Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4243263.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, Self-Harm, Weecest, Dark, Angst, Hand_Jobs,
      Suicidal_Thoughts, Sick_Sam_Winchester, Smoking, Pre-Stanford, Mental
      Health_Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Burns, Cigarettes, Schizophrenia,
      Risk_Aware_Consensual_Kink, Emotional_Manipulation, First_Time, Hurt_Sam
      Winchester
  Collections:
      Supernatural_Angsty_Whump_Squad
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-30 Completed: 2015-07-16 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 21497
****** Something To Share ******
by silver9mm
Summary
     A soccer coach in Okoboji asked about the marks once, and Sam asked
     the man why he was looking at the inside of his thighs when he
     showered.
     He hid most of them, and occasionally he flaunted them, but more
     often than not Sam and his pain were invisible.
     No one said anything about the tips of his fingers on his left hand
     being blistered, or about the messy wound in the hollow of his
     throat.
Notes
     Ask and you shall receive! Happy birthday, darling.
     Title from Elbow's Great_Expectations
      
     Blinking and stoned, rain in your hair
     You only smoke cause it's something to share
     Singing bring on the night, to have and to hold
     The sodium light turning silver to gold
     Spitfire thin and strung like a violin
     I was yours was the face with a grace from a different age
     You were the sun in my Sunday morning
      
     Something to listen to:
     Heaven_is_in_Your_Arms
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
The GMC’s taillights were still making the ‘End 45 MPH Zone’ sign glow cherry
in the darkness as their dad rounded the corner, heading out of town, and Dean
was already lighting up. At his elbow, Sam smeared his glare through the night
from the sign to his brother’s face. He caught only a glimpse of Dean’s
features before the match was flicked out and the sulfur made Sam squint and
blink, but the relief there was obvious. Whether it was because of John leaving
or having his first smoke of the evening, Sam didn’t know. It was probably
both.
He stepped away, blowing the cold Solstice air out of his nose sharply. Dean
turned towards him, his boot heels grinding sand into the worn-out paint on the
porch of the summer cottage they were squatting in. A quick drag on the
cigarette brought light to Dean’s eyes, bemused and shining, half-lidded,
matching a half-smile that clung for a millisecond to the filter as Dean caught
the cigarette between his fingers and flicked the ash off to his right.
“Sweet,” he chimed, “Dad’s finally left us somewhere interesting. School’s out
for Christmas break, and I saw some hot townies on the way in.”
“Townies would imply they were college age. I saw high schoolers.”
“Well, I may be eighteen, but it’s the teen that counts, then, huh, Sammy?”
“Whatever.”
The cigarette went back to his brother’s lips and in the moonlight was a flash
of teeth as Dean caught and held it there as he fished through his pockets. A
clatter of keys and smoke-scented fingers in front of Sam’s face.
“C’mon, I saw a pool hall on Main Street.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“What, you gotta stay here and write a Christmas list to Santa?”
“Screw you, Dean.”
“Speaking of, you need batteries for your Walkman? The bed in there squeaks.”
“Gross, dude. Dad said not to bring anyone here, remember?”
Dean pointed at him with the cigarette. It was half gone, and Dean licked his
lips before threatening, “Well, he won’t know if I did or not so long as you
keep your trap shut. Let’s go.”
“No.”
His brother stood there. A breeze, ocean-scented, pushed a tendril of smoke at
Sam. He held his breath and stubbornly folded his arms.
“Okay,” Dean said, and Sam looked up at him, surprised. Dean took a long, final
drag from the smoke and then expertly flicked it into the sand-and-gravel yard.
“Fine. Stay here. Don’t wait up.”
Dean skipped a step on the porch and landed with a crunch of boots on rocks and
loped around the side of the house to where the Impala was parked. Sam heard
the door squeak and tensed in anticipation of the slam. Instead, he heard
Dean’s voice again and saw his pale, starlit face poke back around the house.
“Sammy, get something to eat. I think your growth is stunted.”
“You should talk,” Sam murmured, glancing away from the hope he could see in
the way Dean’s eyebrows were raised, his lips were curled into a lopsided
smile. He wanted Sam to come with him, but he wasn’t going to beg. There was a
tiny flare in the darkness where Sam’s eyes settled, the cigarette having found
some dry thing to ignite for the briefest of moments. It came and went like
Dean’s hope.
“What, Sam?”
“Nothin’,” he replied, louder this time. “Go away.”
“Alright.” A wounded pause. Then, “Hey, just use toilet paper to clean up,
okay? I don’t know where the laundromat is and we’ve only got so many socks”
“Dude.”
A cheshire grin was the last thing Sam saw of Dean before he heard the Impala
snarl to life and then his brother peeled past the house and down the drive.
Watching, Sam saw the cab go yellow when Dean lit another cigarette as he
turned the corner and disappeared.
The sound of the car lasted longer than the sight of it, and it wasn’t until
the noise faded as well that Sam moved. Eyes first, sliding front to right and
down. Without searching, having memorised its crash landing, he spotted the
white cylinder of the cigarette butt abandoned in the rocks. Walking to it was
effortless, like being on one of those people movers in the airport the time
their dad had flown back to them after breaking his leg on a hunt. Broke his
leg, crashed the Dart, and the cigarette was still warm somehow. It had been so
weird walking on that flat escalator, and Dean had let him play on it while
they waited. Sam had worn out his ten-year-old legs racing up and down it,
feeling like The Flash as it propelled him along faster than his muscle memory
felt was right.
Warm, and still damp. Sam touched the filter with one finger as it lay in his
palm. Maybe he was only imagining his brother’s saliva on the end. And it
wasn’t hot enough. He cradled it in his hand and, people mover smooth, he was
back on the porch. In the corner. Crouched, then settled with a small thump on
his rear, hidden from the wind and from sight. But not from sound. That was
important. Now he knew how long he had. Just in case. Dean sometimes changed
his mind halfway to wherever he was going. Claimed forgotten wallet, low on
gas, something funny with the engine.
The tiny Bic materialised, his slender fingers locked around it in the way only
he could hold it. He had collected a rainbow because neither Dean or Dad had
any use for them. A gritty noise. A pretty yellow flame.
Pretty. You’re such a girl. His voice or Dean’s, he wasn’t sure.
Sam brought the cigarette to his lips. He didn’t lick it like he wanted to.
Last time it had taken five full minutes of scrubbing his tongue to get rid of
the taste. Lips where Dean’s had been had to be enough. He tilted his head to
keep his bangs from being singed, the tip of his nose from getting too close to
the fire. A quick suck between pursed lips and the tobacco caught and lighted.
He plucked it quickly from his mouth. He’d been practicing, but he didn’t feel
like smoking tonight. He was already a little queasy. Hungry—Sammy, get
something to eat. Lonely—two sets of tail lights speeding away from him.
Excited.
He blew on the embered tip of the cigarette and surveyed himself. He didn’t
want to put it down, but he hadn’t got the hang of just holding the thing with
his lips. Smoke inevitably went into his eyes, made them water. It might roll
away with a breeze, or smolder and go out and there wasn’t much of it left.
Arms were good now, with the cold weather. Easy to hide the burns until they
healed enough to be just another scar on a body too young to carry as many as
it already did. But his coat sleeves were tight, thick and stiff, not the kind
he could roll.
He waved the cigarette in the air absentmindedly. His ankle was visible, jeans
just a little too short.
Stunted growth, my ass. His knees ached so much at night.
He used to rub Dean’s legs when he had his growth spurt at this age. Sam had
kneeled on the bed next to his brother and dug his little fists into Dean’s
hips and lower back, squeezed the muscles of his thighs and pushed on the knobs
of his kneecaps, careful not to tickle him or Dean would blurt laughter and
shove him away, or worse but more fun, tickle him back, weight and length and
strength making Sam helpless to the attack.
Dad had put a stop to all that, the massages and the tickle fights. He’d
thunked a big green carton on the table in front of Dean one day.
“Epsom salt,” he’d said, his swampy, heavy-lidded eyes clear and sober for the
first time in a week. “You pull a muscle, get a cramp, legs hurt, whatever,
take a quick, hot soak in this. Understand?”
“Yessir,” Dean replied.
“Lemme alone,” he’d said when Sam crawled onto the bed that night after Dean
had stretched and groaned and scrunched his toes the way he did when his legs
were hurting him after a long run or PT. Their dad watched them from his seat
at the little bolted down table the motel obviously couldn’t do without, and
Sam saw him nod to himself before he got his coat and left, apparently
satisfied the line drawn would hold.
“Fuck you,” Sam said out loud. He blew hard on the cherry one more time,
sending a little flurry of ash from the tip, and pulled his shirt up, exposing
his belly to the chill, sea-damp air.
*
“Gonna tell Dad,” he threatened, slouched in the passenger seat, an ink blotch
of a boy Dean should have been able to easily read.
“No, you’re not,” Dean scoffed. Sam could still smell the smoke on him, windows
down be damned. “’Cause if you do, I’m going to punch you every day for the
rest of your life. Besides, he smokes.”
“Yeah, and now you’re stupid, just like him.”
Dean rolled his eyes and the knob between his fingers and the situation just
made Sam hate this song, this town, that tree, a girl, all his teachers, this
place, time. His life.
What was left of it. All it ever was.
He’d heard the word faggot that day.
His class was reading White Fang out loud and when one of the girls had come to
the line He spent half the day extending his campfire to the tree, at any
moment a half dozen burning faggots ready at hand to fling at his enemies, half
the class had giggled. Their teacher had sighed at the tired moment and
supplied that the word originally meant twigs. Kindling. Sam had looked it up,
written down what he’d found, and he fingered the paper in his pocket now, Dean
in the corner of his eye.
    * (British English, informal)= cigarette
    * (also faggot) (North American English, taboo, slang) an offensive word
      for a male homosexual
    * [singular] (British English, informal) something that is boring and
      tiring
    * (British English) (especially in the past) a boy at a public school who
      has to do jobs for an older boy
Sam’d heard the word before, of course. Television, movies. He knew what it
meant, he’d thought. Investigation today made him realise the depth of the
perversion associated with it. That men who loved other men were burned with
the witches, thrown into the fire, tied, bundled up like the faggots around
them. The burning tip of a cigarette recalled the burning branch. No matter
what, it was something lesser, something weak. Something bad.
Dean called him gay sometimes. A girl. Pansy. Sister. Samantha. But he’d never
used that word. Fag. Faggot.
Dean’s fingers were resting on the steering wheel as he drove. Caressing. They
went from the wheel to his mouth, for no reason Sam could see. Just touching
there, compressing the swollen, tender-tough flesh, and Sam crinkled the paper
in his pocket.
Faggot.
*
“I hope your lungs turn into crispy black potato chips and fall out your ass!”
he growled, batting at Dean’s arm holding him at length, and he blushed as Dean
laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
He’d tried to snatch the pack of cigarettes from Dean, intent on wadding them
up. Ruining them, wasting Dean’s money, but Dean had palmed his face. Bumped
his nose hard with the heel of his hand. He could smell blood, but none showed.
He blinked back tears and ducked Dean’s reach, sulking to the other side of the
park that was just field and all he had now to do was watch Dean smoke and dumb
girls pick up the scent, and too soon they’re tumbling around him, multicolored
and bubbled and their ranks seemed to ebb and swell effortlessly; they were one
thing, dividing and multiplying, a single cell of vanilla scented flesh, living
and dying, the smoke from Dean’s cigarette the air they were desperate for.
Faggot. They’re faggots, and Sam was burning.
*
The first time he took a drag, he felt ten feet tall five seconds later.
Thirty, and he threw up. Just a little. Hot bile, nicotine yellow, hawked over
the rail onto the freeway below. The dizziness lasted forever it seemed like,
and that’s when he burned himself. Trying to focus, he picked the wrong thing
and his eyes followed the rig as it hurtled at him and under and behind and his
brain tried to go with it as his feet stayed still and he gagged again, and
when he clutched at the rail he knocked the cherry loose. It sizzled into the
pad beneath his thumb, caught between skin and the metal bar.
Yelping, Sam dropped the stolen cigarette and put his palm to his mouth. The
cherry was still there, a hot little cinder that only went out after it
blistered his tongue, too. Spitting, sucking, he kicked the treacherous thing
into traffic, wincing as the bent, torn cylinder disappeared under wheels.
Later, Dean flopped down on the floor next to him and Sam almost puked at the
scent of smoke clinging to him. Rain always made it worse, and it was always
raining lately. Dean had learned a way to shield the cigarette from the
weather: cupping his hand over it, holding it with his thumb and pointer
finger, making a lazy OK sign and Sam couldn’t look at it. That circle. He’d
seen Dean make that exact same circle before. When he shouldn’t have been
looking.
“Dean, can’t you at least wash your hands? It stinks.”
“Smells better than you,” Dean replied but jumped to his feet when Sam slammed
his Biology book closed and made to stand. To leave. “Hey, fine, princess. I’ll
go make myself rose-petal fresh, just for you, okay? Do your homework, geek.”
Sam looked after him as he disappeared into the depths of Bobby’s house. They
were here, the men were not, and Sam was sending his homework back to Iowa for
another week until they decided where they were going to go next. With Dad gone
Dean smoked seven cigarettes a day. More, if there were girls around. Or if he
braved Bobby’s shabby liquor cabinet.
Dean came back, his face damp, wiping his hands on his jeans and fool-grinning
at Sam, and he headed to that very cabinet.
