Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/221278.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Wincest_-_Freeform, Sibling_Incest, Superpowers
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-07-09 Words: 6721
****** Storm Front ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     In restrospect, it's the sort of thing that seems obvious, but in
     their defense,how many people - even people in their line of work -
     would really sit around and think 'huh, wonder if Sammy can control
     the weather?'
In retrospect, it's the sort of thing that seems obvious; they are hunters,
after all, used to looking for the details no one ever sees, the hints of weird
hiding like an infection when everything seems normal. Dean's spent almost his
entire life being trained to look for things exactly like this and Dad's,
without a doubt, the best there is. They both miss it by a mile.
In their defense, how many people - even people in their line of work - would
really sit around and think 'huh, wonder if Sammy can control the weather?"
Sure, there have always been the random anomalies; a freak thunderstorm here, a
sudden warm-snap there, but shit, they spend their lives chasing around after
stuff specifically known to cause electrical storms and temperature changes -
there was no reason to think it was anything else. And if it always seemed to
rain when Sammy was upset, or the ominous clouds overhead would suddenly clear
when Sam laughed, well, they always figured it was the weather affecting Sam,
not the other way around.
Ultimately, Dean's the one who figures it out - a fact which he can't help but
be proud of, even though he can't tell Dad and get the praise he deserves -
though admittedly, Sam did sort of give him a hint.
It goes down like this:
It's late spring in Louisiana, so muggy heat and plenty of rain are both to be
expected. The random gusts of wind that have turned the one working umbrella in
the Impala into 'the other broken umbrella in the Impala' is kind of unusual
according to the locals but they haven't been able to find anything about any
of their 'swamp monster' suspects - seriously, a swamp monster! How fucking
cool is that?! - having a power that could mess with the wind, so Dad says not
to worry about it. Being worried about it isn't so much Dean's problem as being
tired of getting drenched every damn time he steps outside. Seriously, he's
starting to feel like the rain is stalking him, just waiting for him to get
halfway to the car before the bottom drops out. He's beginning to question the
point of even putting on dry clothes to go out anymore.
Not that it really matters at the moment either way, because, while the rain
seems to be behaving itself, leaving the night sky beyond the branches overhead
clear for moonlight to filter in, being thigh deep in sludge he's really glad
he can't see the color of is absolutely 0% better than being soaked in a
downpour. In fact, proportionally, it's a hell of a lot worse. At least they've
never come across a monster that lurks in the rain.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Something just touched his leg. Something totally just
touched his leg. Oh fucking fuck what was that?
Dad's glaring back at him through the low light, which means Dean must have
made a noise. It was probably a rugged noise, masculinely expressing his
surprise. The monster's probably scared shitless of them now because of Dean's
intimidating noises. And now he really regrets thinking about the monster and
its shit because that thing lives in here somewhere and it's entirely possible
that it's less than civilized about keeping its bathroom habits away from the
muck Dean is currently wading through. Oh, just shut up brain.
It wouldn't be so bad if they had more to go on than a general approximation of
where the thing probably lives. They've been wandering around out here for a
couple of hours now and all of the adrenaline high he'd come into the hunt with
has faded. Now he just feels gross; sweaty up top where the humid air clings to
his skin like a film, and clammy down below where the sludge is cooler than the
outside air. Add to that the gnats hovering around like a fog - at least it's
too early in the year for mosquitos - and the cicadas and tree frogs randomly
piping up, just enough to keep him jumping at his own proverbial shadow, plus
the way he can physically feel the attitude coming off of Sammy in waves next
to him... It's not happy fun-time for Dean.
And has he mentioned the things wriggling around his legs? Because yeah, there
are things touching him down there - which is freaky whether Dad will admit it
or not - and they fucking better just be fish or there is going to be hell to
pay, you better believe it.
The part of him that he sometimes swears has a direct link to Sammy's brain
wants to ask Dad if maybe they shouldn't call it a night and head back to the
motel. The not-insane part of him knows that they're staying out here until
they find the thing or the sun comes up, whichever comes first.
Off to the right there's a splash. Could be a fish, could be a loose branch
falling into the water, could be a murderous abomination coming to rip their
lungs out. Welcome to another day with the Winchesters.
