made his way there without looking back at his
father. He locked the door behind him and dropped his hands to the edge of the
sink to support himself. This was ridiculous. What the fuck was wrong with him?
Not a minute later, John wrapped his knuckles on the door.
“Dean, you uh, might as well stay here. I’m gonna go follow up on a lead real
quick. I shouldn’t be too long.”
“Mhm.” Dean barely did more than grunt in acknowledgement and he heard the
telltale close of the door and snick of the lock as John left.
Dean groaned as he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, scrubbing a hand
over his face. He was seriously messed up. He was definitely not supposed to
feel possessive of his little brother when he was going to talk up some girl.
It was fucked up and he knew it. He’d known for a long time, if he was being
honest with himself, which he rarely was - especially not when it came to Sam.
For the most part it was something he’d grown accustomed to ignoring with
general success; it was like a bug bite that didn’t itch unless you
accidentally brushed it up against something, which in Dean’s case meant
accidentally letting his eyes linger on his baby brother’s still dripping skin
when he stepped clad only in a towel out of the bathroom, or when Sam came home
from soccer practice flushed and shiny with sweat, or when he walked into the
bedroom to see Sam sprawled out trying to fight his aching, growing legs and
leaving teasing gaps between the top of his pants and bottom of his worn tee
shirts, or - yeah, okay, so there were lots of things, all right? But Dean had
gotten good - well, okay - at keeping a lid on it. Mostly. He’d never felt
quite like this.
Not a lot of things belonged to Dean but he was overwhelmed by his sudden
inability to fathom sharing Sam with anyone, least of all some random chick.
He’d never had much occasion to experience jealousy like this before. It ripped
through him like a wildfire and he was all out of water. Dean groaned again and
stood, wound up and wanting to pace but having no space to do so in the tiny
bathroom. He stopped in front of the sink and leaned forward, let his forehead
hit the mirror once, twice, and again.
“C’mon, get a grip,” he all but growled at himself. God, did he want a drink -
or ten - right now. But John wouldn’t be long and he’d be less than impressed
if he came back to Dean at the level of wasted he was inclined to get. He
huffed out a frustrated breath and slammed his open palm on the edge of the
sink, the sound of it reverberating around the small, tiled room.
The echo was like that of the sound Dean cherished most in the world, his
darkest secret. Years ago when Sam had come with Dean’s name on his lips, Dean
had tried in vain to forget it. Eventually he gave in, kept it to himself,
hidden and secure, and he had mastered being able to save it for rare moments
of genuine privacy. Suddenly it was threatened and like a cornered wolf Dean’s
hackles were up and he wanted to bare his teeth but he was just alone with
himself. Forgetting for a moment that Sam was only fifteen - Christ, still just
a fucking kid - and not the giant awkward nerd that he was, Dean was dizzy with
the vertiginous spiral of his thoughts: Sam talking to some pretty girl, her
hands on his arms, slipping into his hands - they were getting so big - leaning
in to kiss him, her lips on his pretty pink mouth, suddenly he’s naked and some
faceless girl has him pressed to the wall and his head is going back to expose
his neck, vulnerable and trusting and - who the fuck is this girl, what gives
her the right?! - he’s making those small breathy noises as she sucks at his
skin, he’s crying out a name that’s not Dean’s and -
Dean moaned at the image, still angry - so angry - and yet it hit him, too, he
was panting and his face was burning and shit his jeans were not this tight
five minutes ago and God help him he was hard as a rock thinking about his baby
brother’s fucked-out and perfect, stupid face. Shaking, he took a deep breath
and tried to rein it all in. He glanced to his right, looking at the shower,
and sighed.
Resigned, Dean turned on the hot water and stripped down before stepping into
the welcome spray. He stopped fighting this years ago, knowing that the only
thing that let him parade around in a mask of some sanity and restraint at all
was that alone, he let himself think and feel all those things he wanted to
when he looked at Sam, when he heard Sam say his name like he’d been saying it
his whole life, safely oblivious to the way it wrecked his big brother. Nothing
made him come faster or harder than thoughts of Sam - Dean knew he was messed
up, something clearly cracked in him that ironically just made him feel better
about living this life, mixed up with monsters where he obviously belonged -
and he just accepted it now. No porno he’d watched or girl he’d ever fucked
made him feel this way, just his hand and a memory he’d embellished in his
imagination over and over again, dreaming up all the ways he could coax his
name to spill from Sam’s lips. When he came it was as he always did, panting
Sam’s name and letting how it felt wash away everything else.