“How about Totino’s pizzas and root beer floats, Sammy? Bobby must have a
Costco card with the way all these freezers are packed—”
Sam nodded and looked down at his hand. Unconsciously, his clipped-straight
nails had left little lines in his palm, except where one had pushed through
the bubbled skin of the blister from earlier. His fingertip was wet, and the
exposed skin was glistening and angry looking and he dug in harder and didn’t
hear Dean tap the neck of the bottle against a glass, didn’t hear the whisper
of thin cellophane, or the pocket search. He didn’t care about those things.
For just a second. He didn’t care.
*
Sam wanted to go one for one, but he knew that was impossible. Not safe, for
one thing. And he couldn’t hide that many marks. He compromised. When one
stopped hurting, he could do another. But he could make the one hurt as long as
he wanted. Could pick at it, press on it, put it in a place the skin would move
and stretch and keep it from healing. He claimed poison ivy when Dean asked him
why he was scratching at his ribs for two weeks straight.
Dad knew Dean smoked now but didn’t give him any breaks. John didn’t smoke much
himself: driving occasionally, one after dinner, and one in the morning,
usually before the boys were awake. Sam could tell from the fucking smell. That
smell. He hated it. It made him unreasonably angry. Irascible. Sick, too. Felt
like he was choking on it, like it was closing its sharp, ocre fingers around
his throat, making his head swell. He could smell it even when he was far away
from Dean and Dad. In art class, surrounded by acrylic paints and acetone, he
would suddenly smell cigarette smoke and jerk around, and Dean would be in the
doorway, beckoning him; they needed to leave. A family emergency. It was hardly
ever their family having an emergency. He would stand, and everyone would look
at him. He’d go to point. There would be no one in the doorway.
Years later, Sam would randomly come across a tidbit of information:
    * In a 1980 study by Philpott, 75% of schizophrenics had mental reactions
      to a trial with tobacco, with 10% becoming grossly psychotic, especially
      paranoid, with delusions and hallucinations.
At first, burning himself didn’t help. Sam still had that intricate, aching,
betrayed knot in his chest whenever he saw Dean with a cigarette. He still
wanted to scream at Dean, Stupid, stupid, stupid!Wanted to punch and kick Dean
until his brother realised this, this, this, was how much he’s hurting Sam. And
Sam still hated himself for feeling that way. It’s irrational. What they do:
barreling down highways with their half-drunk father Sam’s entire life, trapped
in a big black metal coffin with his wild brother going eighty in the darkness
now that Dad had given him the Impala, speeding towards danger in forms fanged
and clawed and all other ways deadly, fighting for their lives and the lives of
people Sam didn’t know or care about any more, or less, than he cared about his
own mother, and smoking? That was what upset Sam the most? It’s so dumb. He
knew it. And he didn’t give two tiny shits that Dad smoked. Just Dean. Only
Dean.
It was killing Sam as surely as it would kill Dean in the long run. ’Cause it
would, Sam knew it. Something so stupid would kill Dean. Not a hero’s death.
No, the death of an idiot, of a weak man, an addict.
Maybe that was what Sam hated the most. Dean being hooked on something. Needing
something so bad he couldn’t control his emotions without it. It’s what he did
when he got pissed off. When he was happy. Thinking, celebrating, bored.
Fucking cigarettes.
Sam felt liquid inside from hate, disgust. Jealousy. That word had come to him
one day, spelled out in big capital letters the colour of the reddish stains on
Dean’s fingers when he had to buy Top and rolled his own and the cheap tobacco
leaked, sticky, onto his brother’s hands and lips. What Dean did now was not
what he used to do. What they used to do. Every last thing was something to
just them. There was always a look, a snicker, a nudge, rolled eyes. Slaps,
kicks, pinches. Feelings, experiences, life shared between the two of them.
Now—and Sam knew Dean would never, ever, look at it this way—Dean internalised
almost everything. The caught eye was now a faraway stare, a cigarette dangling
from his fingers. A comical grimace had become a slow blink, a nod to himself,
not to Sam, and a soft pack would be fumbled for. There were less elbows in
Sam’s ribs, less arms thrown around his shoulders, and absolutely no more pinky
finger snags, tugged to follow Dean wherever. Anywhere.
*
They never really noticed, Dad and Dean. Didn’t pay much attention to him
unless he did something wrong. At least it was that way with Dad. John gave him
jobs: research, packing/unpacking. Lock and load. More research. He helped them
track a werewolf and Dad never once second-guessed the paper trail Sam
provided. His grades were good, his attitude carefully respectful (aloof, he
liked to think), and as for everything else, Dad had long ago adopted the
‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.
Dean cocked his head a few times, but between sports and getting down and dirty
during hunts finally, Sam had every excuse. Where he’d slowly rolled an
American Spirit around his bicep happened when he’d bumped against a furnace in
the tenement where they’d salted and burned the bones of two murdered children
who seemed intent on burning the place down. The scab on his shin was from
ricochet. Four days in a row of counting to three across his heel until the
skin split in a neat, two-inch line was from breaking in new basketball shoes.
A soccer coach in Okoboji asked about the marks once, and Sam asked the man why
he was looking at the inside of his thighs when he showered.
He hid most of them, and occasionally he flaunted them, but more often than not
Sam and his pain were invisible.
No one said anything about the tips of his fingers on his left hand being
blistered, or about the messy wound in the hollow of his throat.
*
Dean came back just before three in the morning. The squeak-bang of the
driver’s side door woke Sam up, and even if it hadn’t, Dean bounding up the
steps and bashing through the door would have.
“You up, little brother?” Dean asked, his voice a ridiculous rough whisper,
half-shouted.
“Am now,” Sam slurred, peering over the couch where’d passed out when he’d
finished After the First Death, the book he had to read for school. For the
last school he was in, anyway. He tugged his hoodie straight and stood,
stretching, watching through watering eyes as Dean clicked on the TV, turned
the volume down, and added the light from the hood over the stove. Just the
sort of ambience Dean loved.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Pie! Can I get a hallelujah for Shari’s? C’mon, midnight snack with me.”
“It’s—” Sam started but gave up when he saw Dean’s gleaming eyes, his smile,
and the hand he was holding out.
Sam didn’t take it, but he let it draw him in.
At the table, Dean fork-cut them each a large, ragged piece of cherry pie. Sam
took his time, stabbing the fat, sweet-tart fruits one by one while Dean
babbled about the pool hall and blondes and he’d had too much coffee at Shari’s
and he had a smudge of blue chalk on his throat. Sam raised his hood and rolled
a cherry around in his cheek and watched the mark and wondered if it was Dean’s
accident or if someone else had put it there.
Dean ate another slice while Sam was still working on his and once he’d
polished it off, he put his feet up on the other chair and patted his pockets.
“When’d Dad say he’d be back? Not ’til after New Years, right?”
“Mm,” Sam managed, not knowing if he could swallow the sugared crust in his
mouth as Dean’s clever fingers pulled a cigarette from a brand new pack. Dean
stained the filter blood red where his lips had soaked up cherry juice. He
stood and went to the window, guiding it up before lighting it. The constant,
gentle wind along the beach sucked at the first wisp of smoke, and Dean angled
himself so that without much effort he could blow the rest out and away.
“—a monster movie on, huh? Can sleep in tomorrow.”
Sam should have taken Dean’s hand. He knew that now. If he had, Dean wouldn’t
be doing what he was doing.
“Or we can beach it. Kinda cold, but there’ll be girls around. I seen a bunch
of modified dirt bikes in town, betcha it’s hella fun to ride out there.”
He could have taken Dean’s hand. Held it. Their hands were so different now.
They’d fit together for most of Sam’s life and then one day he noticed it
almost hurt to spread his fingers wide enough to lace through Dean’s, and it
wasn’t long after that that it never happened again. His own hands were a
little bigger now than they were then, but so were Dean’s. He wondered if they
would ever fit together the way they had as kids. If he would ever get the
chance to find out. That moment might have been the last one he was ever going
get.
“Fucking idiot.”
“—hauling ass—what, Sam? Did you—what’s—what are you—hey!”
If he hadn’t been so agitated, Sam would have seen that Dean actually flattened
himself up against the wall. That the way his slender, quiet younger brother
came out of his seat and moved across the small kitchen and up into his space
like he was putting all his power behind a knife thrust, a killing strike,
actually scared Dean for a moment. Dean twitched, boot heels thumping against
the wall, but he didn’t know where to go, what to protect, and it was easy for
Sam to snatch what was left of the cigarette out of his hand.
Sam hurt too much to notice those things. He hurt. His heart. His brain. His
lungs and stomach and legs and back. His eyes, tongue, lips. Ached with the
absolute: he’d missed his chance to mean anything to Dean again. He was never
going to be the thing that made Dean happy. Relaxed. He would never be what
Dean turned to after a ‘moment’. He was no good anymore. Somewhere along the
way, he’d fucked up, and he had no one but himself to blame. And to punish.
“What the fuck, Sam!” Dean cried, and smacked the cigarette out of his hand. It
bounced off the floor and rolled away somewhere. Already extinguished in Sam’s
left arm, it posed no danger.
Sam looked up at Dean, and then down at the deep hole high up on own his
forearm, then at Dean’s hand where it was grasping his wrist, twisting his limb
around. The all-over pain had receded, or rather, condensed into something
manageable, the angry wound a perfect focal point, a manifestation of how he
felt and was so much easier to deal with.
“Sammy.”
The word quivered, breathless and constricted, and Dean obviously didn’t
understand, and that was just how much more fucked up Sam was than his older
brother. Dean didn’t need him, and certainly didn’t need to do anything like
this. There were tears in Dean’s eyes. That’s how ashamed he was of Sam. Dean
wrenched Sam’s arm, looking, and the pain died under a wave of self-loathing so
strong Sam groaned.
“Let go, Dean.”
He just wanted to hide. He wanted to die. But Dean didn’t let go. He shoved
Sam’s sleeve up more, uncovering the days-old pockmarks at his elbow. The
months-healed ones along the inside of his bicep.
“Sam?”
Sam moved his fingers a little, and for one second he touched Dean’s arm,
slipped his fingers over Dean’s flesh, and he closed his eyes.
Jerking, the second was over and he was free, and he turned and ran.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Sam darted away, disappearing out of Dean’s grasp like a handful of sand. Dean
tensed to give chase, but the front door never made a sound. Sam was a runner;
God knows how many times he’d taken off, pissed at him or Dad. Sometimes state
lines didn’t even slow him down, let alone a screen door.
Dean frowned and padded as quietly as he could in boots across the kitchen and
surveyed the living room. His brother was a nut brown lump on the couch; his
head bowed, his skinny knees drawn inside the hoodie, his arms around them. He
was half-tipped over against the armrest.
“Sam?” Dean started, and jumped when Sam literally screamed at him, “Fuck you,
Dean!”
“Wow, drama queen, calm down, okay? I just—”
“Leave. Me. Alone!”
“You know what? No. I’m not gonna leave you alone. As a matter of fact,” he
said, and grabbed Sam’s arm, “get the fuck up. Stop acting like such a bitch.”
The word was barely out of his mouth when Sam lashed out at him, the top of his
foot smacking into his thigh and Dean cursed, but he caught Sam’s ankle and
jerked him onto his back. Sam flailed, peddling with both feet at Dean, aiming
with his heels. Dean almost lost his grip on Sam’s slick skin, and how could he
be sweating? He opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say was forgotten
when he caught sight of a dark line up the inside of Sam’s right calf. Sam’s
thrashing had pulled his sweats out of place and Dean’s hand pushed the
material up his shin even more.
“Jesus christ, Sam. Is that blood poisoning?”
He loosened his hold a bit when Sam struggled like he was trying to sit up and
look, but Sam just twisted out of his grasp completely and threw a right into
his ribs, making Dean cough, and it was on.
They fought like alley cats, hissing and thumping and all their limbs in play.
Dean was bigger, heavier, but their training was the same and Sam was all wiry
muscle and sharp bones and they were both panting and bruised before Dean got a
lucky hold and pinned Sam with his knees.
Dean knew the line wouldn’t start so high, or, god, he fucking hoped it wasn’t
up so high, but he had to see all of it.
Sam’s hoodie and tee shirt came off as one and there was a muffled protest when
it happened, but Dean just pushed hard with his knees and cut off the complaint
along with most of Sam’s air. He felt the material catch on something and the
horror of finding out it was stuck on Sam’s skin made Dean scramble off of him.
The clothes were inside out on the floor and Dean could see the yellow circles
of plasma on the white cloth. The tag was visible, and that meant somehow Sam
had been reaching over his shoulder and burning his back, as well as his ribs.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?” Dean growled. He reached out and
grabbed a handful of Sam’s tousled hair and yanked it hard. He felt sick. Or
something. Angry?
No. Jesus, he was scared. Scared like he hadn’t been in a very, very long time.
Sam didn’t react. His head went sideways, his neck even cracked, but he just
pulled away and huddled against the couch.
“My life, Dean. That’s what’s ‘wrong’ with me,” Sam replied. He was definitely
angry.
Dean shook his head, bewildered. “You’ve been…burning yourself? Really?”
“Yeah, so fucking what? I been burning myself, hurting myself on the outside.
You’re just doing it on the inside!”
“What are you talking about?”
When Sam looked at him like his brain must be missing and tucked his left arm
against his chest—and Dean knew the movement was unconscious—he did feel kind
of dumb.
“This—this is about me smoking?”
“You can’t see it, but it’s just like this. I know it is.”
Sam was crying. Actually crying. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen
his brother in tears. Might have been over a dog Dad made him leave in Arizona.
That was years ago. Dean had cried that day, too.