They cock their guns in unison, all aimed toward the unexpected sound. The bugs
carry on with their chirruping, the air hanging still and heavy as a blanket,
tinged with the same taint of sweat and decomposing foliage that's surrounded
them all night. So low he's barely even aware of the sound, thunder threatens.
They stare off into the blackness for what seems like a long time but may only
be a couple of minutes. Anybody else might move on, but instinct is scratching
at Dean's skin from the inside out, saying something's up, and Dad and Sammy
must feel it too because neither of them have relaxed either.
All of a sudden everything goes dark and Dean's got a mouthful of mossy water,
the cool algae burning up his nostrils as he's tugged off balance and slips
underwater. Something's got him by the ankles, the grip too cold and slimy,
even through his sodden jeans, to be human. But Dean can't fire off a shot
because he can't tell where Dad and Sam are, can't afford to hit them, can't do
anything but sputter futilely for air too far above his head to reach and try
to thrash against something that seems to be all around him.
His ears are filled with water - just like everything else he's got - the sound
of splashing amplified a dozen times by it. He can't tell if it's just him or
the creature or his family fighting for him, everything starting to go fuzzy
around the lack of oxygen. Then there's warmth wrapped around his middle - for
a second he thinks he's bleeding, that the thing cut him and it's his own blood
turning the sludge body-warm, but no, the heat is solid and strong. Arms,
strong arms hauling him up, head exploding from under the surface of the water
to the kiss of tepid air on his skin. He cough and sputters, eyes cloudy with
tears as his body tries to recover, sucking down wet breaths, hacking up foul
water. Rain pitter-pats all around them, washing away the mess clinging to
Dean's face and partially covering the sound of shotgun fire and splashing,
maybe ten yards away.
It's Sam that pulled him up, still half-plastered up against Dean, keeping him
steady; he can't see him so much as feel him, but he knows. His brother's
strung tight, boy-lean muscles tense and at the ready. A shot rips through the
air as Sam fires one off, trying to help out their father without leaving
Dean's side.
Dad is taking the brunt of the action, intentionally goading the creature,
probably to give Dean time to recoup. He mentally curses himself for being
caught off guard, for not recovering faster, but that's for later. Now he has
to help Dad.
His father takes a hard hit from the thing's... what is that, an arm? It's hard
to tell; it doesn't even really look like a shape - as much water as it is
living thing. Dad's grunt is harsh as his back slams into a tree and now Dean
can get a clear shot, even though the iron/rock salt mix doesn't seem to be
affecting the creature much. He shoots anyway, buys his father a couple of
extra seconds to slosh away, movement hampered by all the water.
Thunder crackles close overhead, lighting the world up strobe-bright for a
moment, the roar of it drowning out Sam's first shout of "The trees, get in the
trees!" but not the second.
Dean moves without question. Sam's shoving at him from behind, urging him up
the nearest available trunk as the moss-slick treads of his boots slip on
smooth bark. Then Sam's in the branches next to him and they're both struggling
to reload as the thing tries to chase Dad up his own tree.
The thing gets a grip on their father's leg; not a good one, but enough to make
him slip as he's pulling himself up out of the water. Dean hears the crack as
skull meets wood, but Dad's not out for the count, still manages to drag
himself up onto a low hanging branch and before Dean can even get another shot
off to try and distract the thing, Sam lurches and grips his head, letting out
a strangled cry as the world goes white.
For a minute or a lifetime, Dean’s sure he’s been struck blind and deaf and the
only thing he can think of is that the last thing he ever saw was Sammy in
pain, the last thing he heard was his injured cry; that he’s never going to get
the chance to see or hear or maybe even feel Sam again. That he’ll never get to
tell him all of the sick, twisted ways he loves his baby brother and even as
much as the idea of seeing the disgust in Sam’s eyes used to sicken him, he’d
gladly take that over losing the sight of him altogether.