 
---
 
Dean was still standing where he was frozen in front of the fridge, his beer
awkwardly halfway to his mouth, when the door to their bedroom slammed shut and
the room filled with a charged silence. His eyes went sideways to look their
father. John’s face was red and his lips were pursed, and his hands were in
fists so tight at his sides that his knuckles were white. After a moment, John
huffed out a long sigh and Dean could see him struggle not to follow Sam into
their room and do only God knows what to him. Dean still couldn’t move, waiting
out the tension and praying whatever way John went it wasn’t that one, because
Dean had never struck his father before but there was no way he would ever let
John lay into Sam, no matter how ridiculously angry and angsty and mouthy the
kid had gotten lately. Thankfully, John let out another breath and seemingly
deflated as the air left his lungs. He rubbed a hand into his forehead at the
likely instant headache that particular bout with his younger son had given
him, and without looking at Dean he walked over to the counter, grabbed the
mostly full bottle of whiskey from where it was sitting, turned, and
disappeared into his own room.
Relieved, Dean took in the first good breath since Dad had walked in the door
and he saw Sam’s body tense up uncomfortably where he sat doing homework at the
kitchen table. Then, finally, he connected his beer to his mouth and downed
most of it in one go. It seemed it was always like this lately. Sam was mostly
his usual dorky, easygoing self when it was just him and Dean, even if he was a
little moodier than he used to be, but whenever John was around Sam was on
edge, and it never seemed to take much from their dad before Sam would be all
the way up in arms, short, clipped answers to questions escalating when
something triggered the inevitable blow up that seemed to always be brewing
between them.
Dean replaced the empty bottle to the counter and moved quietly towards their
room. He hated seeing them fight. Dean was fiercely loyal to them both, and
always did as his father asked, usually without hesitation, but somehow he
understood implicitly that if it ever came down to it, really, it would always
be Sam. For now, he was in a horrible limbo, watching them both like hawks,
flinching at their harsh words to one another, groaning inwardly when Sam
always had to make it so much worse by never letting anything go, and always
dreading the moment some line would finally be crossed and he would have to
think fast and step in before it got physical. A few weeks ago John had fisted
his hands in Sam’s jacket and shoved him hard against the wall, and Dean’s
heart had been in his throat, but he’d only made two steps towards them before
John finished yelling in Sam’s face and let him go, slamming the motel door
behind him on his way out and not returning until two days later. Sam, the
instigating little shit that he was, had been white-faced and frozen, crumpling
to the floor at Dean’s feet by the time he made it there. He shook like a leaf
in Dean’s arms for the next hour while Dean let him cling to him, trying to
calm him with those traced circles on his skin and his hands through Sam’s too-
long hair, sighing and telling him - again - that he really needed to give the
attitude a rest. Dean hated seeing them fight but just like everything else
fucked up in his life, he’d be lying if he tried to say he didn’t enjoy every
second he got to comfort Sam through the aftermath, getting his hands on his
brother like he used to be able to all the time and had been less able to do as
they both got older.
Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob to the room he shared with Sam,
listening intently through the thin presswood door. Quietly, he opened the door
and shut it behind him before looking at Sam. His brother was curled up on
their rickety double bed facing away from him, hugging his pillow, and Dean
could tell from the way his shoulders shook that he was crying. In that
position he looked so small, but in reality he was all but: officially taller
than Dean now even if only just, all long, lean muscle that he seemed to still
have to grow into, and yet his baby face and innocence were betrayed by his
bright, clever eyes which had seen much too much already if you asked Dean. It
tore him up to see them wet with tears. For sixteen, Dean thought he cried a
fair bit, but what did Dean know? He had never fought with their dad like Sam
did, had never been inclined to resist or fight the life that he grew up in, so
very unlike Sam. Following their father’s footsteps had always felt natural to
him but he couldn’t say the same for his brother; that thought scared him more
than he could bear to think about. He obstinately refused to acknowledge the
worry that someday Sam might say his name with the same anger and loathing that
he used when he yelled at John, because the idea alone was not one Dean was
prepared to endure.