“Sam, that’s stupid. It’s not like this. This is gross.”
“Gross? You’re fucking gross! You smell gross, you look stupid doing it, too. I
hate it! I hate you!”
“No, you don’t,” Dean admonished, but there was something about the look in
Sam’s eye that made him afraid he might be wrong.
“I do, I hate you and I hate that I did this. Look! Look what I fucking did,
Dean!” Sam bawled and shoved his sweats down low and Dean almost puked. Now
that he knew what to look for, they’re everywhere. Daisies with all their
petals plucked off was the only comparison that came to mind.
He loves me not.
A raw, ugly red hole like a second belly button; Dean saw that first and just
knew it had happened tonight, and, oh, that feeling right there, that must be
where the term ‘heartache’ came from.
The infected one was easy to spot, just along the crease of Sam’s thigh, where
the seam of his underwear had rubbed at it for days, not allowed it to heal.
Dean could see the base of his cock peeping over the waistband of his sweats,
smooth and pale and much bigger than he remembered his own at fifteen, and Sam
was still yelling at him.
“Because of you! Because you won’t fucking quit. You don’t get it. You’re so
fucking dumb—”
He couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t process this, not with his wounded baby
brother crying and screaming at him. He needed it to stop. Needed to think, but
Sam just got closer to him and Dean could actually taste Sam’s tears in the
air, and when he called him dumb, stupid, asshole, he couldn’t take it.
On his feet suddenly, he had Sam by the throat before he knew what he was
doing, and for all Sam’s rage and ropy muscles and wild animal strength that
Dean was so proud of, that he loved so much about him, when Dean shook him, Sam
squeaked and went limp in his hands. But behind his leaking eyes there was an
explosion. Dean saw it happening and he wanted to look away, but he’d looked
away too much, too often, apparently. Something in Sam’s brain vapourised, made
his eyes go impossibly wide and round, his mouth fall open, and his jaw fought
with Dean’s hand for room. His throat expanded as he gasped, and worst of all,
Sam’s slender body canted upwards, his thighs spread and he bucked, grinding
himself hard on Dean’s thigh.
Dean couldn’t move. Neither of them could. Sam was pinned, and Dean was dead of
fright, his body suddenly stone hard in too many ways. Sam’s twisted, sweat-
curled locks were snakes and his face was beautiful and cursed, they’re both
cursed, and Dean kissed him. Fit his open mouth over Sam’s and thrust his
tongue in deep and he thought Sam screamed. It had to be a scream, after what
he’d just done.
“God. Fuck! Shit, Sammy—”
He flung his hands away as if he could throw them off his arms, the damned
things, but it was his legs he lost. They gave out, and Dean dropped to his
knees. He tried to, thought about at least, twisting around and pushing off,
up. Escaping.
Sam didn’t let him. He came off the couch and had his arms around Dean’s neck
and Dean was still stone, still hard. Sam’s thighs squeezed his ribs, monkeyed
onto Dean’s body. His lips were glistening from Dean’s tongue, and Dean went
cross-eyed watching them get close, closer. They touched his, and they were
soft and hot and Sam pressed them over and over against Dean’s. Kissing him,
making a tiny smacking noise each time and it was just about the sweetest thing
Dean could imagine. When he smiled, Sam ruined the innocence, slipped his
tongue between Dean’s lips. Wider than it had any right to be, Sam’s tongue
darted into his mouth, over his teeth and up under his lip and this time Dean
bucked, shoved his entire body at Sam. Lips and hip, hands and heart, all of it
needed to be closer to Samright now.
Dean’s hands tangled, clutching Sam’s neck, separated only to run over his
narrow shoulders—though they seemed to be growing broader by the second. Down
his arms, and he covered Sam’s fists with his palms, damnably pleased with how
tight his brother was holding on.
They were back on the couch, Sam’s body cupped, clinging to Dean’s. Dean must
have put them there, must have picked them up and pushed Sam down and leaned
over him, gotten in close enough that Sam could hitch his legs around Dean’s
hips. Dean held himself up on hands sunk into the cushions, but Sam’s back was
coming off the couch with the way he was pulling, so Dean lowered himself,
going to his elbows, and Sam was all tongue and clicking teeth in his mouth. He
loved having a part of Sam in him and wanted to be inside Sam. Wanted to be
wound up and bound, locked together. Wanted to be consumed. And Sam’s skin
against his was hot enough for it. Dean was holding an ember. A Sam-shaped
flame.
“Sam. Sammy. C’mon, little brother. Gotta stop. Sam.” He tried to talk Sam down
from however high he was and, by the saucered pupils and flushed cheeks and the
way he was biting and licking at Dean’s lips even as he spoke, he was pretty
fucking gone. Dean finally had to put his hand between them, over Sam’s mouth
and he nearly came in his jeans when Sam licked a long, slow stripe across it.
“Nnnmmnnuh,” Sam said under Dean’s hand.
“What?”
“Don’t stop. I don’t want to.”
“No, listen. That line in your leg could kill you. You know that, dude. We
gotta get you into a bath.”
“No! Dean—”
“Hey, hey. I’ll come with you. That what you want?”
Sam nodded, his bottom lip kiss-red and trembling. He looked down at his leg,
then back at Dean sheepishly. “It wasn’t there earlier. I would’ve noticed.”
“It’s okay. We just gotta soak it in Epsom salt and you’ll be fine. It’ll be
good for, for the rest of them. Sam?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t. Don’t do this. Burning. Don’t burn yourself anymore.”
He wanted Sam to agree, to nod eagerly and let Dean take care of him and
eventually this would all be a vague memory. At least Sam’s pain would be.
Hopefully. Dean didn’t know what he wanted to do about the rest of it.
Sam didn’t agree. Didn’t even nod. He just narrowed his eyes and held out his
hand. Dean clasped it and pulled him to his feet, and Sam didn’t let go, and
Dean didn’t make him. Dean was led to the bathroom, but once inside, Dean had
to shake him free. Sam moved behind him, blocking the door, and for some reason
that made Dean smirk. The darkness of the bathroom hid it, and the red heat
lamp/fan combo camouflaged his blush when he had to reach behind Sam to flick
it on and Sam didn’t move; he made Dean curl his arm around him, and Sam tilted
his face up towards Dean, offering the long line of his neck and, fuck, where
had he learned to be such a tease?
The family’s ‘essential toiletries’ duffel was against the wall. They each had
their own kit, but this was where Dad kept the big stuff and extras. Bottles of
rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, ACE bandages. Hair clippers, a wad
of plastic bags, a box of neoprene gloves, and the carton of Epsom salt. It was
nearly full and, Sam watching his every move, Dean plugged the bathtub, ran the
water hot, and dumped in half the carton of salt.
“Take your clothes off.”
“I’m not getting in the bath, Sammy. No way that’d fit both of us.”
Sam smiled at him, the red shade overhead smearing his teeth with blood. “I
know. Haven’t had a bath together in ten years.”
“Yeah, I guess not. You remember? You were, like, five.”
“I remember. Anything with you, I remember.”
Kneeling, looking up at Sam, Dean believed him. Believed there was a catalogue
inside this kid’s brain of every book Dean’d read to him before he could do it
himself, every rock and roll song he’d sung to Sam in lieu of a lullaby. Every
dead arm and headlock and shared bowl of cereal; Sam probably had a fucking
photographic memory when it came to Dean.
Not that Dean didn’t remember things. But it was more…feelings. A feeling.
There was With-Sam and Without-Sam, and the second of those two was
intolerable. Unacceptable.
Dean unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it at Sam’s feet, and then pulled his tee
shirt over his head and threw that, too. He pulled his boots free, fumbling
with the knots in the shadows, and they sailed through the doorway along with
his socks. Instead of standing, Dean fell back on his butt and thumbed his
jeans open. He looked down while was doing it, out of habit, and when he looked
up, Sam was right next to him.
“Please?”
“Yeah, Sam. I am.”
His jeans came off and he was naked underneath. He crossed his legs and let Sam
look at him, very aware of the head of his cock tapping against his belly in
time with his racing heartbeat.
“Dean, do you love me?”
“What do you think, dum-dum?”
“I don’t know sometimes. You don’t act like it.”
“What, you want flowers?”
Sam ducked his head, hiding his face in the crimson shadows, but his grin was
audible. “No. Jerk. I don’t know, Dean. I just… I… Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean replied and shifted up onto his knees. He caught the waistband of
Sam’s sweatpants and tugged them down.
“Oh,” he said, and Sam gasped.
He’d seen Sam naked, sure. But he hadn’t ever really looked. But still, how had
he not noticed this?
“I’m weird, I know.”
“What? No, Sammy. That’s…fucking wow.”
Dean touched his finger to the hanging head of his little brother’s cock, and
Sam gasped again and it jumped, and a fat drop of precum pulsed from the tip
and dripped slowly to the floor between Dean’s knees.
“We’re different,” Sam said, and he sounded incredibly sad about it.
“Um… It’s okay. I mean, so what? You, uh. This is perfect. It’s not weird at
all.”
“It’s not? I haven’t seen guys with dicks that go the wrong way.”
“Okay, not that I’ve gone out of my way to, but I’ve seen ’em. And it’s not a
big deal. It’s… I think it’s cool. Gonna be big,” Dean said, awed and not even
ashamed that he was. “C’mon, get in. Here, wait—”
He pushed the faucet off, leaned over the edge and swept his hand along the
bottom of the tub, dissolving the last of the Epsom salt, hissing at how hot
the water was. Better to draw out the toxins, though.
“Fuck,” Sam groaned as he stepped in. “Jesus christ, Dean. I thought this was
about not being burned. Shit.”
“Just go slow,” Dean said. Or, he thought about saying. What he actually did
was sit up and suck Sam’s heavy, silken cock into his mouth.
There was a squeal of toes on porcelain and a gentle slosh of bathwater as Sam
reacted, but Dean just moved with him, didn’t let him get away, slip out of his
mouth. He pulled, hollowing his cheeks and rolling his tongue around and he
waited for Sam to settle. He should have been waiting for Sam to punch him, to
laugh at him and tell him this was all a joke and wasn’t he ashamed and how
fucked up was he, really? Dean could have been waiting for the earth to open up
and send him plummeting straight to Hell because he was giving his fifteen-
year-old brother a blowjob and wanted to be doing it, loved it even, and he
might have blown his brains out way before now if he’d known how easily his own
dick would get hard, how fast, after catching the barest glimpse of Sam’s. He
wouldwonder if he should be committed when he remembered that Sam’s tears had
helped the matter.
Sam had cried so much as a baby. It had driven their dad nuts and into a
whiskey bottle and sometimes into a car and as far away as he could from the
bawling infant, not knowing that as soon as Dean picked Sammy up like his dad
had told him not to, that it would be ‘giving in’, or some shit, ‘teaching the
kid to cry to get what he wants’, Sam would stop. Dean could make Sam stop
crying. It was his one gift, the one thing that made Dean feel special, feel
important.
Somewhere along the way, Sam had quit crying and Dean had lost that sense of
purpose. Lost a big part of what little reason he had to live.
Seeing Sam cry tonight, realising that it was because of him, because he needed
something from Dean again like Dean was sure he never would, that had given him
a rush of pleasure so intense, so immediate, he had gotten dizzy. Gotten hard.
And he had kissed Sam and that was probably bad, and this was worse, the way
Sam was edging forward, pushing his cock over Dean’s tongue and down his throat
cautiously; this was probably very, very bad.
But Dean wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t waiting or wondering or worrying, and Sam
wasn’t giving him any reason to. Sam was thick and silent and looking down at
him with eyes Dean had only ever seen someone make in an x-rated foreign film
some college freshman chick had gotten him to watch in San Diego.
Sam was looking at Dean like he owned him.
Sam wasn’t wrong.
He let Sam bump against the back of his throat a few times before he swallowed
just to make him moan, and then he pulled back. Sam reached for him but Dean
sat on his heels and floated a hand on the bathwater.
“It’s hot, but you gotta, Sam.”
Dean’s eyes had adjusted to the red light mixed with the dim glow coming in
from the living room and he could just see the burns on Sam’s body as he eased
himself into the water, grimacing. He winced when the worst one went under.
“That’s it, baby boy. Salt water will fix you up.”
“I hate this stuff,” Sam breathed, sweating already.
“Why?” Dean asked, putting a hand on Sam’s forehead. Sam shrugged and didn’t
reply to the question.
“Do I have a fever?”
“Maybe. Sammy, man… Why? I mean, I heard you in there, but—”
“Touch me.” Sam bobbed his hips up, floating, his cock startlingly pale in the
weird light.
The water was soft, almost gel-like from the magnesium, and Sam was so smooth
in his hand. Stone again; they both were, and Dean shifted onto his knees,
pressing his cock against the cool porcelain as he slipped loose fingers along
Sam’s length. Petting, stroking, learning, memorising.
“Why aren’t you freaking out about this?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know. Do you want me to?”
“No. But. But, Dean…I’ve always…”
“What, Sam?” But he wasn’t really curious other than Sam wanted him to listen,
so he would.
“I’m gay, I think.”
“You like guys more than girls?”
Sam was watching Dean’s hand, frowning thoughtfully. He took a deep breath and
held it when Dean palmed the head of his dick and squeezed gently.
“I—oh god—I’ve never liked anyone but you.”
Dean sat back on his heels and laid his chin on his arm. The late night, the
heat of the water, and the thrill of…all this…had worn him out. He wasn’t
tired. Just calm. And happy. “Really? Nobody?”
“There was a girl. Um, I met her on a hunt. I know she liked me. She wanted me
to run away with her.”