Like a shockwave it all comes back, ears ringing fiercely, eyes stinging as the
white fades into sudden, jarring darkness that leaves his corneas fighting to
adjust. And Sam. Sam’s right there in the tree beside him, hands fisted in his
own hair, eyes clamped tight with a shine of wetness at the edges. Dirty and
scraped up and panting and alive and that’s so much better than it could have
been that Dean can only quell the urge to hug him and never let go because it
would probably knock them both out of the tree and into-
Oh God. The marsh below them is steaming, greenery wilted and a smattering of
tiny fish slowly rising to the rain-rippled surface around the crackling
remains of what he can only assume was the creature. The tree next to them is
split in two, smoking and Dean recognizes those signs. Lightning. Lightning
struck right there, right where they needed it to. Lightning from a sky that
had not 15 minutes ago been crystal clear. Lightning saved them like a goddamn
blessing from above. Since when did they get that lucky?
***
Dad missed the whole thing, completely oblivious about the electric wonder show
and the crispy-fried critter and – Dean’s pretty sure – most of the trip back
to the motel. Now he and Sam have the dubious honor or getting take turns
poking their father every couple of hours to make sure nothing happens with
that potential concussion of his. That’s actually just fine with Dean because
he could sure as hell use a private moment with his brother dear right about
now.
He gone through it a couple hundred times in his head since he and Sam deemed
it safe to clamber out of their tree and go help their father. At first he’d
thought – yeah, ok, miracle. Those happen, right? Not that Dean’s ever actually
seen one. Or heard of one that wasn’t readily attributable to either
happenstance or some other supernatural phenomenon, but… fine, not a miracle.
Coincidence would be way too coincidental, so the only other options are, what?
Either Sammy knew what was going to happen somehow or… or he made it happen.
Dean’s stomach rolls once for each option.
The more he thinks about it, the more the pattern starts to show - whether he
wants to see it or not. Hunts where they’d been depending on the moonlight
fortuitously having cloudless skies, nights when Dad wanted to push on through
driving when Dean was all but asleep at the wheel and just like that, things
would suddenly turn too stormy to risk driving any further. That week when
Sammy’d pitched a fit about having to move before his school midterms were over
that the highways – and only the highways – had iced over and forced them to
hang around town. How in the fucking hell hadn’t they seen it? And most
importantly of all, how did Sam pick up the trick in the first place?
Sam comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a pair of clean, worn-thin boxers.
Dean’s gotten pretty good in the last couple of years at ignoring the way his
mouth goes dry.
“How’s your head?” he asks quietly. Sam winces a little, but Dean has a feeling
it’s nothing to do with physical pain.
“It’s fine,” Sam whispers back a little uncomfortably. He lingers awkwardly in
the space between the bed they’ll be sharing tonight and the couch where Dean’s
currently camped out – fully clothed again after his own shower; he needed as
much armor between then for this argument as he could get. Dad snuffles in his
sleep like a grizzly bear and turns over onto his side.
It’s kind of perfect really; this can’t escalate into a shouting match like it
usually would – as much Dean’s fault as Sam’s on that one most of the time –
and Sam can’t just walk out without waking Dad and having to explain why he’s
about to take off in nothing but his underoos – Sammy loves to make Dean talk
about whatever made up crap he thinks is bothering Dean this week, but try
getting him to say anything that’s not petulant and surly? The kid’ll just up
and leave on you.
Actually, Dean couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.
He pats the age-browned cushion next to him, a near-silent beckon to his little
brother that Sam hesitantly follows.
Sam sits like he’s got a hot poker shoved up his ass, spine ram-rod straight,
shoulders back like Dad’s always trying to get him to do. If Dean didn’t
already know something was up, that would do it.
“So,” he leads calmly, staring that the sickening pastel tie-dye of the
bedspreads instead of his baby brother, “I need you to tell me how mad I’m
supposed to be, ‘cause right now I’m stuck somewhere between beating your
scrawny little ass and waiting until Dad wakes up so he can do it.”
Sammy’s a damn good liar – Dean should know; he's the one who taught Sam
everything he knows – he can whip out a story for the cops or a witness that’ll
have them patting his arm and calling him son before he’s halfway through, but
he’s never been much good at lying to Dean – or so he’d thought, all this time
– and he definitely doesn’t have much of a poker face once he actually gets
caught. Now he’s pale, eyes wide, pupils tiny. He might actually be trembling.