“Sammy…” Dean said it gently as he sat on his edge of the bed and Sam flinched
a little at the sound, looking as if he tried to curl up further away. Dean
winced but tried not to take it personally; he knew how Sam felt about letting
Dean see him like this, thinking Dean was going to make fun of him for being a
girl when really Dean would never do that when it actually mattered. He let out
a small sigh and reached out to put a hand on Sam’s hip. “Hey, Sammy, c’mon.”
When Dean touched him, his palm straddling the rift between Sam’s jeans and his
shirt just so he could feel that still baby-smooth skin, Sam softened instantly
and, taking in a big breath to hold back the next sob, he rolled back and over
and around his brother, snaking his arms around Dean’s waist to hold him tight,
replacing his pillow with the small of Dean’s back where he now buried his
face.
“Aw, Sam. You’re killing me, kiddo.” Dean swung his legs up onto the bed and
unwrapped Sam’s arms from him just long enough to sit back on the bed and tug
Sam up with him. His brother lay his head in his lap and pressed in along the
length of his body, tucking his knees up and under Dean’s, his hands gripping
at the denim of Dean’s jeans.
“I hate when he’s around,” he stuttered out between sniffles. “Just want it to
be us, Dean. Wish he’d leave us alone.” Sam hugged at him a little more tightly
and Dean groaned inwardly as his stomach flopped around like a fish dropped
into a boat, the fucking thing. He always struggled with what to say to his
brother, knowing defending John wouldn’t get him anywhere and convincing Sam of
anything...well, Sam was sixteen, and Dean wasn’t an idiot. Instead, he let his
hand tangle in Sam’s hair because he knew it would quiet his tears faster than
any words. Predictable as always, at least for Dean, it wasn’t long before Sam
was breathing quietly and relaxed at his brother’s side.
“Dude, I’m beat. Move for a second, okay?” Dean said gently. Sam nodded
soundlessly, his face dangerously close to places Dean was adamantly ignoring,
before he shifted as per Dean’s request. Dean pushed the blanket out from under
them and once they had both slid under it, Sam was quick to find his old place
at his brother’s side, tucked in close with his face in the crook of his
shoulder and his arms around his waist. Dean rolled his eyes dramatically and
smoothed back Sam’s hair, which was more or less everywhere.
“Really, kid. I’m serious, give me five minutes and some clippers…”
“Shut up, Dean.” Sam cut him off quickly but there was zero edge to his voice.
Dean could hear, and feel against his chest, the smile on his little brother’s
face, and it let him breathe easy. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the bed,
holding Sam close and trying not to dwell on how he wished it could be like
this without Sam having to fight with their dad first. Sam was so quiet Dean
thought he was already passed out but then he spoke.
“Dean,” he started languidly, as if he was breathing in his brother’s name - a
thought that sent a shiver through Dean despite his being perfectly warm with
Sam wrapped around him - “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person in the
world who gets me at all.” He sounded half asleep, his words quiet and
stretched out with too-long pauses in between them. Dean hummed in agreement
and gave Sam a little squeeze.
“Yeah, Sammy. ‘Cause I do. You too, you know.” He said it gently, genuine, but
got no answer. He was sure Sam was out now. Dean sighed and prayed sleep would
take him quickly too lest he get caught up thinking about how good it felt to
have Sam so close, their legs tangled up and the weight of Sam’s arm where it
lay across his stomach, brushing against his skin in places where his shirt had
been pushed up. Dean hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was tired, and he
welcomed the heaviness of sleep settling in, tugging at his consciousness and
starting to go dark. Nothing felt more like home than this.
 
---
 
Sam was seventeen when they went on a hunt on their own near Clear Lake, Iowa.
John was off hunting a Djinn God-only-knew-where, so when Bobby called, the
boys insisted they could handle one little poltergeist. After an unsuccessful
salt and burn, they discovered that the ghost they’d been hunting was tethered
to a gun, a family heirloom of sorts with a murderous history. It was a World
War II era Smith and Wesson thirty eight special. Dean might’ve even liked it
as far as weapons went except that apparently this angry spirit was angry
enough to pick up and shoot the damn thing. At Dean. The bullet went straight
through his left shoulder under the collarbone and he was at such close range
the force of it knocked him back and he stumbled, tripped over his own feet
like some kind of amatuer, and went down.
“Dean!” He heard Sam scream his name and it was frantic, panicked and angry.