Dean bit the inside of his cheek. “Why didn’t you?”
“You would have found me.”
“Damn right I would have.”
“So…”
“Does it matter? If you like dudes or not? Would you have run off if it had
been a studly quarterback instead of some chick?”
Sam laughed, a desperate, weak sound, and his hand found Dean’s, ran up his
arm. Touched hot fingers to his neck and pulled himself forward and Dean didn’t
know if it was sweat or tears or bath water, but Sam’s kiss was salty-sweet.
Dean leaned into it, tilting his head so Sam could lick at his molars. He kept
leaning, pushing Sam back until he was reclining again, was stretched out, and
they were connected only at their mouths and Dean’s hand on his brother’s cock.
He tightened his grip, stroking firmly from base to tip, and again, and it was
like pumping a shotgun and wasn’t that just the sexiest comparison ever? He
kept the rhythm up, varying his touch from tight to loose, quick to just a slow
teasing drag, until Sam was shaking under his hand, his lips knocking
mindlessly against Dean’s, then his head fell back to the tile and he could
only stare at Dean like he’d lost his mind, expression somehow vacant and wild
at the same time. Dean smiled at him and kissed his lax mouth.
He was so hard in Dean’s hand, and Dean trailed his wet, softening fingers
along the arcing underside. Even suspended in water, it was heavy. Sam was just
starting to get a smattering of hairs on his chest, but his curls down there
were thick and dark and Dean tugged on them and Sam bit his lip and opened his
legs. The invitation was obvious. Keeping his thumb hooked over the top his
cock, Dean spread his fingers wide and worked them down, catching Sam’s sac
between two fingers and pulling gently. His pinky and then his ring finger
found Sam’s hole and the first touch there made Sam squirm.
“Shh, baby boy,” Dean soothed.
He played, watching Sam’s expressions riot. Dean went slowly and didn’t
penetrate, eventually concentrating there and nowhere else. Sam bit his lip
when Dean released his cock but made no complaints. Dean caressed, smoothed,
pushed and pinched, using his thumb to circle the hot, tight button, then
flipping his hand around and gliding his middle finger over it and past it
again and again, teasing Sam with just how long his fingers were, how far he
could slide inside him if he wanted to.
Sam moaned and suddenly his ass slipped off the bottom and he might have gone
under if Dean hadn’t shot his other hand out and grabbed him by the throat.
There wasn’t anywhere else to get a hold of, and just as before, it seemed to
set Sam off like nothing Dean had ever seen. His back arched and he let Dean
hold him, pin him, and his eyes clamped shut, fluttered as he tried to open
them, to see Dean, but he couldn’t manage it. The water sloshed, some spilling
onto Dean’s legs as Sam struggled and heaved in his grasp and Dean brushed
across his asshole again, pressing firmly, letting just the blunt tip of his
thumb open Sam up, and then he laughed, pleased with himself when Sam came from
the sensation.
Come jetted from his little brother’s cock, pearling in the water and bobbing
like a school of tiny jellyfish, clinging to Sam’s leg hair and Dean’s arm, and
Dean pulled Sam by his throat up to sitting again. Sam caught his wrist and
guided his hand around to the back of his neck and leaned to kiss Dean, but it
was more of just an opened mouth pant into Dean’s lungs, shuddery and shaped
like Dean’s name.
Sam felt cool again, at least more than he had forty-five minutes ago.
“Hey,” Dean said against Sam’s cheek. “You wanna get out? Let’s see that leg.”
Sam nodded and Dean helped him up, but in the red glow there wasn’t any way to
tell how much of the infection the Epsom salt had pulled out of his system.
“Gonna turn the light on.”
The white light was ugly compared to the rose of the little world they’d been
occupying and they both squinted at each other for a moment, and Dean realised
he was very, very naked and just as hard. Painfully so. He moved back to Sam
quickly and knelt again, hiding what he could.
“It looks better,” he announced. It did. The line had receded to just a few
inches in length and wasn’t as dark as it had been. “We should do it again in a
bit when the hot water’s refilled enough.” He poked at a gummed up glob of come
stuck in Sam’s leg hair. “Might wanna rinse with what’s left, get this off
before it turns to cement.”
Sam didn’t reply so Dean had to look up at him. He was wiped out, that much was
obvious. Dark circles under his springtime eyes, and he was breathing heavily
through his slack jaw. The newest of his burns were puffy and white-edged, but
the salt seemed to have helped and none of them were red-rimmed.
“God, Sam,” Dean said before he could think about it, stop himself, “you’re
beautiful. Don’t fuck yourself up anymore, please.”
“Yeah,” Sam finally replied, but he still wasn’t agreeing. He reached back and
pulled the knob on the water and flicked the shower pull up and Dean had to
scramble back to keep from being sprayed. Sam snapped the curtain closed and it
was a tan wall between the two of them.
Alone and stunned, Dean found himself in his jeans again and heading to his
jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs before he realised what he was
doing.
He was still standing there five minutes later, halfway to the kitchen, when
Sam came up to him. He smelled like Ivory soap and his green deodorant stick
and his hair was a fluffy-damp mess hanging in his eyes. He’d dug a clean tee
shirt out a bag—Dean’s bag apparently because he also had on Dean’s grey
hoodie. It had been washed in the previous town and Dean hadn’t worn it since,
but he could smell cigarette smoke coming off of it.
Dean licked dry lips with a sticky tongue and tried to smile.
“You want one, don’t you?” Sam asked.
Dean said nothing.
“Dean, make a deal with me?”
His throat was tight, but he managed to work “Okay, Sammy,” through it.
“You can have one if you burn me with it.”
Dean felt the blood drain from his face. “No—”
“Or you fuck me. Come inside me.”
“S-Sam—” Apparently the blood had elsewhere to be.
“You gonna quit? Cold turkey? After all this? No cigarettes, no me?”
“I—” His brain wouldn’t work.
“If you don’t, I’ll do it myself. I’ll burn myself. I’ll let some other guy
fuck me.”
“No—” Unacceptable.
“I’ll burn myself every day and get someone else to do what you’re too chicken
to do.”
This was impossible. Sam was impossible. He was crying again: slow,
technicolour drops as the TV’s light danced over him, and he must have learned
the look on his face from the television, too. Chin tucked, eyes up and
shining, bottom lip glossy as he sucked it in and out of his mouth, and he was
doing it again: edging closer to Dean with his body angled, as if his dick were
a magnet and Dean was true north.
And just like that, Dean was freaking out. He wanted to punch Sam, wanted to
bash his face for being so stupid and sensitive and weird and for being his
brother. He wanted to eat his feelings and drink a bottle of whisky and shoot
guns and he hoped their dad never came back because oh god what then, what now,
after this? This. What happened? How? He was supposed to protect Sam, watch out
for him, and where the fuck was he that he didn’t notice his brother was…what,
queer? Into incest? Sam would most definitely say ‘in love’, and somehow that
was worse! Dean wasn’t someone to be in love with. He was fucked up and half-
crazy on a good day, and the last hour and some was the best he’d ever felt in
his life, jerking off his self-destructive little brother.
“Dean!” Sam cried out, but Dean was fast. He’d always been faster than Sammy.
The Impala was much faster.
The road ended and Dean almost didn’t stop. Almost stomped the pedal, took down
the rail, and he and Baby would have tumbled end over end to the rocks and
waves below.
Then it’s Hell for you, boy. Straight to Hell for touching your brother. For
wanting to do it again.
He shivered, braked and got out of the car. The trunk had a couple dirty spare
shirts and an old army jacket. He donned those, having left his own back on
that chair, on the floor of the bathroom where he’d made Sammy tremble and come
and had kissed him.
Dean closed his eyes; there was no difference between that darkness, the black
sea, and the black car before him. He patted his pockets.
His own voice startled him, a wordless growl of rage and confusion and need.
Fuck, he needed.
But what?
***** Chapter 3 *****
Sam was on the couch again, sprawled out and laid back, looking so normal. All
his burns hidden by the hoodie and his sweatpants, and his hair and eyes were
dry. What had happened an hour ago could have been a dream. A shared
hallucination.
Dean stepped into the middle of the room, the kitchen and his jacket with the
fucking cigarettes in the pocket to his right, and Sam to his left, and he
looked at the floor in front of him. For a while neither of them moved, then
Sam twitched a knee in his bored, teenage way and Dean sighed.
“You’re crazy,” Dean said.
“You kissed me.”
It wasn’t an accusation, Dean could tell that much. It was simply something
true. “I know.”
“You’re going to do it again.” Another truth.
“Oh, you’re fuckin’ psychic now, huh?”
“Why’d you come back?”
“I… Sam. Where would I go?”
“Away from me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why’d you leave, then?”
“I…fuckin’—what the fuck, Sammy? This is—what the fuck is going on?”
“You came back.”
“Yeah. How’s your leg?”
Sam moved forward and Dean suddenly saw in the spindly boy the man he would
become. He could imagine the easy grace Sam would possess once he was past his
growth spurts. He could see the hollows and too-long bones as places to be
filled with muscle. The impatience would become determination and he would need
that to get through life because he would never have it easy. Dean didn’t know
how he knew that, and he wished he didn’t, but that was something true, too.
“Definitely better,” Sam informed him and pulled the pant leg back into place.
“Sam. Just once?”
Sam frowned at him. “Once? Wha—oh. No. Way more than once.”
Dean stepped towards him, away from the kitchen. “We can’t go back. This. This
is it.”
“You’d go back?”
Dean shook his head, a tiny movement.
“I’ll die if you take it back.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He knew it was just angst talking. Only it wasn’t.
This was Sam, and Dean couldn’t take that chance.
“Don’t say that, Sam.”
“I might have let it kill me if you hadn't noticed,” he said, looking down at
his leg, picking at the elastic cuff around his ankle.
“Sammy—”
“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of Dad. I’m sick of me, Dean. You’re sick of me—”
“That’s bullshit.”
Sam let his head fall back against the couch and glared at the ceiling. “Is it?
I mean, it was like one day you just stopped.”
“What?”
“Needing me.”
“That—that’s not true. You’re my brother.”
“So?”
“So… What?”
“You need cigarettes more than me.”
“Wh—what the hell, Sam? That’s stupid. What are you even talking about?”
Sam’s fists balled up and he banged them against his thighs suddenly. Dean took
two quick steps towards him.
“Hey, Sam, listen. It’s okay, you know?”
The fists went to Sam’s face, knuckled into his eyes and he hunched over his
knees, and even the memory of speed and lithe strength and sneak attacks didn’t
keep Dean from crossing the room to his side.
“Sammy, c’mon. I do, okay? I’m here, right? I mean, I…I fuckin’ came back for
you, didn’t I?”
Dean put a hand on Sam’s back. The boy was a knot of steel cable, pulled to the
snapping point and vibrating under the stress.
“You used to fucking care about me,” Sam grated into his knees. “You used to
like me!” Somehow Sam managed to tense even more. Awkwardly, Dean patted him.
“Of course I like you—” he tried to assure Sam, but there was a flash of bared
teeth and raging-sea eyes, and he found himself on the floor. He grunted when
his tailbone banged on the hardwood and looked incredulously up from where Sam
had shoved him.
“Then prove it,” Sam demanded. “Fuck me, and don’t smoke anymore.”
“What does smok—”
“Goddammit!”
Dean saw this blow coming and ducked. He snagged Sam’s sleeve, hauling his
brother off the couch and down, and slapped him hard. He didn’t know what he
expected that to accomplished, but Sam’s rage still caught him by surprise.
With eerie silence, Sam fought him, and in the end, Dean was sure it was only
exhaustion that let him win. They both had bloody noses, and Dean a split lip,
and Sam would have a shiner tomorrow—later today—man, the sun was gonna be up
soon. He was straddling Sam, his brother below him gasping for breath. On his
side, chest down, one arm trapped beneath it, Sam’s hip bone was digging into
Dean’s crotch, and for a minute he continued to try to heave Dean off of him,
but Dean kept him pinned.
“Why are you like this?” Dean asked, wiping blood onto his own shoulder to keep
it from running into his mouth.
“Why are you?” came the huffed answer.
“Why am I what?” Dean shouted, frustrated. He shook Sam, bouncing his face off
the floor. The noise Sam made at that shouldn’t have turned Dean on like it
did, but there it was.
Maybe that’s what Sam was talking about.
He’d gone still finally, his hair cutting across his forehead and cheek and he
had some in his eyes. Dean squeezed him tight with his thighs to hold him still
while he freed one hand to brush it back, but Sam moaned again as Dean crushed
the breath from him and he rolled as much as he could to rub his ass up against
Dean, and the palm Dean had meant to brush with he leaned on instead, grinding
Sam’s face against the floor even more, just to hear him respond. His hand
moved the hair, but only to get a handful of it close to Sam’s scalp, and he
tugged. Sam whimpered, and Dean gave up. Gave in.
Gripping his hair even harder—and, jesus, the noises that were coming out of
Sam now—Dean wrapped his other hand around his little brother’s throat. A high
pitched whine, and Sam collapsed under Dean, all the fight leaving him. Dean
leaned over and put his mouth to Sam’s jaw, scraping with his teeth, and he
could see Sam’s eye roll to look at him.
“Sammy,” he said, nipping at Sam’s cheek, at his ear, “is this what you want?
This why you’re hurting yourself?”
Sam made a noise of assent, his free hand scrabbling at the floor absently.
“I don't get it,” Dean admitted. “If you think you’re bad, that this is bad,
and you hurt yourself, how is it gonna make anything better?”