“I don’t-“ the kid chokes like his throat just closed up on him, swallows and
tries again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”
“That was convincing,” Dean snarks back, getting a glimpse of his panicked-
looking brother out of the corner of his eye. To Sammy’s credit, he hasn’t
tried to dash yet.
He’s still playing for denial, though, shaking his head and muttering,
“Seriously, I haven’t-“
“What the hell were you thinking, Sam?” Dean hisses, the anger that had been
very carefully banked behind desperate disbelief now bubbling over. “I mean,
you pick up a curse or a spell or something along the way and you don’t fucking
tell us? You know better than that! Shit like… whatever it is you’ve been
doing, it always comes with a price, Sam, always. Who even knows what it’s been
doing to you! And now we have to go back to wherever you picked it up and try
to find a way of reversing it and if you think for even a second that I am ever
letting you out of my sight for one damn minute ever again-“
He cuts off his half-volume tirade when he looks over and sees Sam’s cheeks
stained wet. Sammy’s always been kind of a sensitive kid, prone to crying,
though he’s gotten better about it since he got past the first big jolt at
puberty, but he doesn’t usually cry like this. Normally, when he lets loose
it’s loud, shuddering breaths gasped around yelled words and razor-sharp guilt,
noisy enough where the whole world can hear it. Silent, stoic tears aren’t
Sammy’s style and to see them there is almost as freaky as the idea that the
kid's been messing with the weather.
Dean’s on his knees in front of Sam before he even has a chance to think about
it, rolling hard on the instinct to ease that ache in his chest that blooms
every time something bad happens to Sammy. He slips his fingers into his
brothers hair on that same instinct, brushing it back from his face and wiping
away salty tears with his thumbs.
“Hey, it’s not that bad,” he promises, dipping his head a little to try and get
Sam’s nervous, red-rimmed eyes to focus on him, “We’ll fix it, ok? Everything’s
gonna be fine.”
That at least gets a sound out of Sam, even if that sound happens to be a
quickly stifled sob. He’s shaking his head ‘no’, hanging onto Dean’s wrists at
the same time like they’re all that’s holding him together. He tries to say
something else but it doesn’t come out and the breath just ends up huffed out
over Dean’s face stiltedly. Behind him, Dad grumbles again, shifts around with
a flesh-on-cloth rustle before stilling once more.
“Hey, hey. Shh, it’s ok.” He pulls Sam in to lay a kiss on his forehead. It’s a
weird flashback kind of thing, because the second he does it he’s struck by how
long it’s been since he’s done it; how long since he trusted himself to do it,
since Sam would let him. But Sammy melts right into it, sliding off the couch
so he’s literally in Dean’s lap and burying his head against Dean’s neck,
holding on for dear life.
It takes Dean a second to work out that the sounds Sam’s muttering against his
skin over and over again – and fuck, this is not the time to notice how good
that feels, to wonder if Sam can taste him as he mouth moves over sensitive
skin – are actually, “Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean it.
I’ll do better, just please, Dean, please.”
Dean would almost laugh at the ridiculousness of Sam even thinking Dean could
hate him, except it’s obvious that Sam actually thinks it’s a possibility.
Instead he whispers, “Never. Not ever. It’s ok, baby boy,” into Sam’s hair and
wraps his arms tight around Sam’s back. He doesn’t exactly intend to kiss that
soft spot under Sammy’s ear but the kid’s just getting more and more wound up,
soaking Dean’s shoulder with his tears and clinging to him like he’s not almost
bigger than Dean now. Like he still needs his big brother to make it better.
It’s blowing the dust off of every last button Dean’s got and slamming it hard
enough to stick.
He can’t tell exactly how long it’s been since Sam folded onto him, but by the
time his brother finally murmurs, “’S not a spell,” his voice is thick from the
crying he’s muffled against Dean’s body and Dean could pound railroad spikes
with his fucking dick. He’s ignoring that for the moment – he’ll figure out
some excuse to take another shower later.