Dean was sure he wouldn’t want to be that ghost, not when Sam had that edge in
voice, no way. From the the flat of his back Dean thought the stars looked
especially tiny, and the sky was overwhelmingly dark, like it was trying to
swallow them up. He didn’t know how long he watched them disappear, but then
Sam’s face was above his and Sam’s hands were running over him.
“De- Dean! Hey, brother, c’mon look at me, Dean!” Dean could hear the fear in
his brother’s voice and it made him knit his brows together in concern.
“Heya, Sammy…” he started groggily. “Don’t- don’t say it like that. It’s gonna
be okay.” Sam choked on a laugh as he pushed hard into Dean’s shoulder, making
him wince.
“Dean, you asshat. You’ve been fucking shot.” He was half laughing as he said
that, but his face was so serious, and his cheeks might’ve been shining. It
worried Dean. He didn’t like it.
“Right. Yeah, kinda… hurts a lot. I think.” He was feeling pretty woozy and the
world had kind of narrowed to Sam’s face, though it was getting a little fuzzy,
and Dean didn’t like that either. He tried to reach up to touch it, make sure
it was still really there and not getting swallowed up by the darkness like the
stars.
“Dean, De- Dean? Jesus Christ, Dean! I’ve got you, Dean, I’m gonna- you’re
gonna be okay. Okay? I promise. Shit. Dean!”
Dean didn’t remember if his fingers ever found his brother’s face. It all went
dark, leaving just the echo of Sam calling his name, which faded away like
everything else.
When Dean came to, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. At first, it was just
really bright. When finally his eyes adjusted, he tried to move and his body
was not impressed, protesting with ripples of pain shooting out from his
shoulder, which seemed to be very tightly bandaged to keep him from doing just
that. He settled back in and realized he was on a couch, at least a couple
pillows propping him somewhat upright and some old crochet grandma blankets
were draped over him from the waist down. He tried to slowly move his head and
take in his surroundings. He was in a cabin. It looked almost familiar but then
he was a little foggy and after a lifetime of motels, cabins and abandoned
shacks, they all started to blur together. He tilted his head a little further
and found what it was he had been searching for. Lying on the floor within arms
reach was Sam, curled up tightly in an attempt to fit most of himself under the
sad looking blanket that was exposing his back despite his efforts. He was on
the rug in front of the fireplace, clutching at his pillow, facing Dean, mouth
open and drooling a little, looking exhausted even in sleep.
Dean sighed. He knew what Sam was like - what he was like, too - and wondered
how long his brother had gone without sleep on his account. The last thing he
wanted was to wake him up. He tried to sit up and he moved the wrong way,
causing another bolt of pain to shoot through him, drawing out a sharp hiss
that he failed miserably at keeping in.
“Dean!” Sam’s eyes flew open and he was up in the next heartbeat, shuffling
over on his knees to stay at the same level and throw his arms around his
brother’s neck, who’d barely had the time to turn to face him before the
attack. The force of it made Dean wince, more pain radiating from his shoulder,
but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say that to Sam, who was spilling
words into the hollow of Dean’s neck at about a mile a minute.
“Dean, God, you had to get shot, you fucking hero. There was so much blood,
Dean, and I could barely get you back to the Impala, thought I was gonna make
it worse, couldn’t get ahold of Dad but by some miracle Bobby was only a couple
hours away - longest hours of my life, thought you were- didn’t think you’d-
how could you- but anyway, you know Bobby, freakin’ miracle worker, he patched
you up but Jesus you were out for so long, Dean, you’d lost so much blood,
never seen you look like that before and God, when you went down I thought for
sure it was ov-” Sam was getting worked up, Dean could hear it in his voice and
the way all the words seemed to come at once, tripping over each other to get
to him but Dean was here and obviously he was going to live so that was enough
of that.
“Whoa, easy, kiddo. Hey, hey!” Sam was clinging to Dean so that he had to
actually push a little to get him to look at him, cupping Sam’s face with his
right hand. Sam’s eyes were glistening, making the hazel underneath seem to
shimmer, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the mixture of
remembered panic and current relief in his baby brother’s expression. “I’m
fine, Sam. Really, okay? I feel practically good as new. None of this, all
right?” He grinned at his brother to reassure him and couldn’t resist sliding
his thumb along Sam’s jaw. Sam seemed to melt into his hand, closing his eyes
and leaning into it as if to make sure it was really there. When he opened his
eyes again, they still glistened, but he took an easier breath.