“Y-you,” Sam gasped out.
“Me? You…you just want me?”
Sam stuttered his name, arching, needing to breathe and Dean rocked up and off,
but he didn’t let go, and he didn’t let him stand. By the hair, he dragged Sam
around to face him, to his knees.
“Sam, you will not fucking burn yourself anymore.”
“Okay, Dean,” Sam whispered. He was practically letting Dean hold him upright
by his hair, resting limply on his knees, hands in his lap.
Dean put his other hand to Sam’s face. On his lips, nails scratching at the
blood there. Brushed over his eyes, over the bruise already showing, feeling
reverential, like he was touching something that wasn’t supposed to exist,
something unreal. Maybe he was. And it was his. Sam was his. Dean knew about
the unreal, and the difference was, it was all ugly. Horrid and cruel and
malicious. Sam was none of those things. He was kind and beautiful and it was a
sick joke the universe was playing on Dean, he was sure of it, that not only
was Sam his brother, but Sam loved him. Wanted him.
It would eventually fall apart, Dean knew. There was no way he could keep
something so precious as Sam. He didn’t deserve it. Sam would see that
eventually. Everyone would. But for now, if this is what Sam wanted, Dean would
give it to him.
He pushed his fingers into Sam’s mouth.
“Dad’s gonna kill us if he finds out,” Dean mused, watching Sam suck with lips
the colour of bubble gum.
Sam looked up at him, eyes a mosaic of all Dean’s favourite colours. He
searched Dean’s face before a smile ghosted his lips, come and gone so fast
Dean almost missed it. Was missing something, he knew. He let Sam pull off his
fingers, a trail of spit from the tips to Sam’s chin.
“No, he won’t. I’d like to see him try.”
Dean swallowed around the fear seething in his stomach, then forgot all about
it when Sam reached for him.
“Gonna suck my dick, little brother?”
Sam rolled his eyes, but that was exactly what he was going to do. Dean’s jeans
were unbuttoned and tugged on. He spread his legs, not letting Sam take them
all the way down. Sam frowned at him.
“Still gotta go somewhere,” Dean said, and winked. “Focus, Sam. Don’t worry
about it.”
“What do yo—mmm,” Sam started, but Dean bumped his cock against his lips. He
bit back a laugh at Sam’s annoyed glare.
“Just open your mouth.”
The glare faded and Sam shifted nervously. Dean loosened his grip on Sam’s hair
and touched his cheek instead, thumbing over and into the dimple there, feeling
Sam’s neat, even teeth through the soft skin. Thank God neither of them had a
fucked up grill; there’s no way Dad would have been able to afford braces in
his line of work. No, they were lucky. Came out handsome and strong, and Sam
was gonna be both those things in spades the older he got.
Dean wiggled his thumb against Sam’s cheek, pressing it into his teeth.
“Open,” he said again because Sam was still sitting there, just looking. Dean
felt Sam’s jaw relax, and he pushed harder and Sam made a noise in his throat.
This kid is going to be the death of me, Dean thought as the head of his cock
popped Sam’s lips apart.
Within a few minutes, he had to close his eyes. Sam was shameless. Gagging
enough to make his eyes water, drooling until his stroking, greedy, grasping
hands were sticky and dripping, what he lacked in finesse he made up for with
sheer enthusiasm. He worked Dean’s cock like it was a lifeline, hand over hand,
and with a suckling mouth. Dean had to let go and close his eyes and think
about hockey or he was gonna grab Sam’s head and hold him still and facefuck
his way through this until Sam was breathless and sore-throated, because Dean
had something more in mind.
He let Sam work him into that state he knew all too well, that flat-line
thought pattern that was all action and instinct. He had not to think too much
about what they were doing because this was going to fuck them both up. Not
that they already hadn’t gone too far, but they were gonna go all the way and
Dean hadn’t been lying when he’d said they couldn’t go back once they did. This
was different. This was…this was everything. Everything he wanted. Had always
wanted. He’d hid from it, lied to himself about it, let Dad dictate and set
rules, and Dean had tried very, very hard to distract himself from it, and he
might have succeeded. But Sam. Dean hated that he’d allowed himself to ignore
Sam to the point it had come to this. Sam was hurt and sick and who knew what
else because Dean had dropped the ball, had let arbitrary rules that couldn’t
ever really apply to them keep them apart.
Dean let Sam do what he wanted, let the kid show him exactly how he felt, and
Dean waited until Sam had emptied himself, exhausted his stunted fantasies and
his knowledge base and was hanging off his dick like a fish on a hook,
wriggling, frustrated, and needy, and then Dean did what he knew how to do,
what he’d been practicing for, apparently.
“Sammy,” he said, feeling like he was three shots in and cocaine-high: palms
burning-numb when he caught Sam’s chin, caressed his throat, pulled him off his
cock. He grinned down at his dazed brother, thumb dragging his mouth even more
open, smearing through the spit collected at the corners of his lips, on his
chin. “Get up. On the couch. Stay there.”
Sam nodded, licking Dean’s fingers before he took them away. He didn’t bother
standing, just kneed around and collapsed onto the couch.
“Dean?”
“Yeah. Get naked for me. I’ll be right back.”
He tucked himself away just enough to tug his pants to his hips, and went to
the front door. The cool night air didn’t even register on his skin as he
walked on his toes to the Impala. There was a duffel behind his seat and he
snagged it, and gave Sam another thirty seconds to do as he’d been told.
Dean locked the door behind him when he entered the cottage. Locked the world
out.
Sam was naked. He was bathed in dimly flickering shadows, long-limbed and thin
and smiling like Dean imagined the Devil would. Like he knew much more than
Dean wanted him to; watching under lowered lashes like he always knew Dean
would give him what he wanted and it amused him to see Dean’s resistance
finally broken.
Dean was still hard. Would take more than a quick break to quell this, and way
more than a trip to his car. Shit, sometimes the Impala gave him wood.
He went slowly, watching Sam. Not that he expected any last minute panic or
change of mind; he just wanted to watch. Look, like he’d denied himself for so
long now.
His brother was blurry; at that delicate age where his cheeks were still soft
and a little round and his chest was too thin for his shoulders, legs a mile
long and baby-horse awkward sometimes, but the cock between them belonged to a
man, as did the light in Sam’s eyes as Dean stopped in front of him. Dean
looked. He saw. Saw how much he’d missed by being afraid. Things had happened
to Sam which Dean hadn’t been a part of, and he wasn’t going to let that keep
happening if he could help it. And this was his promise of that to himself, and
to Sam.
He dropped the duffel and stood over Sam. “Turn around.”
The knowing smile faltered. “W-what? What’s in the bag?”
“It’s a good thing I made you take a shower. Turn around.”
Hesitantly, trying to watch Dean over his shoulder, Sam turned and knelt on the
cushions. Dean dropped his pants and kicked them away. “Lean over.”
“De—”
Dean grabbed the back of his neck and forced him forward against the back of
the couch. Sam bleated a surprised cry into the cushions, and then another when
Dean smacked his ass.
“So goddamned defiant, Sammy. Always gotta question everything. You’re gonna do
what I say when we do this, though. Understand?” He squeezed Sam’s neck for
emphasis, and the Yes came out a broken sigh when Dean moved his other hand
from his ass cheek to the gap between and curled the tip of his middle finger
against and into his hole. Keeping it there, he twisted his hand around and
knelt, reaching for the bag. The bottle of lube was easy to find. He kept it in
the car because that was the one place he had the most privacy. Couldn’t count
how many times he’d jerked off in the Impala, parked down alleyways or off side
roads, taking a few extra minutes to himself when Dad sent him out on recon or
a literal milk run. He was gonna take Sam with him, next time.
Dean dropped the bottle on the couch, letting it roll into Sam’s leg. Sam
looked down under his arm to see what was touching him, cold from being
outside.
“Oh,” he said.
Dean snorted. “Yeah. Oh, is right.”
Sam said it again when Dean knelt behind him and put his tongue alongside his
finger, inside. He made variations of the sound when Dean added another finger
a few minutes later, ones that were scared and overwhelmed, and Dean did
everything he could think of to keep those noises coming.
The bottle was warmer from Sam’s skin, but the lube inside was still cold and
Sam tensed and jumped forward, off Dean’s fingers, when he felt the first drop
hit his skin, but Dean didn’t let him get away, reaching between Sam’s legs,
catching his cock and dragging him back. It was rigid and weeping and bobbing
between his thighs and the way it hung so heavy, like—like a fucking horse,
Dean had to admit, was so hot. He abandoned Sam’s ass for a moment and
maneuvered Sam until his legs were closed, his dick trapped behind them, the
long length of the sensitive underside exposed.
“Jesus, Sammy,” he breathed, palming Sam’s tight balls and running slick
fingers along his pale cock. Sam was ruddy-skinned like their father and was
still tan from summer, holding onto the sun where Dean was pale by the first of
October. Soccer shorts had let his thighs brown, but his cock was so white.
Like Dean imagined ivory to be, and tucked between his long brown legs it
looked alien and so, so fucking sexy. Dean clamped Sam’s thighs together and
licked a long stripe from tip to base, and kissed his way down, lapping up the
drooling pre-come before sucking the head into his mouth and tugging it back
even more so he could nurse at it.
Sam had gone silent, face pressed into his arms while Dean worked as much of
his cock as he could into his throat, but when Dean started tonguing at his
slit, he tossed his head back and howled a pathetic warning that had Dean
laughing with his dick in his mouth, and Sam twitched with embarrassment,
glaring over his shoulder and trying to edge away from Dean’s hold.
“Okay, baby boy,” Dean snickered. A few more licks and he let Sam be as he
retrieved the leaking bottle again. Coating his fingers, he slipped one inside
Sam with no warning. Knuckle deep, he added another even as Sam squawked and
hissed. Scissoring his fingers in Sam’s tight hole, he drizzled more lube
slowly onto his fingers, working it inside Sam’s body until there was a
noticeable deficit in the bottle.
“C’mere,” Dean said when he was satisfied with his work. He lifted Sam by the
waist and turned them both around, sitting down on the couch, Sam in his lap.
It wasn’t easy anymore. Sam was gonna be as tall as him any day now, and though
he was still thin, the breadth of shoulders and hips was there, and his hands
where they reached for Dean’s face were small, but long fingered and broad
palmed, and that fucking cock of his…
Something giddy and curious whistled through Dean. But for now:
“Feel that, Sammy,” he asked, thrusting his cock along his brother’s nubby
spine. “Gonna get that all up inside you. Doesn’t even feel like there's enough
of you to take it.”
“Fuck,” Sam moaned.
“Yup. Gonna fuck you. Never been with a boy before. Fucked a few girls up the
ass.”
“Uh,” Sam panted.
“They seemed to really like it. You’re gonna love it, baby boy. Never fucked
without a condom before, either. You’re gonna be my first.”
Sam squirmed when Dean’s hands tightened on his body, gripping his chest and
squeezing his throat.
“Wish you were my first, Sam. Wish it’d never been anyone but you. Know that?”
Sam tried to swallow past Dean’s hand but couldn’t. He shook his head weakly.
“Yeah, well, I do. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, huh?” The last of that was
said into Sam’s ear and followed by Dean’s tongue tip. He felt goosebumps break
out over Sam’s body and his brother sobbed. Like, an actual crying-sob.
“It’s okay. Hey, really. I just. Sam. I’ll always be here for you, okay?”
A nod, and then Dean’s tongue was back in his ear, flicking around the shell
and lapping at the sensitive folds until Sam thrashed in earnest.
“Dean, fuck! Please.”
“Jerk off for me, baby. I wanna see. Just a little bit.”
Once upon a time, Sam’s fingers had been stubby and fat and always sticky and
dirty and always, always grabbing at Dean. At his then-long, blond hair, at his
(always) plaid shirts, at his food, his drinks, his toys, and Dean had mostly
given it all over to Sam. Now he watched those fingers, transformed, wrap
around an unbelievable cock and pull on it. Elegant and trembling, they
caressed and teased, didn’t just grip. Sam used the pads of his fingers to
tease the underside, his thumb to massage the head, smearing precome around
until it was glossy, and he turned his hand over, thumb now running along the
bottom of the shaft, squeezing along the tube to coax more of the slick out of
him.
“Fuckin’ perfect, Sam. You think about me when you do this?”
“Yeah…”
“What about?”
“Dean…”
“Tell me. Just one thing. Then I’ll fuck you like you want.”
“Oh. Um, I—I wanna come in your mouth some day. I think a—oh—about your mouth
so much. Your lips. Have your mouth open and just let me jerk off and come on
your tongue and lips, and kiss you after.”
Sam’s eyes were closed as he said it, so he couldn’t see Dean’s stunned
expression or the way he licked his lips like he did a dozen times a day, now
wondering how many times Sam had gotten hard watching him do it.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough in his chest suddenly, “we can make that
happen now, can’t we? First—”
He swept Sam’s hand away from his cock and jerked him around to straddle his
lap, turning them sideways. Sam’s eyes flew wide, gold and blue like the dawn
breaking outside the windows, and he scrambled to adjust himself where Dean was
trying to force him. One leg was tucked between Dean and the back of the couch,
the other on the outside edge, but Dean knocked it down, made him balance
himself with one foot to the floor as Dean reached behind him and gripped his
own cock.
Those amazing eyes, terrified and trusting. Dean grabbed Sam’s hair again and
dragged his head down, teeth almost cutting as he kissed Sam before burying the
kid’s face against his neck, ’cause those fucking eyes were going to ruin him.