“’S not a spell,” Sammy repeats, tightening his hold around Dean’s neck to the
point that he’s barely getting a thin trickle of air around the vice of slim
muscle. “’S what I am. Didn’t even know I was doing it for so long and then…
You can’t tell Dad, Dean, you can’t. I swear I’ll do better at controlling it,
you just can’t tell him.”
Reluctantly he pulls at Sam’s arms, trying to get a little bit of space he
doesn’t really want between them. “Sam, c’mon, you’re not making any sense,” he
starts but Sam’s right back in his face, frantic, bloodshot eyes begging him.
“He’ll hunt me, Dean. If he finds out what I am-“
He slaps a hand over Sam’s mouth, following the way he tries to pull back and
keep babbling until Dean’s got him trapped between the couch cushion and his
palm.
“What do you mean, what you are?”
Sam’s lips move under his palm, wet heat as his brother licks his lips and the
feeling gets catalogued in Dean’s cock instead of his brain. Goddamn but it’s
messing with his focus – like that’s not fucked enough just trying to piece
together what Sammy’s trying to tell him.
Gently Sam pulls Dean’s hand away and he lets him, watching as Sam swallows
again and can’t quite meet Dean’s eyes when he says, “It’s the same as the
stuff they do, the stuff we kill. He doesn’t really want me anyway, if he had a
reason-“
There’s a fair chance that this might all go easier if Dean actually let Sam
finish a sentence, but that’s not the one he needs to be finishing.
“Don’t ever say that,” he growls at his brother, pinning him against the couch
in a move that leaves them flush from chest to groin. It was supposed to be
more aggressive than sexual and like just about everything he does to Sam
lately, gets all mixed up somewhere in the middle. “Don’t you even fucking
think that. Dad loves you and he would never, ever hurt you, no matter what.”
Sam looks dubious to say the least, but he’s not arguing as he looks up at Dean
with eyes that seem impossibly aqua against all the red surrounding them - with
Sammy that's half the battle.
“Now tell me what the fuck you mean by ‘what you are’.”
The way Sam rolls his eyes would piss Dean off except that it’s so much like
his regular Sammy that he can’t feel anything but relieved. If the kid’s giving
him attitude, the worst has got to be over.
“I mean it’s what I am,” Sam replies with exasperation, “What I’ve always been.
For as long as I can remember. No curse, no spell, just me making the sky do
weird stuff.”
There are a lot of reactions Dean should be having to that, a lot of reactions
he is having to that, but when the bell-ringing in his brain shuts up as the
pieces fall together, the reaction that ends up spilling out of his mouth is,
“And you didn’t tell me!”
In the background Dad grumbles something that sounds like a warning of “Boys!”
but that doesn’t keep Sam from talking a little too far above a whisper too
when he fires back defensively.
“I didn’t know! Not until I was like eight, and then I didn’t know how to tell
you! I mean, it sounds crazy!”
“Seven years, Sam! You couldn’t figure out how to tell me for seven fucking
years?! With all the crazy we listen to every day?!”
“Boys!” their father barks, sitting up in his bed to glare at them both. Dean’s
not sure if it’s a testament to how hard Dad took it in the head or how screwed
up their lives are that seeing Dean kneeling between his baby brother’s thighs,
practically holding him down on the couch, only garners an industrial-strength
glare before the old man’s back out again.
Dean’s dragging Sam into the bathroom without a moment’s hesitation, slamming
him up against the tiled wall the second the door is closed. And, no, not
because he’s enjoying being pressed up against all that lithe heat, it’s just a
very effective method of keeping his lying little bitch of a brother where he
belongs. … Which is, um… whatever, it works.
He’s not expecting the bonus hot thrill he gets when shoving up against Sam
this time finds Sammy just as hard as he is, their cocks rubbing together
through Dean’s denim and Sam’s thin cotton and punching a grating little moan
out of Sam’s throat. Shit, this all turned sideways fast.
“I’m still mad at you,” Dean hisses, as much a reminder for himself as for Sam.
His brother nods anyway, cheeks flushing dark, face averted.
“I just. I didn’t want you to think I was a monster.” He whispers it like a
prayer, his eyes scrunched closed, and fuck Dean knows that benediction so
well.