“Dean, I- I thought... And I just- don’t know what I’d do without you.” It was
a whisper, and Sam’s eyes were on Dean’s as he said it, as if pleading for him
to understand, revealing uncertainty. Dean opened his mouth to say something -
though what exactly he hadn’t settled on yet - but then he saw his brother’s
eyes fall to his lips and his mind went suddenly blank. For the briefest
moment, Sam’s eyes met his again, but then a blink and they were gone, another
blink and- sweetmotherofallthingsholy - Sam’s lips were on his, pressing them
together, at first forcefully like he’d misjudged the distance as he closed it
between them, but then gentle, and chaste, his mouth closed, only parting to
breathe when he pulled back just enough, their noses still brushing together.
He kept his eyes closed or down, not looking at Dean but he didn’t seem about
to move farther back, either. The sound of Dean’s rapidly pumping blood was
rushing in his ears in time to his heart where it hammered in his chest, so
loud he wouldn’t be surprised if Sam could hear it, too. Sam. Dean hadn’t died,
so obviously his little brother was trying to fix that, doing heart-stopping,
life-ending things like he just did. Dean’s head was swimming, breathing in the
air Sam exhaled, watching him tremble a little where he was still kneeling
beside him and suddenly Dean was a man on the edge.
“Sammy…” He matched his brother’s whisper with his own, knowing it sounded as
much like a warning as it did a desperate plea. He couldn’t find more words
though he knew there were many, but lucky for Dean Sam knew him just as well as
he knew his little brother, and he seemed to hear everything Dean didn’t know
how to say.
“Dean, please, I-” Sam’s voice was small and tentative but it didn’t matter
because they were so close, and Dean’s whole life boiled down to how his little
brother said his name, so that there was no way he couldn’t hear it and
everything it carried. “I need you, Dean.” Though he said it gently, it still
hit Dean like a punch to the gut, his mind reeling with the implications and
all that Sam was telling him, giving him forgiveness and permission and
invitation for all the things he’d carried like stolen treasures, hidden away
from the one person he hated to hide from but could never tell. Sam finally
looked up at him, meeting his eyes through the lengths of his lashes, and Dean
saw all the love, heat, and - God help him - want that he felt shining back at
him like it was his own reflection.
“Dean,” Sam pressed, urgent, and a little scared as the moment between them
drew out. He said Dean’s name like he had all those years ago in his sleep,
gentle and barely there, and in that instant, Dean was done. Every wall, every
failsafe he ever built was demolished just like that, by his little brother’s
beautiful eyes, his perfect, honest face and the intoxicating way he said
Dean’s name, like a drug designed just for him.
“God, Sam-” Dean barely got his brother’s name out before he tilted his chin to
catch his mouth again. His right hand slid along Sam’s jaw and his fingers
bracketed Sam’s ear, reaching into his hair. Sam’s hands fisted in the front of
Dean’s shirt to stay anchored as he leaned into him. For all of two seconds
Dean tried to keep it together but touching Sam like this was melting him
completely, dissolving all his restraint. He let the tip of his tongue trace
the seam of his brother’s mouth and Sam instinctively tilted his head and
parted his lips, letting a small sound from the back of his throat beg Dean in.
Dean chased the sound with one of his own, already feeling a little delirious
at the first taste of Sam as he deepened the kiss. He was in ecstasy beyond any
he’d ever felt as he plundered Sam’s mouth, their tongues sliding past each
other to seek out all the new, unfamiliar places that they absolutely had to
know.
Dean’s left shoulder had been throbbing but the pain seemed to fade away as all
his neurons could only process everything Sam, and he couldn’t care less about
it as he used his hand to grip at Sam’s hip and start tugging there, trying to
get him off the floor. Sam turned and leaned into him further but didn’t seem
to get the message.
“Jesus, kid, c’mere already,” he panted against Sam’s open lips, dizzy from the
lack of oxygen because fuck if he ever breathed that shit again - Sam was all
he needed to live, that much was clear. His whole body felt like it was
sizzling just beneath his skin and his stomach was jumping and fluttering like
mad at every shift, every new touch no matter how subtle. “Sammy, please.”
Sam’s eyes widened as Dean pulled at him, finally realizing what he wanted.