Holding him like that, Dean nudged himself along Sam’s crotch until he found
that place, sloppy wet now, and so very hot, and he slicked his hand with the
excess, stroking his cock with it as he wiggled closer in, up, into Sam. A
sharp inhalation from his brother didn’t stop him from pushing.
“Gonna fuck you now, okay? You still want this? Want your big brother to fuck
your little virgin ass, Sammy?”
Sam nodded against his neck, mouth against Dean’s skin. Dean closed his eyes
and concentrated on the angle, baring down with the heel of his hand on Sam’s
hip as he arched up slowly, and he felt teeth.
“C’mon, Sam. You can do this. Show me how much you want me to fuck you. It’s
gonna hurt some. Shh, shh, wait, there. See, it hurts, huh?”
“Dean, s-stop. Stop talking,” Sam panted into his ear.
“Make me,” Dean said, turning his head quickly, biting Sam’s cheek. “Fuckin’
make me shut up.”
Dean tensed, forcing his cock to jump where it was being swallowed by Sam’s
tight ass. Sam groaned helplessly and pressed his mouth over Dean’s, thrusting
his tongue, and Dean sucked, dragging Sam’s tongue inside him hard enough it
hurt there, too, and he wrapped his arms around Sam’s middle when he struggled.
He pumped his hips once, slipping forcefully past that spot he knew was the
worst, and he bit down when Sam ripped his mouth away, his teeth close to
drawing blood.
“Dean!” Sam cried, and Dean saw tears fill his eyes.
“What, baby? You like pain, I thought. Fuckin’ burning yourself. Little freak,”
Dean hissed, pinning him with one arm now, grabbing a fistful of hair with his
other hand. He yanked Sam’s head back and parted his legs, going up onto his
heels in one hard shove that drove him into Sam, forcing him wide open.
Sam was big, yeah, but Dean was still bigger.
Sam’s mouth rounded in a wordless scream and he pushed on Dean’s chest so hard
he broke his brother’s hold. Back bowed, he let Dean wrench his head to the
side as he began to buck his hips.
“That’s it, Sammy. Fuck. Make it feel good,” Dean growled, his kisses between
words all teeth on lips. Sam was giving it right back, scratching and keening
so loud Dean was sure there was a particular pitch he was never going to hear
again.
“Hurts more than what you were doin’? I can make it hurt every time if you need
me to. You want that, you get it here. From me, you got it?”
Sam didn’t answer. Couldn’t speak, but his face was answer enough: wild-eyed
and flushed and his lips drawn back from his teeth in an agonised grimace, but
he was looking straight at Dean through his tears and he blinked and bounced,
shaking drops free that slid down Dean’s wrist. Not gasping anymore, either.
Deep breaths, and his movements were more controlled. He fought Dean’s hold on
his hair and kissed him when Dean let go.
“Got it?” Dean repeated against Sam’s mouth.
“Yeah. Swear, Dean.”
After that, what hurt and what didn’t couldn’t be separated. Depended on
perspective, Dean supposed. Sam turned his face away, offering his ear to Dean
and he grinned against it, blowing softly just to make Sam shudder. He was glad
he remembered to do this. Girls always loved it. Sam’s not a girl, Dean just
wanted to make him feel good, wanted him to have everything, to try everything,
experience everything, as much as Dean knew how to give.
Sam was making these breathless grunts and clutching at Dean, scraping his
nails over Dean’s arms and chest, leaving welts, breaking the skin in places,
but he was also shivering and thrusting his cock against Dean’s belly while his
hole fluttered around Dean as his body slowly accepted what was happening to
it.
Dean kept still as long as he could, once again letting Sam work himself up
wanting…he didn’t even know what, and Dean loved that. Loved that Sam just
needed. Him. Sam tried to take, tried to control and find out for himself, but
it seemed no matter how hard he tried, what he truly wanted and needed was
whatever Dean had to give him.
He bent his knees and, his hand on Sam’s chest, moved him back until he was
leaning against them and he lifted Sam’s thighs, spreading them. He could see
where he was inside Sam, his cock glistening, catching and pulling on Sam’s
insides, giving him glimpses of rosy flesh and stretched muscles and Sam’s cock
was dripping on them both, jerking in the air as Dean fucked him with short
thrusts, barely withdrawing.
But something was making Sam shake and scratch at his hands, at his own thighs.
Dean ignored him and kept up his maddening rhythm until Sam began to fight him
again. His hands were ripped away from Sam’s legs and they both cried out when
Sam fell forward, his weight burying Dean as deep as he could go, and then Sam
was twisting and shaking on him, his body snapping frantically, clawing at
Dean. He snatched Sam’s hands from where they were drawing blood on his chest,
but Sam wrenched free.
“Easy, Sam,” Dean tried.
“Fuck. Fuck!” Sam wailed, his face was screwed up like he was in pain, his hand
against his abdomen below the horrid, deep burn next to his belly button that
Dean wanted to kiss and make better. When Dean reached for him, Sam caught
Dean’s hand and put it against his body and pressed down, and Dean could feel
himself, jesus, rock hard and pushing his brother’s guts around. He looked up
at Sam in astonishment, his voice gone, his plans and willpower with it. Sam
was staring down at him like something feral and vicious, with a wicked smile
disguising sharp teeth and a preternatural gleam in his eyes and when his
willowy body arched and slammed down on Dean’s hips, it was all over.
Coming inside Sam destroyed every last bit of Dean that had been fearful and
reluctant. Erased—no, burned, what was selfish and obedient to anyone but his
little brother. Fire replaced those things; a heat so hot and bright it blinded
Dean for a moment, consumed him, cleansed him, and what rose from the ashes
belonged wholly to Sam. Nothing, nothing, would ever mean as much to him as the
boy who was now wrapped around him, whispering love and Dean and mine against
his cheek.
When he could see again, once his body cooled to an earthly temperature, he
could feel Sam rutting against him, dragging his cock over Dean’s stomach and
rocking on his still hard cock, his breath coming in needy puffs and gasps, and
whatever he babbled as Dean lifted him up and off was something musical, then
he went entirely silent when Dean latched his mouth over his soft, loose hole
and licked into it.
The lube was weirdly sweet, but couldn’t mask the bitterness of his own come.
He’d tasted it before, had it fed to him from painted nails and touched his
tongue to it after it had hit his own face, but now it was mixed with Sam, and
Dean couldn’t get enough of it into his mouth.
Sam was holding himself up awkwardly, one knee on the armrest, the other foot
on the floor and from the way he was shaking around Dean’s face, there was
potential for collapse. Dean gripped his hips and scooted up, opening his mouth
and letting Sam’s cock inside him, amazed though he shouldn’t have been by now,
at how it stretched his upper lip. He put his tongue out over his bottom teeth
and slapped Sam on the thigh.
There was no blaming Sam for how fast he came after that. Dean was glad,
really. Sucking on a still cock was one thing, but learning to take one banging
against his tonsils was something else entirely and he was tearing up and
gagging and short on breath when he heard the material of the couch on either
side of his head rip as Sam dug his fingers into it and then there was no
choice but to swallow or choke. He swallowed, and it tasted nothing like his
own. It wasn’t sweet, but it was clean. Not bitter or salty at all, just…soft,
if that was possible, and yeah, clean.
He tried to tell Sam to get off of him, but his mouth was full and it came out
a gurgle and Sam started laughing. Dean was tempted to bite just a little, but
this was not something he wanted to start a game of retaliation over. They had
plenty of those already going. But Sam was good for once, and fell back,
landing on Dean’s stomach as his legs finally did give out, and he was still
giggling.
“Laugh it up, Sammy. Just you wait,” Dean said, and coughed, wiping at his
cheeks.
“Pff, I’m so scared,” Sam tittered and dropped back, laying on Dean’s knees.
His eyes were his own again, shining still, but not spinning, not so wild.
Dean sucked at his lip, and Sam stopped laughing, and yeah, Dean had seen him
do that before. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen Sam pause and look, heard
him stutter because of it.
“You tasted really good,” Dean said.
A shadow dulled the gleam in Sam’s eyes. He slithered off Dean and around to
the empty cushion, poking at Dean’s legs to make room.
“That’s ’cause I don’t smoke, dumbass.”
Right. How they got here.
Dean sat up and reached for Sam. He didn’t draw back, but he didn’t move into
Dean’s hands, either.
“You’re gonna be all scarred up, Sammy,” Dean said, running his fingers down
Sam’s arm towards the burn from earlier.
“They’ll blend in eventually. You’ve got so many already.”
Dean suddenly, and for the first time, hated the family business. It was
inevitably going to hurt Sam.
“Yeah… But. But you’ll stop, right? You said you would. You will. Okay? Sam.
Please?” He couldn’t protect him from all that life put in their path, but he
could stop this one thing. He hoped.
“Okay. Yeah. I said I would.”
“Promise me.”
“Fuck, Dean. Okay, I promise.”
“What if Dad sees these?”
Sam rolled his eyes in that way he had which said Dad never seemed to see
anything, that Sam thought he was an asshole and didn’t care what he thought or
saw or said. “These’ll heal eventually, and he won’t know. If I get hurt or
whatever between now and then, you just take care of me, okay?”
There was no way Dean wasn’t going to do that from now on, forever. “Yeah. I
will. You need another salt bath.”
“Ugh, no. I just want to sleep. Can we sleep? I’ll do it later. Isn’t there
some antibiotics in that bag? Dad’s always stealing them from emergency rooms.”
“Probably. I’ll check. C’mon, clean up?” He offered his hand, and after looking
at it for a few seconds, Sam took it and let Dean pull him up.
They wiped at the lube and spit and come and spots of blood in the bathroom
with a warm, wet cloth. Dean dug through the duffel and came up with an orange
bottle of penicillin. Sam swallowed two with water and then they stood looking
at each other in the glow of the morning sun coming through the cracks in the
blinds until Dean broke the stillness by ruffling Sam’s hair and catching him
in a hug.
“Tired, Dean,” Sam mumbled against his shoulder.
“Yeah, baby boy. Me, too. C’mon,” he said, and led them to Sam’s room. The bed
was smaller, but it didn’t squeak.
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Sam woke up back to back with Dean, and they could have run a Slip N Slide from
the sweat between them. Sam inched away, but not too far, just enough to get a
little air along their skin. At some point, Dean had put on boxers, but Sam was
still naked. And sore. His belly and arm had that familiar sting from the new
burns, and a couple of his old ones were stiff and itchy. His neck was kinked,
and he could feel scratch marks under his hair where Dean had grabbed him and
pulled. He was bruised and had a headache, and he blushed when he shifted his
legs and felt a dull ache at his tailbone.
He closed his eyes.
Dean’s face. Open and awed and vulnerable, concerned. Scared and aroused. Dean
pinning him down. Fighting with him, pleading with him. Kissing him. Taking
care of him. Touching him, holding him, fucking him. Begging him. Loving him
even though he was a freak.
Tears burned behind his lids, melted their way out from the corner of his
blackened eye.
Sam quietly worked himself out of the bed and the room, and into the bathroom.
He dragged fingers through his tousled hair, giving up after a few passes. His
brother and Dad both teased him about his hair as if it were some vanity that
he grew it out. In truth, he couldn’t have cared less about it. Having it cut,
having to style it—that was the most boring thing he could think of. He let it
grow because he didn’t care what it looked like. Didn’t really care what he
looked like. No one noticed him. They all noticed Dean. Sam was just a plain
boy, too smart and geeky to be good looking. Dean was just as smart as him,
smarter, probably, but the jerk played dumb and was more popular for it. Sam
didn’t have that talent. He was stuck being Sam. Was always gonna be nerdy and
needy and so incredibly fucked up that he’d fallen in love with his brother.
Dean was gonna wake up and remember that.
Sam closed his eyes again, gripping the sink for balance as his head swam with
fear and dread.
“Hey.”
Dean’s voice startled him. He spun around, back, away from Dean, and his heel
banged into the bathtub and they both winced at the loud sound.
“Jeez, you already drink a pot of coffee, or what? Simmer down.”

“I—uh, no. Sorry,” Sam replied and ducked his head. Looked down. He was still
naked. He glanced up at Dean, but his brother didn’t seem to register his
embarrassment. Dean was peering at his leg.
“Sammy,” he said, worry in his voice, “start the bath. Get the water hot as you
can, like it was. Like last night.” The words came out slowly, carefully, as if
Dean was remembering what they meant. Sam stood there, frozen, watching his
brother’s sleep-soft face frown slightly, his eyes glaze for a moment.
Here it comes, Sam thought.
But it was a cold-molasses smile Sam watched transform Dean’s face. Not disgust
or annoyance or Let’s just pretend that never happened, like Sam had expected.
Dean blinked a few times, his grin warming. He rubbed one eye, the other grass-
green and dewy and on Sam like he was a fucking Christmas present and Dean just
couldn’t believe his luck. Then he stretched, arms up and fingers hooked onto
the trim above the door, back bowed and belly out and he was half hard in his
boxers.
When he’d put himself back together, Sam still hadn’t moved.
“Hey, Earth to Sam. Ya hear me? Get the water going and use the rest of the
salt. We’ll go get more later. You still got a line there. I’ll make us some
breakfast.”
“Okay,” Sam said, all breath and no voice.
“Okay!” Dean repeated cheerfully and gave him a thumbs up. Then, “You’re not
moving, Sam. You know that, right?”
Dean was right, and Sam did know. He couldn’t seem to make his body work. No,
that wasn’t it. He wasn’t letting his body do what it wanted, which was to rush
Dean and lock himself around him and close his eyes and just die. Not in a bad
way. Nothing could ever be better than the way he felt right now.