Dean swallows hard and eases up on the forearm he’s got braced across Sammy’s
chest. His brother’s breathing hard, ribs heaving in air but he’s not sure if
that’s from him or something else. Overhead he can hear rain tittering on the
roof.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” is the absolution he whispers, thumbing a
soft arc up Sam's neck. It’s the opposite of everything he’s ever told himself
when he’s thought of how Sam would see him if he ever knew what Dean really
feels. It’s still the truth.
He can’t say how it happens, it just does; the moments scattershot in his mind
like sounds on an over-played cassette tape. One minute he’s licking his thumb
wet to scrub away the dry tear-tracks on Sam’s face, then somehow he’s got
Sammy’s spidery hand curved over the back of his skull, holding him in place
while he figures out exactly how his baby brother likes to be kissed. The
answer is soft and slow, enough dirty swipes of tongue to make Dean forget what
his own mouth tastes like and just a teasing graze of teeth. He’s pretty sure
he’s gone completely batshit with how good it feels.
Sam moans better than any girl he’s ever been with, so sweet he’d swear he can
taste the sugar on his tongue as he swallows each one. It’s all wiry muscle and
sharp angles; Sam’s hipbones stinging against his as they grind – this
deliberate, filthy thing that’s kind of like dancing except for how it’s not at
all – Sam’s fingers seeming to glide right through muscle to leave bruises Dean
wants to wear for the rest of his life.
Getting his jeans down makes it even better, but still not as good as when
Sammy whines into his mouth and scrabbles both of their boxers down so there’s
nothing but sweltering, humid air and velvet-soft skin between them. He has to
stop kissing Sam then because he can’t breathe, let alone think; body moving on
autopilot to get what it needs. Sammy seems to be pretty much on board with
that plan, stepping out of his shorts to hitch a leg up over Dean’s hip and
give him more space to work.
Fuck, it’s good. Better than he ever let himself imagine on those rare, dark
occasions he ever got that far in his head. He wants to get a hand down and
wrap it around both of them, jack them together until his brother’s writhing
and coming all over his skin. He wants to get on his knees and worship every
last inch of Sammy with fingers and lips and tongue. He wants to ask if this is
really something Sam wants, has wanted, or if it’s just some sidedish to his
fucked up fear about Dean hating whatever it is that Sam does or is - Jesus, he
really doesn't have anything close to enough blood in his brain to cope with
that lingering question - but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer to
that. Instead he takes what he’s got and tries to memorize every sight and
sound and taste in case he has to make this moment be enough to hold him over
forever.
Sam’s mouth finds his again, mewling as he just licks and nips and makes a damn
mess of all of the careful kisses Dean’s trying get back to. Thunder peals
overhead, loud enough to feel the vibration through the walls. Dean’s not about
to fucking stop for it.
Their lengths slide together through a mess of precome – Christ, Sammy gets
wet; like a fucking girl and Dean’s dying to taste it – every movement just
slick enough not to pull too bad, just dry enough to make the friction gritty
and electric. Dean can feel it buzzing along his nerves, under his skin, in his
fucking hair follicles; molten, blistering buzz that’s going to be the new
standard of what pleasure’s supposed to feel like. He’s not stupid enough to
think that anybody else could ever get him here.
It’s cheesy, and maybe some other time he’ll be embarrassed about it, but when
Sam pulls off of sucking on Dean’s bottom lip like a piece of candy and groans,
“Dean,” all thready and perfect, he comes like it’s his last act on earth.
His knees actually give out, but even as they hit the floor, Sam coming down
right along with him, it still feels like gravity’s working everywhere but on
Dean’s body. He’s hot and cold and sizzling both ways everywhere but in the
bright flare of sensation that is his groin, every single muscle in his body
cramp-releasing in time with the thick, ropey pulses of come spurting out of
him onto Sam’s bare stomach. That image alone earns him a couple more, even
after he’s sure his balls have turned themselves inside out with the giving.
There’s no coordination at all to it when Dean gets a hand around his brother’s
still-dripping – long, flushed, pretty – cock. The pulls are wet with his own
release and it only takes a handful before Sam’s bow-string taut, head thunking
hard against the tile – at this rate they’re all going to walk out of this
night with concussions – and chokes on air as he comes.