“But, Dean,” he said breathlessly. “Your should-”
“Shut up, Sam. Need you, kiddo.” With the hand twined in Sam’s hair Dean gave a
tug when he cut him off, and the whimper it won him made his dick twitch where
it was pinned and straining against the zipper of his currently very
uncomfortable jeans. At the usual nickname, the gorgeous flush in Sam’s cheeks
deepened instantly, the hazel of his eyes almost disappeared as his pupils blew
out, and Dean knew there was no way he looked any less debauched than his
brother. Sam got with the program barely a second later, scrambling up from the
ground and, shaking, straddled Dean with a knee on each side of him, wedging
one between his brother and the back of the couch. Dean had both hands on Sam’s
hips, under his tee shirt and his thumbs down past the waist of his jeans,
guiding him with easy squeezes and settling him so their bodies were flush. Sam
gasped as Dean angled his hips with his hands, brushing the hot, hard lengths
of them together and Dean could only throw his head back against the arm of the
couch and moan at the friction.
The next thing Dean knew, Sam was nosing along his exposed neck, first planting
sweet, quick kisses and then licking at the skin just below his ear.
“Saaaaam,” Dean dragged out his brother’s name on a groan. Every place Sam
touched set off sparks, electric shocks that shook through him and coiled up
hot and tight at the base of his spine. He was floating; he was absolutely out
of his mind with it all, couldn’t keep up, couldn't make sense of anything much
less where he stopped and Sam started, and all he knew was that it still wasn’t
enough. Then Sam grazed his teeth along Dean’s neck, pinching and teasing the
skin between them just so. Dean exhaled a litany of curses and could feel Sam
grin as he replaced his teeth with his mouth and hollowed his cheeks, sucking
at the skin and pulling the heated blood to the surface to make a mark. A laugh
escaped him as he realized with some disbelief that he was completely at the
mercy of his little brother, whose mouth was making a fool of him and whose
hips grinding against him were bringing him right to the edge of everything.
Sam faltered a moment, his rhythm jarring, and he pushed back to look at his
brother.
“Dean?” He was hesitant as he questioned him, his eyes searching for
understanding as the laugh was obviously being misinterpreted. Dean’s heart was
full to bursting.
“God, Sam, you’re just- you wreck me. Don’t stop, please,” Dean slid one hand
up under Sam’s shirt to smooth over his back, pressing lightly to encourage him
to come back down, and dragged his nails lightly over the skin because Sam had
loved that since he was little. The thought sent a shiver through Dean and he
knew that was messed up, but with the way Sam shuddered at his words and his
touch, he couldn’t bring himself to care except to thank whatever power that
might be that they were messed up together. Sam sighed - in relief or pleasure
Dean wasn’t sure but he suspected some combination of both - and started his
hips moving again, rubbing their dicks together through all the frustrating
layers and leaning back down so his mouth was open and hot against the shell of
Dean’s ear, all the tiny whimpers he was making captured between them and
causing Dean to spew more profanities under his breath. Dean was getting close,
and it was almost unbearable. He’d never have believed it could be so intense
just like this, their clothes still on for chrissakes - a glaring error and
horrible mistake on Dean’s part, one he was sure to remedy for next time and -
fuck - there was going to be a next time, this was going to happen again,
provided he could ever settle on what he was going to do to Sam next - but of
course it was because it was Sam and like with everything else, his brother did
things to him that no one else could, felt better than anyone else ever would.
Dean was arching into Sam now, his breath short and gasping, angling his hips
so Sam could have all of him, and if Sam’s beautiful string of uh-uh-uhs and
Dean-Dean-Deans was anything to go by, his little brother was close, too. He
dragged his nails down Sam’s back and the kid practically keened, and Dean
tucked that one away for another day. He kept going and managed to slide his
hands down the back of Sam’s jeans to grab roughly at his ass, helping drive
them together, harder and more frantic. The other hand abandoned Sam’s hip and
flew up to grip at his long hair, threading it through his fingers and using it
as leverage to manhandle him to a place where he could get their lips back
together. Dean licked desperately into his brother’s mouth and Sam tried to
give back but he was too far gone. Dean didn’t hold it together much longer,
his mouth slipping away as he rapidly approached the edge.
“Yeah, that’s it, Sammy,” Dean panted out, open mouth against Sam’s neck now,
and he was still pressing hard on Sam’s ass as they bucked into each other.
“Come for me, baby boy.”