That smile again, even warmer, smoother and sweeter than before, and Dean
stepped into the bathroom. Up to him, and he cupped Sam’s jaw in one hand.
“C’mon, baby boy. Everything’s fine, okay? Hop in the tub and I’ll come get you
when breakfast is ready.”
“Okay, Dean,” Sam said, with actual words this time.
*
Sam fell back to sleep in the hot water. He didn’t know it at the time, but
they’d only been in bed just over four hours. Nerves had woken him, and Sam’s
absence had woken Dean. He felt loopy and nervous and raw after Dean poked the
side of his head with a bacon-scented finger.
Dean had piled some clean clothes on the toilet lid and Sam dressed. His leg
definitely looked better after the second soak, and once he’d eaten, Dean gave
him more penicillin and some Sunny Delight to wash it down with.
“You know what would improve the taste of this stuff?” Dean asked, drinking
from the wide-mouthed bottle, spilling down his chin. “Tequila.”
“You say that about everything but water.”
Dean winked. “Knew you were takin’ notes.”
Sam sat at the kitchen table and watched Dean clean up. He stacked everything
into the sink and let the faucet run as he washed. A waste of water, Sam felt,
but Dean always shrugged and said, Hey, it’s not like we’re paying the bill.
When the dishes were done, Sam watched Dean find other things to clean, swiping
at countertops and the table and the top of the refrigerator with a damp rag.
He was wearing jeans and the hoodie Sam had worn last night, zipped halfway up,
no shirt on underneath, and once he’d exhausted places to wipe down, he threw
the rag in the sink and patted his pocket.
And he froze.
Slowly, his eyes crawled across everything between him and Sam, including his
jacket on the back of the empty kitchen chair, before they lifted, heavy with
guilt, to meet Sam’s.
Something cold and barbed clamped down on Sam’s heart.
Dean forced a smile that left his eyes joyless somehow. “I’m gonna get some
clothes on. Wanna go for a drive with me?”
Sam shrugged. It was all he could do. At least, until Dean left the room. Then,
before he quite understood why, he flew out of his chair and tumbled down the
hallway, not wanting to let Dean out of his sight.
Dean made a surprised face once his head was clear of his tee shirt and he
spotted Sam in the doorway.
“What’s up?”
Sam clutched the door jam and shook his head. There was no way he could tell
Dean how afraid he was that Dean was going to smoke. That the thought of it
made him feel brittle inside. Made him feel crazy.
“Come brush your teeth with me, weirdo.”
Sam could do that. Something normal. Something they’d done a thousand times.
But it wasn’t the same. Not anymore. Now, he watched Dean’s fist move by his
lips as he brushed and all he could think about was that hand wrapped around a
cock. His, Dean’s, didn’t matter. When Dean tilted his head back and gargled,
Sam felt himself stiffen at the need he felt to lick a long line over Dean’s
throat, to latch on like a little vampire and suck claiming marks into it. Dean
spit and Sam wished it was on him.
Then that panic came back when Dean finished before he did and left the
bathroom. Sam hurried through the rest of the motions, wiping stray paste off
his chin with the back of his hand as he ran out of the room, feeling like he
was gonna be left behind, like he was five again and couldn’t get his shoes on
and Dad and Dean were waiting and the car was running, and Dad was yelling at
him to Hurry up, Sam, for crying out loud!
Dean was stomping his boots into place. Still wearing the hoodie, his jacket
still in the kitchen. He had his duffel bag from the car in hand.
“C’mon, slow-poke. Get your shoes. I’m gonna warm up Baby.”
Sam nodded and tried not to freak out when Dean closed the door between them.
He moved numbly to find his shoes. They were by the couch and he sat on the
coffee table, avoiding the dried snail trails of come and lube on the cushions.
They’d need to wipe those up. He was surprised Dean hadn’t thought of that
already. But he knew Dean hadn’t really been worried about cleaning, he’d been
trying to distract himself from wanting a cigarette.
That cold, studded thing around Sam’s heart froze solid.
But then, like the first glimmer of a Spring sun, Sam remembered something. He
dashed back to his room, only half laced into his Keds. Rummaged through his
backpack and stuffed an old cough drop tin into his pocket.
*
Dean was trying, Sam could give him that much, but by the time they’d made it
into town and filled the Impala with gas and tracked down a pharmacy to buy a
couple more boxes of Epsom salt and were now driving around looking for a
laundromat, Dean was cursing. Chewing his thumbnail and bitching at every car
that got in his way, even at a passel of pretty girls that chased flyers wind-
swept out of their hands at an intersection. Even when they bent over in front
of them in soft pants and pajama bottoms, and that’s when Sam realised it was
only just ten in the morning.
“Christ almighty, fuckers in these beach towns sure are fucking slow, even for
a Sunday. Like they’re all a bunch of fuckin’ grannies. Get the fuck out of the
way!” Dean bellowed, shaking himself on the steering wheel.
“Dude, chill out,” Sam said, exasperated.
Dean glared at him and shook his head. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get right on that. Cut
me some slack, Sam.”
Tires squealed as Dean rounded a corner, then he slapped his palm against the
dash. “Ah ha! Found the fucking thing. Alright, where is this? Eighth and
Windpine. Awesome. Fuck. Now what?”
Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Where did you go last
night? When…when you left. Left me.”
His brother eyed him and drove for several blocks without answering.
“There’s a dead-end. Looks like it used to be a road, but the bank collapsed.
Just ends. Points out at the ocean,” Dean replied finally.
“I wanna see.”
Dean nodded and gunned the Impala.
It wasn’t as high up as it seemed last night when Dean had thought about going
over. Just a gentle hill in an otherwise flat landscape, half of the sandy
mound indeed having slid off down to the water, taking part of the roadway with
it. An impromptu guardrail stopped them and they got out and edged to the drop.
Dean spat and grinned as the wind made the glob spiral around before it
disappeared.
“Ew, Dean,” Sam complained, wiping little drops of saliva off his face.
“You love it.”
Sam looked at Dean. The sky was grey; high clouds, probably raining miles away.
It was a silvery backdrop behind his brother that lightened his eyes to pewter,
and his lips were a bright slash of colour in an otherwise gloomy day.
“I do love it, actually.”
Sam didn’t wait for Dean’s reaction, though he knew there would be one. A
twitch, a blush, a brush off or a laugh, something. He turned and trudged back
to the car, hauling the door open and slipping inside. Dean stood by the
cliff’s edge for a moment longer, gazing down at the water, his hands in his
pockets. Sam cracked the window and waited. Head still down, eyes on the
ground, Dean joined him before long.
“Nice view, huh?” Dean said, but he wasn’t really looking out at the sea. And
he wasn’t looking at Sam looking at him.
“Yeah. It is.”
Dean’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel, then on his thigh. He reached for
the radio knob, then for his keys, then he scratched his neck. “Do you wanna—”
he began.
“I have a cigarette,” Sam interrupted.
Dean’s mouth shut with an audible snap of his teeth and he turned furious eyes
on Sam.
“Well, good for you!”
“You can have it.”
“Sam.”
“I stole it from you a few weeks ago.”
“Bitch.”
Sam turned, putting one leg up on the seat, pushing himself closer to Dean.
“Sometimes I smoked your butts. Did you know that?”
Dean just looked at him.
“I did. I don’t like it, but I thought maybe I could learn to. And then we’d
have something to share.”
Dean’s mouth was tightening with every word Sam spoke. It gave Sam a razor’s
edge of pleasure to be hurting his older brother.
“Would you have shared with me? If I’d asked?”
“I would have told you not to smoke, and you know it.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Sam was close enough to touch Dean with his
knees now. He pulled the tin from his pocket. “Funny,” he said, looking down at
it, “how you think it would have mattered if you’d told me not to any more than
it mattered to you that I didn’t want you to.”
“I’m older than you,” Dean said, but they both knew that wasn’t a good reason.
Sam smiled at him without lifting his face, peering up at Dean out of the
corner of his eye. “That doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“This..?” Dean asked as if he were afraid of the answer.
“This,” Sam said, raising himself up and over, insinuating himself between Dean
and the wheel, wrapping one arm around Dean’s shoulders. With the other, tin in
hand, he leaned against Dean’s chest. Dean’s eyes were wide and green again in
the shadows of the car and Sam got so close his next words were the air Dean
was breathing.
“This. This, Dean, this. You fucked me. And you said I have to listen to you
when you do it. And I will. But you have to do shit for me, too, you know. You
don’t get everything just ’cause you’re older than me, jerk.”
“Okay, Sammy,” Dean whispered, his eyes unfocused, and Sam could count every
freckle on Dean’s nose, his cheeks, and he thought someday he would make Dean
sit still long enough for him to do just that. “What do you want me to do?”
“Burn me.”
Dean blinked, flashing Sam more freckles to be counted. He smiled, a nervous,
quick twitch of his lips. “C’mon, Sam. No. You said—”
“It wasn’t one or the other,” Sam said, no diplomacy in his voice.
“I can’t.”
Sam sat back down on his tucked-under leg and studied his brother for a few
seconds. Then he shrugged and squeezed the tin in his hand, making it pop. Dean
jumped at the sound.
“Watch me do it, then,” Sam offered amiably. “Smoke it, let me have it when
you’re almost done.”
“No.” Dean brushed Sam’s hand with the tin off of his chest, though his eyes
followed it away.
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“Because I had to watch you smoke. You owe me.”
Dean’s mouth opened and closed and then his eyes did the same. He leaned his
head into his left hand, covering his face.
“I…I don’t… I don’t want you to. Please?” he tried.
If Dean had been looking at Sam he’d have seen that devilish smile again, the
one Sam had given him from the couch, naked and hard and waiting for Dean to do
his bidding.
Sam bit his cheek to keep the smile from his voice, and he scooted a little
closer again.
“Do it for me once, and I won’t do it again,” he bargained, his free hand on
Dean’s thigh. “And then you won’t smoke anymore, and I won’t do this. But you
gotta do it now.” The hand moved up Dean’s leg, fingers wiggling into the
crease alongside where his dick was nestled. “Always wanted you to.”
Dean’s eyes opened, red-rimmed and watery. “Wha—why? Really?”
Sam nodded and tilted his head a little, shyly. “Thought at least you’d be
paying attention to me, I guess. Would see me.”
Dean didn’t say anything. And Sam was glad. He didn’t want words. What he could
feel was more important than what he heard.
“Give it here.”
Sam’s head came up and he let his jaw fall open is if he were surprised.
Instead of grinning again.
Dean rolled his eyes, pretended bravado, but Sam could see he was scared, face
gone white.
“Well?”
Sam opened the tin. The Marlboro was probably a little stale. He held the
container flat on his palm, out to Dean. His brother plucked the cigarette up
and fit it between his first two fingers, rubbing them together gently to move
it back and forth. They both watched it move and then Dean put his hands on the
wheel and stared out of the windshield while Sam stared at him. The cigarette
was the cleanest thing in the car, pristine white and without nicks or dents or
scratches or blood stains that would never, ever come out. No bruises, scars,
fractures. Perfect, virginal. Deadly. A killer dressed for a wedding. Dean’s
lips would ring the filter soon, and the hot circle at the other end would be a
kiss on Sam’s skin for as long as they both shall live.
Dean shifted in his seat suddenly, looking out the rear window, then the sides.
They were alone. The sun was a grey-gold disc that could be seen through the
clouds without injury, hanging in the sky just level with them, out over the
water, and Dean’s eyes, when they settled on Sam’s again, were gilded with its
light. His face was unreadable.
Or maybe Sam had stopped thinking.
He had been hard since the word please had left Dean’s mouth and he ached now
with Dean’s eyes on him. It was all he’d ever wanted, really, and it thrilled
him; made Sam feel like the outside world was spinning on without them. That
they, together, were in the eye of a great storm, calm, safe. Everything else
fell away from Sam when Dean looked at him.
Dean moved and Sam flinched back, startled after the stillness, but Dean’s lips
pressed into a determined line and he had Sam by the hair again with just a
little stretch to reach him. He didn’t pull, just held Sam in place as he
tucked the cigarette behind his own ear, then he drew Sam in to kiss him.
Mouths opened instantly, and Sam couldn’t help the sound he made at the easy
way Dean let him in. Whimpering like a puppy, and he knew it, he tried to
scramble to his knees, to crawl onto Dean, but he was kept back by his scruff.
He felt Dean smiling and heated at his own eagerness, but what could he do?
“Sammy,” Dean said into his mouth, and Sam refused to hear the sadness there.
He untangled his hands from between them and grabbed Dean’s face, held it so if
Dean spoke again the words would be muffled, mumbled into lips and cheeks and
gasped with the way he was kissing Dean. And for once, Dean seemed to
understand.
No more saying no.
Hands fumbled. Dean’s mostly, and he had to let go of Sam’s hair to strip him,
had to pry Sam’s hands off his face to pull the shirt completely free. Sam
slapped them back to Dean’s cheeks as soon as he could. The jeans were
trickier, and it was only when they were half off Sam’s hips that he caught on
to what Dean was doing.
“H-here?”
“Could do it outside, but I don’t think you want sand in your ass.”
“But—but—”
“Worried someone will see us? Better get a move on. Help me out, huh?”
Biting his lip, Sam toed off his shoes, still untied, and wriggled out of his
jeans. Dean was stroking the cigarette behind his ear with one finger, and his
other hand was down the front of his pants. He leaned back against the window
and lifted his hips.
“Pull.”
Sam yanked his brother’s jeans down as far as they would go, which Dean
apparently thought was enough.