Outside thunder cracks again, somewhere close by, and like dousing a candle,
the lights go out. Dean’s kind of pissed about it, since it messed up his view
of Sammy’s eyes rolling back in his head with the aftershocks, but he can’t
help but take it as a compliment.
Sam comes back around slow – Dean can more than sympathize; there’s a fair
chance his brain is still dribbling out of his ears – making these stoned-
sounding little ‘hmm’s on every exhale. It’s hard to see in the very limited
light coming through the tiny bathroom window, but Dean can practically feel
him grinning.
“That good, huh?” he asks smugly, unable to resist leaning in and teasing at
his brother’s lips with his own. Sam just goes with it, pliant and lazy under
Dean’s mouth for whatever his big brother wants to do with him.
After a couple of minutes he finally manages a slurred, “Shut up,” in retort.
“You broke the electricity,” he points out, poking Sammy in the side when the
kid looks primed to just pass out on him, covered in come on the bathroom
floor. Yeah, Dad would just love to stumble in on that in the morning.
Sam grins again and shrugs, “It happens sometimes.”
For whatever reason, that kickstarts something in Dean’s memory, jumping all
the way back to last summer when they were staying in that hole-in-the-wall in
South Carolina and the power kept going on the blink every couple of hours from
all the heat lightning.
“Hey,” he pokes his brother again, a little less playfully this time, “That job
back in July with the civil war soldiers, was that you? All the blackouts?”
Sam’s face pulls into something that might be a bit sheepish if Dean could see
it right. “You kept washing the freaking car!” shrieks defensively.
That seems like a non-squitter so Dean mulls it over for a minute. Yeah, he’d
washed the car a lot at the time; the roads were practically nothing but red
dust that just clung to his baby like it was magnetized. Plus, it had been so
damn hot that the water from the hose had been pretty much the only thing
around that kept cool for any amount of time. He’d spent more than a couple of
afternoons giving the car a good rub down and wax just so he could soak his
shirt in the well-cold water and let it pick up whatever semblance of a breeze
happened by. And, huh, come to think of it, it did seem like he’d ended up
bitching at Sammy a lot those couple of weeks for standing around and watching
him work instead of helping.
“Wait, you’re saying… You mean you…” Sam snags Deans boxers off of the floor
and pays scrupulous attention to scrubbing his own belly clean, studiously not
looking at his big brother. Dean’s cock jerks almost-painfully at the idea of
Sammy getting off on looking at him; something he didn't even realize was
weighing on him lifting as he finds that in this, at least, he's not alone.
Then another thought occurs to him. “That why the rain’s been stalking me!”
Sam looks up at him at that, head cocked curiously to the side. “The rain’s
been stalking you?”
“Don’t even give me that shit!” he scowls, whipping his underwear out of Sam’s
hands and messily mopping up his own skin as best he can, “I haven’t been dry
since we got here!” Maybe he’s smiling a little bit when he says it but there’s
a good chance Sam can’t see that.
“Well, that sounds like a personal problem,” Sam says back, and, alright, maybe
Sammy can see him smiling because he can sure as hell see Sam doing it.
“Bitch,” he shoves lightly at his brother’s bony shoulder.
“Jerk,” Sam pushes back.
With a low-grade electric hum, the lights sluggishly flicker back to life,
washing the room suddenly in white that seems too bright. Dean slams his eyes
shut reflexively, slowly opening them back up to give his pupils time to
adjust. When he looks again, Sam’s still sitting there in front of him, naked
and kind of wrecked, suddenly seeming even more young and vulnerable. His eyes
are still red from crying, but now his lips match, slightly swollen and wet
from Dean’s mouth.
“Dean, it’s…" his brother struggles quietly, nothing but the noise of the rain
to compete with him, "It’s ok, right? You won’t tell Dad?”