“Fuck- Dean!” And there it was. Just as perfect as when he first he heard it,
if not more so because Dean wrenched it from his lips himself; Sam came
shouting Dean’s name and the sound of it was all the trigger Dean needed to
join him over the edge. All rhythm disappeared as they clutched each other
tightly and shuddered together, their orgasms devastating them. Dean’s whole
body went tight and seized, trying to curl into Sam as his vision went white
and he cried out when the next wave hit him, practically crushing Sam to him
now. Sam’s face was burrowed into the hollow of Dean’s neck and his breath was
hot and damp there, his lips just barely brushing the skin.
For a long moment, they were quiet and still, except for the sounds of their
breathing finally returning to normal. Dean had relaxed his grip on his brother
and moved to hug Sam to him properly, his hands rubbing gently across all the
smooth skin of his back under his shirt. Sam made a contented sound low in his
throat, nuzzling into Dean more and planting gentle kisses where he could
reach. Dean sighed. As the pleasure that wracked his body softened and he came
back to himself, he was increasingly aware of the uncomfortable wetness filling
his boxers and the flare of the pain in his shoulder, which was significant.
What he didn’t notice was panic, feelings of dread or regret, not even shame;
everything just felt good. Being with Sam felt right.
“So… I’m thinking I maybe should’ve got shot years ago,” Dean joked. Sort of.
“Dean!” Sam sounded like he was going for shocked or scolding, but he was too
busy trying not to laugh outright. He leaned back to smile at his brother,
knowing that Dean was telling him everything was okay; they were okay. Sam
kissed him sweetly. “That’s not funny.”
“C’mon, it’s kinda funny.” He kissed him back and then Sam tried to glare at
him with little success.
“I- I’m really gross.” Sam said then, shifting uncomfortably and making a face
at Dean that made him laugh and reach out to tuck some of Sam’s messy hair
behind his ear.
“Me, too. We should probably shower,” Dean smirked at his brother and gave him
a look that put the pink back in Sam’s cheeks. Dean started to sit up and Sam
pushed back to let him, and as they shifted Dean could feel his brother
starting to swell again behind his wet denim and God bless being seventeen. As
Sam lifted off him and stood beside the couch Dean sat upright and winced,
everything pulling at his shoulder which hurt considerably more now than it did
when he first came to. Sam looked instantly concerned, reaching for Dean’s
arms.
“Dean! Your shoulder- it- are you okay?! That was dumb of us, Dean.”
Dean just chuckled and brushed it off as he leaned into Sam and stood, his
little brother supporting him with a hand around his waist on his hip and the
other pressed lovingly to his chest.
“You’re just gonna have to keep taking care of me a while longer, Sammy,” Dean
grinned, making sure Sam caught the obvious double meaning, which of course
would never have been lost on his clever baby brother. Sam paused them on their
way to the bathroom to level him with an honest, open look, turning Dean’s
humour into something that resembled the beginnings of a chick-flick moment.
Dean tried to be still and refused to back down from his brother’s almost
golden gaze.
“Don’t know if I could ever stop, Dean,” Sam spoke gently, sincere. His name
hung heavy in the air between them, ringing with another tone new to Dean’s
ears, one that sounded a lot like ‘I love you’. He leaned up and kissed the
corner of Sam’s mouth.
“Guess that makes two of us, kiddo.” Dean hoped Sam heard the underlying ‘I
love you, too.’
The smile Sam gave him back was almost blinding, reaching his eyes and
deepening his dimples in a way that made Dean feel like he’d won the lottery.
He was pretty sure Sam had gotten the message. Dean chuckled and grabbed Sam by
the shoulders, hustling him into the bathroom ahead of him.
"Deeeaan," his brother mock-whined, stumbling slightly over the threshold and
failing to keep the grin from his voice. Dean groaned.
“Love it when you say my name, Sammy." He caught Sam and spun him to face him
again, crowding into him until his brother's body was pressed between him and
the pedestal sink. Sam's eyelashes fluttered as he leaned in for another kiss.
He practically purred Dean’s name again when their mouths met, making Dean
shudder, and Sam’s smile curved at the reaction. From the innocent, devilish,
clever tongue of his beautiful brother, Dean’s name was a drug and he was
hopelessly addicted; he’d become accustomed to hearing Sam say his name for
nearly all of his life, and it was his favourite sound in every iteration. As
he deepened their kiss and dragged another moan from Sam’s lips, Dean welcomed
the revelation of yet another variation, and looked forward to the discovery of
many, many more.
 
 
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