Here was a new place to count freckles, Sam noted.
“Gonna stare at it all day?”
Sam crawled forward, head down to hide his sudden embarrassment. They were in
broad daylight and in the Impala, a place so familiar as to be home to them. It
was surreal. Almost too much for Sam to deal with. Dean could really see him,
he realised, and for all his wanting that, it terrified him at the same time.
Dean would see his skinny body, his back acne, his stupid burn scars and scabs,
dandruff and bitten nails, and Sam paused halfway into Dean’s lap, positive
Dean would see him and would shove him away and laugh at him and why on earth
had Sam ever thought Dean would want him?
“Whatcha waiting for, little brother? Change your mind?”
“No.” The word was sullen and not much more than a whisper.
“Then fuckin’ come on. Get over here,” Dean snapped. His hand was back in Sam’s
hair and he jerked him forward. Shoved his face down, rubbed his cock over
Sam’s silk-stubbled cheek before blindly trying to force his way.
“There, god,” Dean said when Sam opened his mouth, slick with swallowed tears.
Sam closed his eyes and breathed through his nose carefully and, despite
himself, began to feel calm. Dean didn’t push him away, was even touching him,
running his big, calloused hands over his back, reaching. Hips, the swell of
his ass, up his ribs, over the burns there and the ones on his shoulders,
touching them carefully. Inspecting them, Sam knew. The embarrassment came back
and he tried to pull away. Hide.
“Fuck. Uh uh, Sammy,” Dean hissed, bending at the waist, reaching further down
Sam’s body, effectively trapping him. He gagged as Dean’s cock jabbed the back
of his throat before he figured out to turn his head to the side, easing the
angle, and then he forgot all about the discomfort there when he felt Dean’s
fingers dance over his asshole.
“Here, wait. Don’t move,” Dean instructed, coming off the seat a little, and
Sam couldn’t see, didn’t know what Dean was doing until he heard the rustle and
zip of Dean’s bag, and then lube was drizzled down his asscrack. Dean’s thick,
blunt middle finger followed the stream, rubbing hard circles until it found
the right spot. The finger hooked and slipped inside easily and Sam tried to
gasp.
“Jesus, Sam. Still wet in there from last night. Fuck, you’re so hot, baby
boy.”
The praise went straight to Sam’s dick. He spread his legs, forgetting to be
shy, and bowed his back, wiggling to encourage Dean deeper into him, to put in
more fingers. Whatever he wanted. On his elbows, both hands curled around
Dean’s cock, he let Dean bend him and fill him from both ends.
Another finger opened him, and then another before he was ready and it stung,
made him tense up. Dean didn’t slow down, twisting his hand, dragging his
knuckles around Sam’s hole until the pain blurred into pressure, then pleasure,
and then his whole body was vibrating with the way Dean was moving inside him,
shaking his hand fast and hard. Sam tried once more to pull away and got a hard
slap to the ass for his troubles.
“Keep sucking it, Sammy. Doing so good. Your little fuckin’ ass is amazing.
Shoulda been fucking this for years, huh, baby? Sam. Gonna give you everything
you need, okay? Wanna do it for you. You’re fucking it, Sammy. Always gonna be
with you. Oh, you like that? Can feel it, baby, feel you open up for me. That’s
it, fuck yourself. Fuck.”
There was more. Dean’s mouth never stopped even as he spread Sam wider than
before, using all four of his fingers side by side and pushing in until Sam
cried out as his hand banged hard against his already sore tailbone.
Dean’s cock was so hard on Sam’s tongue, but he couldn’t really move his head;
was just sucking, drooling and lapping as much as he could, rolling his hips to
fuck Dean’s fingers inside him and it was no surprise he missed the sound of
Dean’s lighter flicking to life.

But there was no ignoring the smell of the cigarette smoke.
As soon as it registered, Sam forgot what he was doing. Forgot everything. All
he knew was that his brother was smoking again and Sam was worthless. Useless
and unloved and nothing. Less than. He was negative space, only technically
alive.
The cock slid out of his mouth and slapped wetly against Dean’s belly, but Dean
didn’t protest. He just used the extra room as Sam’s cheek followed suit to
work his fingers harder and faster in Sam’s ass.
Smoke was filling up the cab. The ocean breeze snagged tendrils of it and stole
them away, cutting the scent with heady drafts of freshness, and it was making
Sam dizzy. Confusing him. That familiar agony he associated with Dean smoking,
like the air around him, was blended now with something else, something that
was tugging on him. Fanning the fire even as it threatened to overwhelm it, put
it out.
They’d never been here. Of all the places they’d been, that he’d had to endure
Dean going on, living without him, they’d never been right here. This was new.
There was something different about this. Sam tried to grasp what it was, but
the smoke was forcing its way into his nose and throat, into his body as much,
more, than Dean’s fingers were, and he couldn’t stop shaking. Crying. The world
was black and grey and freckled and darkening. Going black, and Sam couldn’t
breathe at all.
“Sam. Sammy!”
His teeth clacked against each other and his tongue got caught between them.
The pain made him gasp and his vision came back with sickening sharpness.
Dean’s face was inches from his, his throat in Dean’s grip and Dean shook him
again.
“D-Dean.”
“The fuck is wrong with you, kid? Get up. Gonna freak out now? Huh? I don’t
fuckin’ think so. Gonna do what you fuckin’ asked me to do, ’cause I’m not
doing it again. It’s now or never. Gonna fuck you and gonna hurt you and then
we’re even. This is it, Sam.”
He said all that while he dragged Sam to his knees and then into his lap as he
scooted lower, his head against the armrest. Sam moved automatically, spreading
his legs and kneeling over Dean as he adjusted and he could still smell the
cigarette smoke even though his brain was trying to tell him that an hour had
passed since Dean had first lit it. Searching, feeling numb and cold, he saw
how wrong his brain was. The cigarette was in Dean’s left hand, and he was
holding the steering wheel with his pinky, keeping it out of the way, and only
a third of the cigarette had turned to ash.
The hand at his throat tightened and he looked down at Dean glaring up at him.
Dean brought the cigarette to his mouth when he was sure Sam was focused, was
here, and he took a deep drag and blew it out the side of his mouth before
hauling Sam down and kissing him.
This was definitely new.
This was real. This was happening.
“Oh. Oh, god, Dean,” Sam whimpered, the scent and the taste and the sight
making him feel sick, and he was being hit with wave after icy wave of
memories. He was crying still; over the taste in his mouth, at how far away
he’d felt for so long. How that place he’d just been, that darkness Dean had
just dragged him out of, had been where he’d lived for more than a year.
When Dean thrust up into him, Sam sobbed even harder. The pain was unreal, even
worse than last night. He was too messed up for this, and he struggled, feeling
like Dean was going to turn him inside out as he began to move, and he tried to
beg but Dean’s thumb was pressed to his throat and he couldn’t even cough. Dean
was controlling that along with his air and his blood and his life. He’d always
been Dean’s. His tears were Dean’s, his orgasm, his come, and Dean was working
it all out of him, taking it from him with quick, steady jerks of his left
hand. The cigarette was in his lips, a little shorter and weaving tracers in
the air, Sam’s tears making the cherry huge and frightening, like a baleful red
eye watching him.
“Gonna come for me, little brother? Fuckin’ so big already. So hard. Pretty
boy, fucking crying for me. My cock do that to you, huh? Rip your little ass
open? Fucking like it, though, know you do. My slutty baby boy. C’mon, Sammy,
fucking come for me, come for me—” Dean growled at him, his words distorted by
his lips around the cigarette, the sound of his voice deadly and angry and
violent, like the look on his face, like the red eye he was aiming at Sam. It
had come into focus as Dean slowed; now he was barely moving under Sam, just
edging more and more inside him, and Sam felt so full, so, so filled up with
Dean, like Dean had shaken him and the thumb at his throat was keeping Sam from
spraying everywhere, from exploding, bloody and fine, but something, something
had to happen and it seemed only the opposite was inevitable. He was sure he
was going to implode, collapse like a star, go pinpoint and airless—
Dean removed the thumb from his throat and slipped it into Sam’s mouth, and he
sucked at it hard. Inhaled, filled up even more, so full already there wasn’t
room, it wasn’t possible, and he didn’t see Dean pluck the cigarette from
between his teeth and take a long drag off of it, but he felt Dean put it to
his skin. Over his heart, and the pain shot straight through him, lit him up
like a Christmas tree. Every other burn he’d ever done flared white-hot—the
tips of his fingers, his tongue, his lips, his heels, belly, back, legs, and
groin, they all came to life and Sam saw himself for a moment, like one of
those barrels people burned their trash in, shot full of holes at the base,
little windows that showed the inferno inside.
Sam’s arms jerked convulsively, pulling, clutching at Dean and he felt his big
brother’s hand on the back of his head, caressing him as the ember from his
cigarette sizzled and hollowed out a crater over where his blood was pounding
the hardest. He shrieked then, like he probably should have the first time Dean
kissed him, but he came even as he wailed and Dean had their foreheads pressed
together and his snarling had turned to coos, whispers. Dean’s other hand was
over his chest, over his burn there, cupping it and Sam was hot and cold like
someone was flipping a switch on and off.
A heat inside him, hotter than any burn he’d ever felt. It was the tip of
Dean’s cock and it was throwing all of Sam’s circuits off. He suddenly knew if
he ground down hard enough he’d spark like flint and burn them both alive right
there, and he screamed again when he tried, his body whipping in Dean’s arms,
his hips churning and making a mess of them both as his come smeared across
their bellies, and for some reason Dean was laughing, giddy-sounding and still
murmuring and trying to soothe him, a light summer rain on a forest fire, but
Dean must have known that it wasn’t working, that Sam was the center of the sun
and the sun’s gotta consume to live—
Sam was suddenly cold everywhere. He opened his eyes, not knowing when he’d
closed them, Dean’s eyes, silver-green and welding-bright were all he could
see, then a blur as Dean flipped him onto his knees, face down against the
black vinyl seat. Sam moaned, cried out for the heat of Dean, needing it
because there was a blizzard inside him without his brother.
The fire was stoked when Dean sheathed himself again, filled Sam up, crouched
behind and bent over him, bore down with his own body. Sam’s face was pressed
into the crack of the seat and he panted in and out the dust of every road, the
scent of their father’s belt, old blood, crumbs of lost childhood, and his
chest hitched to scream again, but Dean was there, hand over his mouth,
twisting his head around.
“Sam, Sammy. Sam, baby, Sammy.”
He thought he replied, tried for Dean’s name, but if he managed it, it came out
a squeal when Dean’s hand shoved between them and over his chest where Dean had
branded his heart and Dean squeezed, dug his nails in, tore at the wound,
cutting and ripping it wide and turning the burn into something more. Into
Dean’s mark. It would be a bloom, a flower with bruises and rents and scratches
for petals and a deep, ragged circle as the disk at the center, bloody and
clawed open. They were both bloody; Dean’s palm was filled with it and his
teeth were close to drawing more from Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s lip was oozing
where Dean had cuffed it open the night before and it was only that moisture,
that wet, which doused the blaze in Sam, that brought him back from the pyre
he’d been sacrificing himself at. His blood and Dean would take care of him.
Dean was right here, with him.
It was blood that cooled him, but Dean’s come filling him kept him from that
other place inside him, kept Sam from going right back over the edge into the
icy depth he’d lived so long inside, that he’d tried to burn himself alive to
get out of. Dean was inside him, and the cold that was always threatening to
deaden and frostbite his heart melted away at last.
*
He wasn’t really asleep, but he definitely wasn’t awake. He was in slow motion.
Or just behind. Dean talked to him, and Sam answered, but not before Dean had
gone on talking. Softly, and sometimes Sam wasn’t quite sure what he
said—something about an air freshener, a bath, Black Jack gum—nor was he sure
when Dean stopped talking. He answered the last question Dean asked: Tell me
how you feel, baby, just as Dean pulled up behind the cottage.
“I love you.”
Dean smiled at him patiently then slung himself out of the car. Somewhere far
away, the door groaned and slammed and then he was tumbling out of the
passenger side. Dean caught him, straightened him out, but that only lasted a
moment before he slumped, and then the sky slid out of place as Dean picked him
up like he was ten again, and really, that wasn’t so far behind them, was it? A
few years and a foot in height and a handful of kisses, and the world was
beating and flexing in front of his eyes in time with Dean’s heartbeat under
his ear.
He bounced a little when Dean dropped him, having carried him across the
threshold and through the house, knocking his knees one time against a wall,
and the bed squeaked once, twice, and Dean was next to him. The question was
asked. Neither of them said it, but Sam was the one who answered.
“I’ll do anything, Dean. I’ll kiss you. Blow you. Suck on your fingers. Your
toes. I’ll l-lick you,” he stumbled, for once sounding like the shy, awkward
boy he should be. “Anything you need, to help. I know it’ll be hard for you to
quit, especially with Dad.” The word practically snarled itself out of Sam’s
throat, and Dean glanced over at him.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?
“You win, okay? You’re worth it. And not just ’cause of…this. I shoulda known.
I mean, you know… I feel the same.”
There was a weak nod from Sam, and Dean went up on his elbow to see him.
Brushed hair back from his little brother’s eyes with one finger. Sam was
crying again, biting his lips hard to keep from sobbing.
Dean smiled. He knew he could make it stop.
End Notes
     extra special thanks to grrlplay. Without her there'd be so many more
     mistakes omg
     Someone asked what the deal with Sam's cock is. Here's_my_model. /
     nsfw/
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