Sam worries at his lower lip and gives Dean 'the eyes' which doesn't leave him
much choice in the matter either way. True, he’d been pretty pissed at Sam back
- wow, not very long ago at all, actually - over keeping secrets, but this is
different. A Dean'n'Sammy secret is different than just a Sam secret and that
makes it ok. Besides, Dean thinks ruefully, knees cracking as he stands up, in
the grand scheme of things, even having - really freaky, inexplicable - powers
still probably isn't as bad as the incest thing, so what's one more not-so-
little secret?
“No, Sammy, I won’t tell Dad.”
Of course, that's still not enough for his little brother, who refuses to let
go of Dean’s hand after he helps Sam up. “And, you don’t… it’s not…”
Dean shuts Sam up with a kiss, mainly because he can. Plus that sound Sammy
makes when their mouths meet? Pretty much the hottest thing ever and it’s hard
to say when Dean's going to have a chance to hear it again.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, baby boy," he assures, insides going liquid-
hot at the sound of that pet name on his lips while Sam's taste is still
clinging there. "It’s weird, and, I dunno, it’s gonna take me a while to get my
head around it, ok? But it’s all gonna be fine." That last bit just might be a
lie, hard to say really because this is all still kind of like walking into the
middle of a Twilight Zoneepisode and a part of him keeps expecting to walk
right back out of it. It's really hard to promise that he's not going to freak
out hard at some point in the near future, but right now he's just way too
tingly to bother with it.
"This, I mean," Dean has to consciously force himself to stop fiddling with
Sam's fingers like they're both in junior high - it's more than a little bit
ridiculous to be nervous when they're standing here naked and post-orgasmic.
"You’re ok? We’re ok?”
Sam smirks at him, and that too is a warm hit to the gut; it's an expression he
knows Sammy learned from him. “Did you miss the part where I came so hard I
made all the lights go out?”
Dean smirks right back and bumps his hip against Sam, every touch lighting him
up even more now that the meaning in it is more than just his imagination. “Ok
then," Dean clears his throat and looks back at the door, because if he keeps
looking at Sammy he's going to be grinning even goofier than he probably
already is, "Guess we better go check on Dad.”
“Yeah.” He can feel Sam's mood turn in the drop of his voice and it makes
Dean's gut feel hollow too. And really, what's Dean's purpose in life if not to
keep his baby brother safe and happy?
“Hey, Sammy?” he smiles, pulling himself back into his jeans, cock still just a
bit tender from its workout. Dean wads up his come-coated boxers and shoves
them partway in his back pocket, watching Sam watch his ass. Maybe the weather
thing isn't the only thing he's been overlooking all this time.
“Yeah?” Sam replies, dragging his eyes back up a couple of seconds too late.
Caught he starts to blush and scuffs his feet on the floor.
Dean steps in close, no longer enough of a size difference between them for him
to push Sam around with just his physical presence, but it doesn't look like
anybody told Sammy that as he steadily backtracks until his bare ass hits the
sink and he jolts.
“You know, you can see me whenever you want. In a lot less than a wet t-shirt.”
It's the voice he uses on girls, the one that Sam's always rolled his eyes and
air-quoted 'panty-melting' at. Seems to work pretty good at 'Sammy-melting'
too.
“O-okay.”
Dean just lets it hang there for a minute, the spare inch of space between
their bodies getting hotter and hotter, smaller and smaller as Sam's dick
starts trying to rise and fill the gap. Arduously slow, he runs the back of his
knuckles over Sam's hip, across his tender belly and thin-muscled chest, all
the way up to wraps around the back of his neck. By the time he gets there,
Sam's panting, tip of his cock brushing at Dean's fly and sending shivers out
in its wake. Yeah, downtime just got a lot more entertaining.
Without warning, he yanks Sam's head forward, close enough that their lips
touch as he growls, “So quit making it rain on me, dipshit. Wet jeans suck
balls.”
He kisses Sam once more, hard, teeth clicking as his tongue thrusts in as deep
as it can go. After that he has to shove himself away from the sink or it's all
gonna start over again - his dick's already starting to think about coming out
to play with Sammy's again. He probably doesn't have to turn that shove into a
body-roll before snagging Sam's boxers off the floor and tossing them at him,
but it's damn fun to watch Sammy's face when he does.
Outside thunder rolls again.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!